A green blood stained paw of a hand placed itself upon the door of the Badger's Claw. It wouldn't be the first nor the last mark of blood imparted upon the entrance of the pub that was well known for its violence and unscrupulous patrons. Such marks came from either brawlers getting injured outside the pub, who returned to seek another pint after dishing out damage to each other, or from bare knuckle boxers seeking some cold night air after getting bloodied up inside the ring tucked away in the backroom of the pub. Such fights were often a lure for potential customers and for aspiring fighters which suited the landlord just fine. Such fights would not begin for a few hours, for it was still in the late of the afternoon. Rain was soon to fall, which almost almost brought in new customers.
The black nailed hand upon the door remained still for a moment as the owner collected himself. He drew himself up high, offered a loud sniff and shrugged his shoulders. He felt a low ache from his right arm that had the familiar dulled sensation to it. Healing magic was already in effect to numb the pain from a savage cut to his shoulder from a butcher's knife. The wound glistened with languid blood that remained in place due to the primal energies the orc commanded. The orc pushed open the door and stepped inside, satisfied that he had the proper bearing about himself to such a place.
At once the smell of frying onions and sausages greeted him, followed by the sensation of tobacco smoke which pleasantly stung his nostrils. A few surly not so familiar faces gave him a glance that the orc thought could mean anything. After appraising him with a wary glance they returned to their hushed conversations without missing a beat. The orc gave a simple grunt of satisfaction. They were not bounty hunters. They did not know that he was a wanted man. What had it been, Damagutz considered, a day, maybe two since he had become wanted again? Time enough for a pint and some food before considering how to pay off the bounty he had concluded.
A pair of dwarves were throwing darts on a dartboard lowered to demihuman height. Damagutz stalked past them, leering at the dwarves as he did so, and smacked his lips. He felt the saliva flow from the prospect of food cooking in the air. A growl emanated from his stomach. The orc looked over to the landlord and made his approach slowly, his movements bound by his own orcish muscle and mindfulness to his injury.
“What's the damage this time Damagutz? Do I need to put a bucket under your stool for the blood?” the landlord said with wary glance. The man was barrel chested with a vast ginger beard who was presently turning a crossbow bolt slowly in his hands as one might roll a cigarette. He reached behind him and picked up a heavy crossbow that was propped against the bar wall that was as freely available to patrons as a shot of cheap vodka. He loaded it with practised ease and started to winch the drawstring back as if it was as easy as cleaning tankards as he appraised the state of Damagutz as he drew nearer. Damagutz gave a grimace as he witnessed how quickly the man prepared the weapon. The orc hadn't been shot by the weapon but he had come damn close in the past and he knew it. Was he the sort of human to sell a patron out for a bounty, Damagutz thought as he approached the bar.
The landlord, a man called Sebastian Guntz made it well known that he was unafraid of using the weapon to stop any violence erupting inside the pub. A handful of holes in the walls were evidence of patrons being shot clean through by the monstrous device. Some suspected that the ornate iron belt that Sebastian wore gave him the power to draw the crossbow with ease; the crossbow itself seemed designed to be hefted and fired by an ogre, much less a human. Sebastian gave no answers on the subject when asked by his patrons.
Sebastian's stern warning and clear message that he was nonplussed about shooting someone was often enough to prevent his trigger finger from coming into play. 'Outside or in the ring, not inside fellas, them's the rules,' were the landlord's words to anyone who entertained the notion to cause trouble. Words that Damagutz had received the first time he had drank in the place when he had tried to settle a dispute with one of his 'friends' with raised fist.
Under the guidance of the landlord they had settled their dispute in the boxing ring, much to the unexpected surprise and satisfaction of Damagutz. Normally he'd fight inside of a pub, get banned, nurse his wounds, and then find another pub. This was the rare time he had found himself a pub where his diplomatic method was accommodated for. He had won the fight, barely, and proven his point, not that Damagutz could remember what the point was weeks after the fact. Damagutz hoped that he might continue drinking here, bounty and all.
“Nah,” Damagutz replied who sat himself down at the bar, “When've you ever had to? I don't bleed like that Guntz. Not like other runts.”
The landlord nodded and put the crossbow back onto the wall so that it was ready to be used at a moments notice. He reached for a tankard.
“Usual?”
“Usual,” Damagutz breathed. “Plus some of those sausages and onions you're frying up. On my tab. Get paid in a few days,” Damagutz lied as he sat down at the bar. He had sustained his injury getting fired from his past job and a bounty had been placed on his head for his reaction to it. Fired for eating meat at the butchers he had been working at. A bounty for beating the owner senseless for having a problem with it and taking wages owed from the counter.
“I can do you that. You've paid your tab in the past so I don't see why not. Besides, you fought well the other week. Thought you wouldn't survive your injuries, but here you sit this afternoon. With another injury it seems.”
“Most times I'm injured boss. Comes with what I do, but I heal up fast.” Damagutz said, pointing to the injury. “I'm good at boxing and recovering from such fights. But only when I've had a meal or three. Helps the process.”
“That so? Well I'll fry you up something real quick then. Want you in shape for your next fight. If you're interested. This time you'll get paid.”
Damagutz raised his eyebrow. A fight. A way of paying his tab. He wanted to keep what coins he had in his purse for now.
Damagutz felt the now familiar sensation of the pub dog, Branston, scurry by his feet, a small bulldog that breathed in snorts and gulps as it moved from table to table. The orc watched it move over to where the dwarves were and planted it's belly down. One of the dwarves stopped playing the game of darts to give it some affection, before the dwarf gave him an indeterminable look. The orc gave no reaction except a simple derisive sniff before returning to his conversation.
“Sure I'm interested, who's the fighter?” Damagutz asked.
A pale ale was poured into a tankard and the landlord leaned in to speak.
“I'll tell you more once you've eaten. Must be difficult to think with such a slash on your arm.”
Damagutz shrugged, which sent a dull pain through him once again and took his drink.
“Whatever you say boss,” Damagutz replied and began to quaff his drink with long gulps as Guntz turned into the kitchen to cook. Damagutz kept his eyes open for anyone who might be lurking within the place who might pursue the bounty, or any sort of grudge. Damagutz had created plenty of those in his time. His red eye gleamed in the dying light of day that streamed through the dirty windows of the Badger's Claw as he drank. He wondered if he should ask Guntz's official policy on bounty hunters within this place but thought better of it. Best not to reveal his wanted status to anyone who was hunting the hundred gold that was over his name.
The black nailed hand upon the door remained still for a moment as the owner collected himself. He drew himself up high, offered a loud sniff and shrugged his shoulders. He felt a low ache from his right arm that had the familiar dulled sensation to it. Healing magic was already in effect to numb the pain from a savage cut to his shoulder from a butcher's knife. The wound glistened with languid blood that remained in place due to the primal energies the orc commanded. The orc pushed open the door and stepped inside, satisfied that he had the proper bearing about himself to such a place.
At once the smell of frying onions and sausages greeted him, followed by the sensation of tobacco smoke which pleasantly stung his nostrils. A few surly not so familiar faces gave him a glance that the orc thought could mean anything. After appraising him with a wary glance they returned to their hushed conversations without missing a beat. The orc gave a simple grunt of satisfaction. They were not bounty hunters. They did not know that he was a wanted man. What had it been, Damagutz considered, a day, maybe two since he had become wanted again? Time enough for a pint and some food before considering how to pay off the bounty he had concluded.
A pair of dwarves were throwing darts on a dartboard lowered to demihuman height. Damagutz stalked past them, leering at the dwarves as he did so, and smacked his lips. He felt the saliva flow from the prospect of food cooking in the air. A growl emanated from his stomach. The orc looked over to the landlord and made his approach slowly, his movements bound by his own orcish muscle and mindfulness to his injury.
“What's the damage this time Damagutz? Do I need to put a bucket under your stool for the blood?” the landlord said with wary glance. The man was barrel chested with a vast ginger beard who was presently turning a crossbow bolt slowly in his hands as one might roll a cigarette. He reached behind him and picked up a heavy crossbow that was propped against the bar wall that was as freely available to patrons as a shot of cheap vodka. He loaded it with practised ease and started to winch the drawstring back as if it was as easy as cleaning tankards as he appraised the state of Damagutz as he drew nearer. Damagutz gave a grimace as he witnessed how quickly the man prepared the weapon. The orc hadn't been shot by the weapon but he had come damn close in the past and he knew it. Was he the sort of human to sell a patron out for a bounty, Damagutz thought as he approached the bar.
The landlord, a man called Sebastian Guntz made it well known that he was unafraid of using the weapon to stop any violence erupting inside the pub. A handful of holes in the walls were evidence of patrons being shot clean through by the monstrous device. Some suspected that the ornate iron belt that Sebastian wore gave him the power to draw the crossbow with ease; the crossbow itself seemed designed to be hefted and fired by an ogre, much less a human. Sebastian gave no answers on the subject when asked by his patrons.
Sebastian's stern warning and clear message that he was nonplussed about shooting someone was often enough to prevent his trigger finger from coming into play. 'Outside or in the ring, not inside fellas, them's the rules,' were the landlord's words to anyone who entertained the notion to cause trouble. Words that Damagutz had received the first time he had drank in the place when he had tried to settle a dispute with one of his 'friends' with raised fist.
Under the guidance of the landlord they had settled their dispute in the boxing ring, much to the unexpected surprise and satisfaction of Damagutz. Normally he'd fight inside of a pub, get banned, nurse his wounds, and then find another pub. This was the rare time he had found himself a pub where his diplomatic method was accommodated for. He had won the fight, barely, and proven his point, not that Damagutz could remember what the point was weeks after the fact. Damagutz hoped that he might continue drinking here, bounty and all.
“Nah,” Damagutz replied who sat himself down at the bar, “When've you ever had to? I don't bleed like that Guntz. Not like other runts.”
The landlord nodded and put the crossbow back onto the wall so that it was ready to be used at a moments notice. He reached for a tankard.
“Usual?”
“Usual,” Damagutz breathed. “Plus some of those sausages and onions you're frying up. On my tab. Get paid in a few days,” Damagutz lied as he sat down at the bar. He had sustained his injury getting fired from his past job and a bounty had been placed on his head for his reaction to it. Fired for eating meat at the butchers he had been working at. A bounty for beating the owner senseless for having a problem with it and taking wages owed from the counter.
“I can do you that. You've paid your tab in the past so I don't see why not. Besides, you fought well the other week. Thought you wouldn't survive your injuries, but here you sit this afternoon. With another injury it seems.”
“Most times I'm injured boss. Comes with what I do, but I heal up fast.” Damagutz said, pointing to the injury. “I'm good at boxing and recovering from such fights. But only when I've had a meal or three. Helps the process.”
“That so? Well I'll fry you up something real quick then. Want you in shape for your next fight. If you're interested. This time you'll get paid.”
Damagutz raised his eyebrow. A fight. A way of paying his tab. He wanted to keep what coins he had in his purse for now.
Damagutz felt the now familiar sensation of the pub dog, Branston, scurry by his feet, a small bulldog that breathed in snorts and gulps as it moved from table to table. The orc watched it move over to where the dwarves were and planted it's belly down. One of the dwarves stopped playing the game of darts to give it some affection, before the dwarf gave him an indeterminable look. The orc gave no reaction except a simple derisive sniff before returning to his conversation.
“Sure I'm interested, who's the fighter?” Damagutz asked.
A pale ale was poured into a tankard and the landlord leaned in to speak.
“I'll tell you more once you've eaten. Must be difficult to think with such a slash on your arm.”
Damagutz shrugged, which sent a dull pain through him once again and took his drink.
“Whatever you say boss,” Damagutz replied and began to quaff his drink with long gulps as Guntz turned into the kitchen to cook. Damagutz kept his eyes open for anyone who might be lurking within the place who might pursue the bounty, or any sort of grudge. Damagutz had created plenty of those in his time. His red eye gleamed in the dying light of day that streamed through the dirty windows of the Badger's Claw as he drank. He wondered if he should ask Guntz's official policy on bounty hunters within this place but thought better of it. Best not to reveal his wanted status to anyone who was hunting the hundred gold that was over his name.
