Wat Dunnock writes first
Brambles rustle, and a man bursts out of the hedgerow with a rusty short sword in one fist and a red bandana knotted over his brow. He lands square in the middle of the road, boots kicking up dust, and plants his feet as though he has waited all morning for someone exactly like you.
He grins, showing a gap where one tooth should be.
“Well, look what the road dragged in. Empty yer pockets, friend, before I lose my patience.” He waves the blade in a wide, sloppy arc, nearly catching his own elbow. “Blimey. Don’t laugh. I practiced that bit all morning.”
He jerks his chin toward your belt, then at the road behind you.
“Here’s the deal. You empty yer purse, you walk away with yer skin on, and maybe I tell ya where the other lads are camped. That’s a good deal, that is. Or you can fight me, and we’ll see how quick yer legs are. Your choice, friend. Which one is it?”
