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Hadhan snorts. “You’re telling me what to do now?”
“This Pup is challenging the second-best sword in the Hounds?” Farthorn laughs.
Surprisingly, Ingmyr stays silent, leaning on his axe and watching the scene unfold with steely eyes.
“You don’t know who you’re challenging.” Hadhan laughs, before getting up. “The Halfling isn’t worth this.”
You grab his arm. “I’m staking my honor in this.”
Hadhan snorts. “Lad, you’re a sellsword. You have less honor than a rabid dog.”
“A man’s got to have principles.” You say, your hand drifting to your dagger at your belt.
“Boy, you’re going to get gutted like a fish by a fishmonger.” Farthorn warns.
Hadhan snorts. “I’m not going to kill someone I went to such lengths to save. Granted, it was to piss off that gaoler, but my point remains. No, we’ll settle this another way.”
Hadhan pulls out a metal coin with a skull one one face and a snarling hellhound on the other. “This is a coin of Mithros. Once you get back to our camp, you’ll get one. We in the Black Hounds aren’t the army, we don’t pull rank to force subordinates in line. But when there isn’t the time to settle disputes with a duel, this is how we do things. Now, heads or tails?”
>Heads
>Tails
>You’d rather fight a duel
>Back down
