In the Streets of Moscou, Pillowlandia
The city was lively, as the evening sun cast shadows over the wide, yet still crowded streets of the merchant district of the largest trading city in the west. People bustled from place to place, buying foreign trinkets, furniture, and cloths, as the smell of cooked kebab and other roasted meat products covered the stench of the sweaty masses within. Children ran through, laughing and hollering as they roamed the city, carefree of danger, unaware of the outside world.
Yet, despite the diversity of the merchants and their designated peoples, a single man stood out in the crowd. Wearing a mantle over his body, one could make out the slight figure of a longsword hanging at his waist, as he strode through the crowd, standing a good half a head above most men. Yet this sight was nothing new in the city of Moscou, lone warriors and vagabonds often made their way through the city, in search of a new life, away from the horrors of wars waged by those who sought only to expand their empires, without regard to their men, or their people.
The man took strode briskly though the crowd, as many people made way for him, afraid of causing an altercation with the formidable man. He stopped at a tavern opening, before swiftly making his way into the building.
Sly Marbo strode in the tavern, immediately noticing the stench of alcohol, and men who had not bathed in possibly months. However, Marbo remained unfazed, as this was quite regular for his line of work. The bar in particular was holding occupation to six bulky men, each armed with short swords, and axes. Judging from the wolf hides on their backs, and the tattoos on their body, they're from the northlands. Marbo contemplated, knowing Northmen were notorious for being a prime investor in the mercenary industry, they were especially easy to anger, and often would beat and kill anyone who provoked them, no matter the area. Ordinary citizens and even trained soldiers were victims to this, and the lone warrior had no intent on spilling blood in a public place without good reason.
Sighing, Marbo walked over to the bar, before sitting himself a couple stools away from the Northmen. Marbo motioned toward the bartender, who was currently pouring and mixing various drinks, with finesse only present in an artist, "One glass of Rohanor Brandy, if you will." The bartender quickly finished his drink, before sliding it over to the Northmen.
Marbo watched the glass skid across the table, as one of the Northmen laughed and swung his hands back toward himself in a clapping motion, sending the glass flying into the wall, where it shattered with a loud crack, leaving the alcohol dripping from the stone wall. Marbo quickly gazed over, looking at the several warriors. Uh oh, these guys are clearly drunk off their asses, this may turn hairy quick. Marbo thought, maintaining his composure, yet sizing up his now possible foes.
The tavern went silent, and all eyes were set upon the bar, as the pause continued. The distant yet ever audible drips of the spilled alcohol slowed in rhythm, like a heartbeat of a slumbering bear.
The first Northman got up from his stool, now looking directly at Sly Marbo. "What tha big deal?!" He bellowed, unaware that the glass flying down was his own fault. "Yus lookin to die laddy? Me and mah posseh are mor than red'y to end yus life right her'" The man spoke, lifting up a hefty polearm. Judging by it's worn appearance, the weapon had taken many lives, and was thirsting for blood. "I'm not looking for trouble, if anyone is, it's you who is wishing to start this fight. Yet if you wish to fight, I will humbly accept your offer, although I can't guarantee you'll enjoy the results." Marbo replied cooly, his steely eyes staring right back at the enraged drunkard.
Behind the first man, his comrades got up and unsheathed their weapons, and began to walk around Marbo. Two had shortswords, and the rest had hatchets. I guess I'm not getting my drink today. Marbo mentally complained to himself, before standing up and removing his cloak, revealing his plate mail armor. Forged in the mountainous nation of Harress, the craftsmanship was second to none, allowing Marbo to move with ease, and provide adequate protection against most weaponry. On his back sat a hefty long-sword, the scabbard lined in engravings in ancient prayers and blessings (also referred to as the Language of Lugh's library). Yet Marbo had no intent on drawing the sword upon these foes, they simply weren't worth dirtying his blade with. The tavern emptied quickly, leaving only the Northmen and Marbo inside.
The first man leaped at the lone swordsman, great axe swinging from Marbo's left. Yet although it was powerful, the weapon was slow and clumsy, especially in the hands of a drunk. Marbo reacted, with years of experience fighting around the globe on his journeys, as he ducked and caught the handle, stopping the axehead before it hit the bartender, who was pressed up against the wall. Marbo, then slammed the handle end of the axe into the man's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. The first Northman let got of the axe and fell to the floor, gasping and wheezing, with the rest watching. Marbo broke the axe handle in the middle, shortening the range, yet also optimizing it for the closed combat environment.
The other men looked back up at Marbo, quite displeased at what had just happened, and charged him. Marbo parried sword swing of the second man, and hooked the blade with the axehead, ripping the handle out of the man's hands and throwing the sword into the wall, where it embedded itself. Marbo followed up by kicking the man in the chest, knocking him through a table with a crash, as food and drinks fell onto him. The third man came from the left of Marbo, leaving his right side open as he swung his hatchet from his right side. Marbo drove the broken half of the great-axe handle through his neck and grabbed his hatchet, throwing it at the fourth man who was trying to get on the other side of Marbo. The hatchet brutally cut through the skull of the unarmored man, the momentum snapping his neck, as he fell to the floor next to the second man.
The last two held their ground, eyes uncertain of their fate. Marbo looked to the first man, who sat at his feet, crawling toward the sword that was dropped by the second man. Marbo looked down at him, his face darkened. He stepped over, and stomped on the back of the neck of the pathetic northman, breaking his neck, and ending his life almost instantaneously.
The remaining men seemed to had made up their minds, as they had hurriedly backed out and exited the tavern, leaving the other three of their comrades fates in the hands of the man who had just killed three of their men and left one unconscious.
Marbo walked behind the bar table, took his brandy, and left more than adequate pay behind for the bartender. Sighing and putting his cloak back on, he strode out of the tavern, and into the streets, in search of another place to rest for the night.
Yet his night had only begun, and the men were to be the least of Marbo's worries..
