The Tactician was grinning wider than a shite-eating possum, "Now, can we sit and converse peaceably? Do you have some chairs, or--"
"Won't be necessary, guy."
Bannok trudged out from his room... but even before Tactician Tycon turned to look at him, his face twisted into a grimace and he wrinkled his nose.
Ariadne felt her entire face flush hot with shame.
Her husband hadn't shaved or bathed in weeks... and the unwashed clothing he wore reeked of alcohol. She made sure to change out the bandages on his severed arm every sun-- she didn't want it to get infected... but he didn't let her wash anything else.
"You two's," Bannok slashed his secondhand sword through the air, a slow and sloppy swing, even for a human, "Get out... I don't wanna talk to ya's."
"Or you'll do what?" Tycon raised an eyebrow, "Hit me with that pig iron sword?"
"Boss," The boy, Pale, tugged at the Tactician's arm, "We should go. We're not welcome here."
