The man on the right rubs his neck where one of the knives pricked him. The hand comes away slightly red. He shudders, but nods to the man in the middle decisively. He rushes forward, drawing a concealed dagger and making no noise whatsoever. The dagger drives into the Stranger’s side.

The Stranger stumbles, catches himself with his hands on a table nearby. He quickly vaults over the table; the assassin did not expect this, as he lets go of the dagger without twisting. The Stranger pushes the bar table over, suprising the assailant and gaining some time. He then painfully but quickly withdraws the dagger from his side and throws it, hilt first, at the man who stabbed him. It clips the man in the temple, knocking him back. He falls and topples several chairs before landing on a table, unconscious.

By now, the whole tavern has noticed the fracas. Some have run out of the tavern; most are staring at the hooded man, now grappling hand-to-hand with his assailants. He punches the one man in the gut, doubling him over, and rolls, anticipating the other man’s attack. He is correct; a punch whooshes through the air where he was just standing. The Stranger scoops up a broken table leg and bashes it down on the wrist of the arm, still extended, breaking the wood and the wrist simultaneously. The man to whom the wrist belongs yelps and holds his wrist. He quickly calculates in his head, realizing that the broken wrist is his right and therefore his main, and runs away. The Stranger turns and encounters the last assailant who is now holding a serving tray.

The peasant whom was startled by the presence of the Stranger earlier is now standing, wondering why the Stranger doesn’t simply… magically, he supposes would be the word… obtain more knives. As the fight progresses, it becomes clear that the Stranger is good, but does not have supernatural skill over the other man. In addition, the knife wound is wearing away at the Stranger, making him slow. He realizes he must do something or this important Stranger will die.

He takes a pen out of his pocket, disassembling it in short order and inserting a dart. He has two, but would rather not use the other, and so he must make this count. He aims carefully in order to avoid hitting The Stranger. The Stranger himself, finally worn out, makes a mistake and stumbles on a chair. The attacker, slowing down in order to make sure he gets the final blow in, prepares to incapacitate him.

Phut! The peasant blows on the dart-pen, successfully sticking the dart in the assassin’s neck. He slaps at the dart, thinking it is but a bug and driving it further into his neck, and immediately collapses.

Silence.

The serving girl who served the Stranger earlier rushes forward, shouting. She rips a piece of the bottom of the black cloak off, revealing that the man was walking and fighting barefoot, and wraps it about the wound in his side. He starts to complain, but the girl shushes him sternly. He laughs, and lets her continue.

A few other men and women gather around the Stranger to ask questions. These people are shut up by a healer, who has come to the tavern by recommendation of a few of those who ran away. Quick checks of the two assassins whose bodies remain in the tavern show that both are unconscious but breathing. One of the horses is missing, but a merchant (still in the tavern) claims it was his and was stolen. The next few minutes pass in a bustle, ending with the still hooded and cloaked man rushed to a room and put to bed by a few of the women. Gossip begins about why he was here and who the assassins were and what happens next.

The peasant, who had stood up and pretended to be concerned after the end of the fight, listens carefully, hears no word of his dart. He sighs in relief. No one had noticed his action; they were all too busy watching the brawl. He looks away; murmurs to himself, “Tomorrow, I suppose…”

He returns to his mug, and drinks deeply.