My‑re approached the curved bar at the back of the Broken Sword tavern, a place of unique charm and character. “Three more mushroom meads for the Shewish Giant’s table!” My‑re called out, her voice cutting through the din of conversation and tinkering plates and glasses.
“What size?” General Pol yelled back behind the bar.
“Gromp want Shew size!” the Shewish giant hollered, expanding his hands, indicating a large serving. His two companions nodded in agreement.
“I never thought anyone’s palate would fancy a drink concocted from fungus,” My‑re mumbled and wrote it down on their tab. She looked to the packed bar and breathed out a sigh of exasperation. She agreed to help General Pol run things, being the only other person he knew who spoke the Rirorni native language of Rathiri fluently. She thought it would be easy to make some extra coins and, more importantly, receive free drinks.
The Broken Sword was doing well, but all the patrons caused endless work for them. With ample gold in people’s pockets, all it seemed everyone on the Isle of the Eye wanted to do was eat, drink, and f—
Swat!
My‑re felt a slap on her derrière. She slowly turned on her boot heels to the table with three inebriated soldiers with the Dark Circle emblem on their cloaks. She eyed the perpetrator, who was older than the others and seemed to be their leader. He nudged them, having gained her attention.
“Three more beers, and there is an extra silver if you sit on my lap,” the instigator said, patting both his legs. This brought chuckles from his mates.
“Good sir, you move too fast, as I prefer to hold hands first,” My‑re responded, extended her hand toward him, and flipped her short dark hair.
The drunken leader raised his eyebrows, nodded excitedly, and reached for her hand.
My‑re’s left four fingers wrapped around the outside of his right thumb, nails digging into his inner palm, as her thumb pressed firmly on the middle of the back of his hand. She twisted, extending the soldier’s wrist farther than anatomically intended. A sickening snap traveled across the tavern.
“You b—!”
My‑re interrupted him as she pulled down hard. He screamed in pain.
“Up, now,” My‑re said calmly.
The Dark Circle soldier could do little but comply. My‑re dragged him, barely keeping up, toward the bar and General Pol.
“Where’s my axe?” My‑re questioned.
“What!” shouted the soldier.
“Don’t kill him here,” General Pol said in Rathiri, looking at a bucket filled with sawdust to help absorb blood spills.
“Where’s my axe?” My‑re repeated.
“At least take him outside. I don’t need blood all over my bar,” General Pol said, pointing to the entrance.
“No, please…I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You got that right, after I take your hand. Now, where’s my axe?”
“Please, please, please. I wronged you, and I apologize. Here, we owe you three silver pieces for the drinks. There’s an extra three for a tip.”
“I must have misheard. Did you say ten?” My‑re grilled.
“What?”
“Where’s my axe?”
“Ten…ten is good. Please let go. I swear I won’t do anything like that again. Just let me leave,” the soldier pleaded.
“Done,” My‑re said and released his hand.
The soldier crumbled to the ground but quickly picked himself up, holding his right, limp wrist. He had difficulty counting out the silver with his left hand. He and his friends began to leave.
“Great, you’ve just lost me three customers,” General Pol scolded in Rathiri to My‑re.
My‑re glanced at the Rirorni general and shouted to the three men leaving. “I expect you back tomorrow and on your best behavior. Don’t make me come find you…and tell your friends!”
The three turned and nodded in agreement and hurriedly left.
My‑re snorted and said in Rathiri, “They’ll be back.”