"That's it!"
The scout snapped. Why should he delay the booze anymore on account of a drunken stranger, especially when the roughneck army was formed for the purpose of sacking Frantoch?
So the scout lunged forward while retrieving his army-supplied sword. And the nearby soldiers all stepped closer with greedy grins, eager to race for the blind drunkard's vector ring.
"W-what's the rush?"
Crack! Pop! Thud…
"Aaaghh!!?" Howling in both pain and confusion, the scout rolled to the side. He looked at his sword in the dirt and at his fractured right arm, unable to process what had just happened.
The blind drunkard, however, merely swatted the scout's hand aside while retrieving and undoing the cork of a massive whiskey bottle. By the time the crowd of soldiers realized what had happened, the drunk was already guzzling down mouthful after mouthful of whiskey.
