He’d obviously been a villain; his words and actions had clearly demonstrated that, but still…
Fortu simply hadn’t liked the way they were dressed or how they were sitting and confronted him on a mere suspicion. The, potentially paranoid, suspicion that these two men were working against him. A reasonable man might have tried to subtly question them. A logical man might have restrained himself from trying to punch them with a mailed fist in a public bar, in the middle of the day. A sane man wouldn’t have drawn his enormous Bastard sword and cleaved the first of them in two!
The second of the men surrendered immediately. Rifkin couldn’t blame him. Fortu had cut through his partner as if he’d been made of butter!
Then, ignoring all the screaming locals and a hissing cat, Fortu had then grabbed the remaining man by his throat and marched him to the town stables, where several soldiers of the FarHaven garrison were currently guarding Cookie’s wagon and Estrid’s barrels.
The Dwarf; Banaal had tried to pacify the barkeep with a generous (but not ostentatious) bribe, while the pragmatic Liga Bur had hurried out after Fortu to help calm/explain the situation to the hamlet guards.
Blinking, Rifkin attempts to regain control of his rapid breathing.
Since joining this ragtag group over half-a-year ago, he’d seen many terrible, terrifying things. Brutal violence and graphic injury, but this?
Did it matter that Fortu’s confrontational instincts had been absolutely correct? Is it justifiable to use extreme and deadly force against evil people or is it somehow, equally evil?
Despite himself, Rifkin feels the beginnings of a song composing itself in his head and he whispers the title out loud…
“The Butcher of FarHaven.”
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