Post by comradechris on Mar 8, 2013 0:25:43 GMT 8
The gnome sits down and looks at his meal, a simple tavern stew of carrots and potatoes. After weeks of assisting the Pathfinders in the region to disrupt the slave trade, his job was finally done and he would be heading home to see his family. But first, the Andoran agent had to satiate his rumbling tummy.
Before he can tuck in, someone yanks him by the collar, and slams his face into the table. Flipped around, he sees his attacker, a slaver orc, going by the tattoos on his face.
“You little runt!” screams the slaver. “Don’t think you can get away with busting our business! I’m gonna make you pay!!”
The slaver grasps the gnome’s neck with one hand, and pummels him with the other. The gnome knows that there’s no hope as he hears the other tavern patrons rushing out, typical behavior when there’s trouble indoors.
All of a sudden, the punches stop. He opens his eyes and sees the slaver look to one side, asking, “What are YOU looking at?”
“You’re blocking the breeze.” Answers a husky voice.
The gnome tries to turn his neck to see the speaker, but his held fast by the slaver’s grip.
“Run stranger,” croaks the gnome. “He’s got connect…” and his cut off as the slaver tightens his grip.
“Shut up you little shit! I don’t need help to deal with the likes of him,” the slaver declares.
“Go ahead. Make my day.”
The slaver growls and releases the gnome, turning to face the voice. In that split second, before his shoulders even moved an inch, the tavern was filled with the roar of thunder, and the slaver’s head snaps back. His body falls to the sound with a dull thud, marking an end to the evening’s excitement.
The gnome scrambles over, and gawks with wide eyed wonder as he sees the hole in between the corpse’s eyes. The thud of boots on the wooden floor signals the approach of his rescuer, and the gnome turns to him to ask, “What’s your name stranger?”
This lone figure approaches, the tavern lighting behind him casting an even longer shadow of his already lanky frame on the ground.
A broad brimmed hat sits comfortably upon his head, low enough to keep the sun out of his eyes but not low enough to press upon his slightly pointed ears. Sun-kissed skin, bleached hair, and unshaven, his features are those of a man whose time is spent outdoors.
His long duster coat reaches to just above his ankles. Like its wearer, it has spent many seasons exposed to the elements. With the slaver out of the way, the wind blows through the tavern strongly enough, flapping the coat open to allow the gnome to behold what lies within.
His boots, square cut, are knee high, with high heels, pointed toes and a set of spurs.
And high on his hip, is a holstered pistol.
“They call me Blondie.”
Before he can tuck in, someone yanks him by the collar, and slams his face into the table. Flipped around, he sees his attacker, a slaver orc, going by the tattoos on his face.
“You little runt!” screams the slaver. “Don’t think you can get away with busting our business! I’m gonna make you pay!!”
The slaver grasps the gnome’s neck with one hand, and pummels him with the other. The gnome knows that there’s no hope as he hears the other tavern patrons rushing out, typical behavior when there’s trouble indoors.
All of a sudden, the punches stop. He opens his eyes and sees the slaver look to one side, asking, “What are YOU looking at?”
“You’re blocking the breeze.” Answers a husky voice.
The gnome tries to turn his neck to see the speaker, but his held fast by the slaver’s grip.
“Run stranger,” croaks the gnome. “He’s got connect…” and his cut off as the slaver tightens his grip.
“Shut up you little shit! I don’t need help to deal with the likes of him,” the slaver declares.
“Go ahead. Make my day.”
The slaver growls and releases the gnome, turning to face the voice. In that split second, before his shoulders even moved an inch, the tavern was filled with the roar of thunder, and the slaver’s head snaps back. His body falls to the sound with a dull thud, marking an end to the evening’s excitement.
The gnome scrambles over, and gawks with wide eyed wonder as he sees the hole in between the corpse’s eyes. The thud of boots on the wooden floor signals the approach of his rescuer, and the gnome turns to him to ask, “What’s your name stranger?”
This lone figure approaches, the tavern lighting behind him casting an even longer shadow of his already lanky frame on the ground.
A broad brimmed hat sits comfortably upon his head, low enough to keep the sun out of his eyes but not low enough to press upon his slightly pointed ears. Sun-kissed skin, bleached hair, and unshaven, his features are those of a man whose time is spent outdoors.
His long duster coat reaches to just above his ankles. Like its wearer, it has spent many seasons exposed to the elements. With the slaver out of the way, the wind blows through the tavern strongly enough, flapping the coat open to allow the gnome to behold what lies within.
His boots, square cut, are knee high, with high heels, pointed toes and a set of spurs.
And high on his hip, is a holstered pistol.
“They call me Blondie.”
