The Backwater Tavern was a place where trouble usually came to simmer, not boil over. Nestled in the muddy guts of a Free Marches backroad, it was a beacon for the tired, the rowdy, and occasionally, the downright stupid. Cooper had been running the place long enough to know when to step in—and when to let things sort themselves out. Tonight, though, the line had been crossed.
A trio of surly louts, friends of that no-good Bastien Frost, had been drinking deep and making pests of themselves since early evening. The tallest of the lot had knocked over one of Cooper’s tables, sending an earthen mug clattering to the floor. Another had decided the corner booth belonged to him, even though a trio of tired caravan guards was trying to enjoy their meal there. Words were exchanged, insults lobbed. It was when one of the bastards smacked the caravaner’s plate clean to the ground that Cooper finally decided enough was enough.
The broad-shouldered tavern keeper strode up from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing it aside. His boots thudded on the wooden floor as he approached, his stance that of a man who’d dealt with this sort of idiocy too many times to count.
The taller one turned, a greasy smirk spreading across his face.
Cooper’s eyes narrowed.
Another of the trio, a stocky, red-faced brute, stepped forward and poked Cooper in the chest with a meaty finger.
Before Cooper could answer, a plate shattered against the far wall, launched by the third troublemaker. That was when the first punch was thrown—by the tall one, naturally. Cooper caught the swing on his forearm, the meaty impact making a satisfying thud. He followed up with a quick jab to the man’s gut, doubling him over.
The stocky brute tried to grab him, but Cooper twisted out of the way, landing a solid punch across the man’s jaw that sent him staggering into a chair. The tavern erupted into chaos, patrons scrambling to get out of the way as fists flew.
@Cassian Maxwell
A trio of surly louts, friends of that no-good Bastien Frost, had been drinking deep and making pests of themselves since early evening. The tallest of the lot had knocked over one of Cooper’s tables, sending an earthen mug clattering to the floor. Another had decided the corner booth belonged to him, even though a trio of tired caravan guards was trying to enjoy their meal there. Words were exchanged, insults lobbed. It was when one of the bastards smacked the caravaner’s plate clean to the ground that Cooper finally decided enough was enough.
The broad-shouldered tavern keeper strode up from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing it aside. His boots thudded on the wooden floor as he approached, his stance that of a man who’d dealt with this sort of idiocy too many times to count.
You three want to drink, you drink,”he said, his voice gravelly and firm.
You want to fight, you take it outside. Otherwise, you’re about to find yourselves on the wrong side of my temper.”
The taller one turned, a greasy smirk spreading across his face.
Oh, look. The barkeep’s got bark. You gonna fetch too, old man?”
Cooper’s eyes narrowed.
Last warning. Out. Now.”
Another of the trio, a stocky, red-faced brute, stepped forward and poked Cooper in the chest with a meaty finger.
What are you gonna do, huh? Throw us out yourself?
Before Cooper could answer, a plate shattered against the far wall, launched by the third troublemaker. That was when the first punch was thrown—by the tall one, naturally. Cooper caught the swing on his forearm, the meaty impact making a satisfying thud. He followed up with a quick jab to the man’s gut, doubling him over.
Alright, you asked for it,”Cooper growled, stepping into the fray.
The stocky brute tried to grab him, but Cooper twisted out of the way, landing a solid punch across the man’s jaw that sent him staggering into a chair. The tavern erupted into chaos, patrons scrambling to get out of the way as fists flew.
No smashing up my place!”Cooper roared, grabbing a tankard off a nearby table and slamming it into the tall one’s head. The man went down with a grunt, clutching his temple.
You break it, you pay for it, you bastards!”
@Cassian Maxwell
12-24-2024, 04:12 PM
