Wheeling in his seat, he spat accusation across the room with his eyes. Valoutta of the Souls spun and caught it by her open mouth, teeth bared in an alarming display of manners. “WHAT??” she queried.
“Nothing!” he added, more or less sheepishly. “It’s only that I ordered pot-stickers,” he unwisely clarified, receiving for his troubled sins a hard BOTTLE-SHOT CHAMPAGNE CROTCH SPIKE right in the lap from our lady of the place, Valoutta! “OW” he cried, almost blubbering in his too-highly conditioned reflexive way!
So it was that, before anyone could possibly be any the wiser, he leapt lion-like from his seat! He sprang, drawing both his trademark long-notch longswords plus (in a telltale arc, too glossy and bright of sheen to be mistaken by any fool then present) his glittering scimitar! Resplendent in his legendary gear of war, all eyes wheeled awkwardly for the exits as he declared himself, his purpose, his voracious hunger by that point not the least of it! “WENCH,” he dimly advised, “I AM-”
“-WE KNOW,” rejoined just about every last patron in that tumbledown waterfront dive, which even to a careless eye’s assessment was none too tony.
Grimacing with a satisfaction perhaps too-evident,
…he resheathed all four weapons in one smooth motion of muscle memory, and called distractedly for a Hot Halberd - a specialty of the house! And one our erstwhile too-cool wonton-bearing wench (or one wench, at any rate, entirely too-cool in the delivery department and inarguably wanton of bearing) rushed to fulfill his spoken need before this fool stranger made another ass move to disgrace Bill’s Docktown Dive Bar further than his mere stupid presence could accomplish.
~Here Ends Book Twelve. The Remainder of Book Twelve Is Lost. Don’t Worry~
No one else dies! No one else dies yet, at least until book fourteen.
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