>>5271965>>5271968A young man clad in black leather sat on a barstool in front of the bar of the Red Herring Inn, wincing as the whiskey burned its way down his throat, “The story is from my perspective, because I’m the protagonist,” said the man.
He didn’t actually like the taste of whiskey, but it seemed like the sort of thing an assassin was supposed to drink.
He slammed the glass down onto the counter, briefly putting his bandaged right arm on display.
Staring up he saw a massive double-bladed axe affixed to the wall behind the bar, “Kukuku,” he said out loud, voicing out what seemed like some kind of chuckle, “Very adventure-esque. Not at all foreboding.”
There was a thin layer of dust on the axe, it was never used.
The barman gave him a look, “You alright, lad?” he asked.
“The portly, ginger man behind the bar, his arms dotted with freckles, seemed like the kind of stereotypical barman you’d expect to find in stories like these. He looked like the kind of man that would spit in a mug to clean it,” said the assassin.
The barman raised an eyebrow, “Now that’s just rude that is,” he said, “I don’t spit in any mugs outside of maybe Randy’s, but only when it’s full and that’s because he’s an arsehole.”
A man at the tail-end of the bar briefly looked up, his voice distant, “Huh?”
“Just mind your own fucking business, Randy,” barked the barman.
“Kukuku,” said the young man, turning away and sweeping his gaze over the rest of the patrons.
There, in the remote corner of the inn, was a figure wearing a deep-green cloak facing away from him.
The hood concealed the figure’s head. Upon closer inspections, however, it turned out to be nothing more than cloak hanging on a coat rack.
“Kukuku,” said the assassin again, ordering another whiskey and sipping it with much displeasure.
The double doors of the inn opened with a groan, a young woman stepped in and she made her way to the bar.
The assassin eyed her up and down after she arrived at the bar, “Skin like the silver of the moon which lights our passage. Raven-haired, the colour of the night and those that dwell within it. Her leather armour tight in all the right places. An aura of hostility surrounded her.”
The woman eyed him uncertainly, slightly turning her head, “Are you sick in the head?”
“Kukuku,” said the man, wincing as he sipped his whiskey, “And so the love interest appears.”
The black-haired woman’s mouth dropped, “Love interest?” she said, clearly trying to keep herself from laughing, “I don’t think so.”
