Post by Annasiel on May 19, 2023 19:30:31 GMT
"- yea? You think that, do ya, big boy?"
The fenwaif was half-standing on her chair, by now, though she still didn't come up to the full fir bolg's height even with the help. They were in a bar. Not a particularly good bar - some shitty little port dive on the low end of Goswick, the air full of the thick smell of stale beer and sailor sweat, the atmosphere currently thick enough to suffocate a grown man. The place was packed, and while it'd normally be bustling with background noise, it was, at present, uncomfortably quiet.
Course, fights in these sorts of places weren't uncommon, but those were generally the sorts of drunken brawls stemming from dumb arguments or displays of machismo. Weapons didn't usually come out, for that, which made the fact the little fenwaif had a dagger drawn and pointed at the fir bolg's chest a bit more of an issue.
"Cus my mate back there, she'd take ya so hard ye'd go runnin' back to yer mum before ye even knew what hit ye," Dottie was saying, her balance on the chair wavering slightly. She grinned. "Not that ye'd even get that far. Got a royal decree, see. Could have ye arrested in a heartbeat, I could, on charge o' piracy. There'd be a whole investigation. All yer cargo seized. Can ye swear on yer heart all it's legal?"
"Stow ya mouth, ya little shit."
The sailor stood suddenly enough to send the fenwaif falling back, only saved by a hand on the counter from toppling off of her chair. All around, more men and women stood - about a dozen, in all - their hands going for their weapons.
The fenwaif was half-standing on her chair, by now, though she still didn't come up to the full fir bolg's height even with the help. They were in a bar. Not a particularly good bar - some shitty little port dive on the low end of Goswick, the air full of the thick smell of stale beer and sailor sweat, the atmosphere currently thick enough to suffocate a grown man. The place was packed, and while it'd normally be bustling with background noise, it was, at present, uncomfortably quiet.
Course, fights in these sorts of places weren't uncommon, but those were generally the sorts of drunken brawls stemming from dumb arguments or displays of machismo. Weapons didn't usually come out, for that, which made the fact the little fenwaif had a dagger drawn and pointed at the fir bolg's chest a bit more of an issue.
"Cus my mate back there, she'd take ya so hard ye'd go runnin' back to yer mum before ye even knew what hit ye," Dottie was saying, her balance on the chair wavering slightly. She grinned. "Not that ye'd even get that far. Got a royal decree, see. Could have ye arrested in a heartbeat, I could, on charge o' piracy. There'd be a whole investigation. All yer cargo seized. Can ye swear on yer heart all it's legal?"
"Stow ya mouth, ya little shit."
The sailor stood suddenly enough to send the fenwaif falling back, only saved by a hand on the counter from toppling off of her chair. All around, more men and women stood - about a dozen, in all - their hands going for their weapons.