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“Another round.”
For the fifth time that night, the words left the Highwayman’s lips as he raised his hand to the barkeep. He could feel his speech slurring by this point, his body growing disobedient, even with his rather high tolerance for alcohol. The hamlet had some strong stuff in its reserves.
“Two drinks left on the boss’s budget.” The barkeep noted, pouring him another drink of that foul-smelling, blackish liquid.
“I’m payin’ for myself tonight, remember?” He grumbled, glancing up. “My next outing ain’t till next week.”
“I try not to keep track.” The tender replied, placing the glass in front of the rouge. “It makes me notice when they don’t come back.”
He snorted. “Cheers to that.”
The rouge snatched up the glass and took a swig. It tasted worse than normal booze, but he was nothing if not a drinker, so it didn’t dissuade him.
The creaking of floorboards drew his head to turn. A figure was walking up next to him.
A man-at-arms, with an old, grizzled demeanor, his face marked with scars, a scruffy beard, and that ever-present eyepatch. He was still lumbering around in his plate armor, great shield mounted on his back, though his mace was nowhere to be seen.
“This seat taken?” The commander asked, his voice a ragged bellow.
“Only by the ghosts. Feel free.” The Highwayman replied.
He took another swig as the man sat down. He ordered a drink, something light, as he put it, though the rouge wasn’t much listening. The most interesting thing in the tavern right now was the faint sounds coming from the attached brothel, and no one liked listening to those.
“You here on his plan?” The Highwayman asked idly, looking to the warrior. “Ol’ descendant-fellow, I mean.”
The warrior grunted in confirmation. “Forced stress relief. This week was a bad one…”
“Hmph. How so?”
The commander sighed, his breath full of pain and old regret. “One of those crusader types. Got his- damn head caved in by a swine.”
The Highwayman perked up suddenly, back straightening. “Reynauld?”
“Hm?” The commander gave him a side glance. “Oh, no, some… newbie. Overconfident. Name was Moses or somethin’.”
The rouge breathed a sigh of relief, though it came out as a snort. “Oh. Good for him.”
Once more, the commander grunted. “You a friend of Reynauld?”
“Could call it that, s’pose.” The Highwayman mumbled.
“He’s a good man.” He noted. “What’s your name?”
“Dismas.” He took a swig of his drink. “You?”
“Barristan.”
Dismas nodded dully, head hung low. “Ah. Think I’ve heard it… been here long?”
“As long as anyone else.” He replied. “I think we were out in a party once.”
“Must’ve drank that memory away.” Dismas slurred, smirking.
Barristan chuckled. “I don’t blame you…” He took a sip. “It was the twelve-pounder.”
Dismas coughed. “The damn war machine?!” He said incredulously.
“Yup. That one.” Barristan agreed. “Saved your ass a few times there.”
“Must’ve been why I drank it away!” Dismas laughed. “Oh, I barely remember shit from that. Didn’t William’s mutt rip someone’s foot off?”
“Absolutely.” Barristan confirmed. “After that cultist fellow stitched the pooch’s leg back on. Not even a limp, to this day…”
Dismas cackled. Barristan nodded slowly, smirking and taking another sip.
Just then, a great bang met the drinker’s ears, the sound of an angry fist slammed against a table. The lot of the tavern turned to the parlor off to the side, where a man completely covered in robes, chain mail, armor and tools was now shouting angrily.
“Cheat! Cheat, damn you!” The Bounty Hunter exclaimed, his usually masked tone flushed with annoyance. “I want that token back.”
“You think me that base, Tardif?” His opponent asked dryly. The dark priest, the broken man, the prophet of the malignant stars. The Occultist sat in his chair, wrapped in those dark robes covered in terrible trinkets and unholy charms. He held a hand of cards in front of him, and wore an expression of annoyance. “That’d I’d cheat for a trinket like that?”
“I don’t think. I know.” Tardif, the Hunter, snapped, leaning over the table. “I know how you use those eldritch tricks, and I’m not going to be played by some wannabe priest.”
“Calm yourself, hired muscle.” The cultist muttered. “I won this fair and square.”
“I’ll gut you like a pig, Alhazred.” Tardif growled.
“Break it up, boys!” The bartender called, cleaning a glass.
They were undeterred. Tardif continued to threaten, drawing yet more attention from the crowd. Alhazred eventually set down his cards, and placed his hands inside his cloak, where Dismas knew a crooked dagger rested. Tardif’s axe was on his hip, though he doubted he’d choose to use it in such a place. The stoic hunter was known for his uppercuts.
The Bartender watched in a mixture of annoyance and concern at the squabble, then shared a knowing look with Dismas. After a moment, the rouge sighed.
“I’ll be back.” He mumbled to Barristan before finishing his drink. “I’m on cleanup duty tonight.”
Tardif was walking around the rotting table now, his gait firm. Alhazred tensed.
A dagger flung between the two, impaling itself in the far wall and making both men pause.
Well, that’s what he would’ve preferred to happen. His throw was a touch shoddy, from lack of experience (knife throwing was usually the grave robber’s job) and drunkenness. Instead, his dagger hit the wall with the pommel, bounced merrily away and clattered to the floor.
Dismas huffed as he walked over, placing his hands in his coat pockets, slightly lopsided in his gait. “Damn. Well, the point still stands. Or falls. Heh.”
He placed himself just slightly to the side of the two men, close enough to easily prevent further closing of distance. Though his face was masked, Dismas knew Tardif was glaring at him.
“Step off, Dismas.” The Hunter ordered.
“You know our line of work, Tar. Don’t get broken up over some charm from the dungeons.” Dismas replied smugly.
“This isn’t the first time he’s cheated.” Tardif growled, leaning forward. “I’m owed my due.”
“We have better things to do.” Dismas rebuffed.
“You two should kill each other!” The rough voice of the Hellion yelled, leaning back in her chair from across the tavern. “Make it interesting!”
“Oh, shut up, you oaf!” Alhazred replied back.
“You wanna say that to my face, demon’s baby?” She called back.
“I’ll say it to your axe, if I must.”
“Get out of my way.” Tardif ordered lowly, stepping even closer to Dismas. The Hellion’s confident laughter echoed across the tavern. Someone got up to leave.
“Not happening.” Dismas replied, smirking fading.
“Last chance.” The Hunter growled.
“Oh, don’t pull that with me-”
A fist collided with his nose, and for a moment the world went black.
The Highwayman awoke moments later, on the floor of the tavern, blood smeared across his face, ears ringing, skull aching. His eyes focused just enough to see Tardif step over him, raising a fist at the Occultist. Alhazred ducked under his first hook, slashing his dagger across the Hunter’s armored hip. The blade glanced uselessly off the chain mail, but cut the cloth of one of his many satchels.
Perhaps by luck or skill, it was that satchel that carried his flashbangs.
The tavern erupted in smoke and sparks, blinding light cascading over the denizens like a flood of searing radiance. Dismas covered his head with his arms, ears deafened by the shockwave, eyes burning. For a moment he had no sense of time, space, or anything but his headache.
He opened his eyes, his vision vibrant and blurry. Through the smog and commotion, he saw Tardif chasing his occult target as he ran for the door. The Bounty Hunter’s gloved hand gripped his red robe, yanking Alhazred backward. Dismas remembered what he was supposed to be doing.
With determination, the rouge stumbled to his feet, charging towards Tardif as he wrestled with the frail cultist. Dismas slid across the wooden floor and kicked out the Hunter’s legs, rolling aside as the heavy-set warrior toppled over. Alhazred was tossed across the room in the process, tumbling into a nearby wall. The rouge attempted to grapple the fallen warrior.
“Hell yeah, tear em’ down!” A familiar voice cheered from the sidelines.
“Shut the fuck up, Boudica!”
Tardif’s elbow hit Dismas in the forehead, knocking his head against the wooden floor. Tardif snatched up a nearby strewn bottle of beer and chucked it at the jeering Hellion’s head.
He heard the telling sound of a shattering bottle, and an angry shout of pain. The sound of the beginning of a true and proper bar fight.
“Oh, I’ll bite your fuckin’ fingers off for that!”
Dismas rolled sideways and hopped to his feet, instinctively reaching to the side for his dagger before remembering it was currently lying under some table. The commotion was in full force now that the smoke had cleared. People were stumbling, hiding, running into each other for the exit, and in some cases actively sparking more fistfights.
As Tardif searched for his mischievous quarry, Boudica hopped the tables and charged him in a running tackle at the midriff. Dismas sidestepped as she ran him across the room, Tardif slamming his elbow into her shoulder blade twice before they hit the wall. Dismas had a brief moment to consider the costs of firing his pistol into the ceiling before he heard footsteps behind him.
He ducked just in time as someone swung a chair at his back, instinctively pivoting and stepping back from the aggressor. For another mere moment, he wondered who in the world could possibly be so eager to get in a bar fight.
Until he saw that familiar set of ragged, torn robes, stained bloodred, and the bare chest of a man who’d seen more punishment than any human should undertake.
“Damian, this is not the time!!” Dismas shouted, hands raised, at the Flagellant.
The mutilated penitent grinned madly and flung out his arms, inviting challenge. “It is always the time for piety, my friend!”
“I’m trying to keep this shithole in order, you prick! Get a room!” He shouted back. “They’re- indulging in wrath or some shit, right?!”
“Perhaps they are, but you and I?!” Damian laughed. “It is an invitation for discipline! Is this not better relief than those foul liquids of regret and sickness?”
His answer was a rather hearty no, but Dismas doubted that really mattered right now. The question was rhetorical. He scowled and clenched his fist, crouched slightly in a fighting stance.
“Come now, Dismas. Aren’t you raring to enjoy some brutish fun?” The Flagellant goaded.
“Oh, I’ll show you brutish, you masochistic fuck!”
Dismas ducked inward, feinting a hit to the nose before slamming his fist into Damian’s liver. As the penitent laughed and reflexively hunched forward, Dismas snatched up a stray bottle from the ground and shattered it across the side of his head.
The scarred man stumbled aside, seeming as if he would fall to the floor. He pivoted, head hung low, as Dismas swung again.
Damian stood straight, weaved to the side and grabbed his wrist, then stepped in and clotheslined the rouge with his bloodied gauntlet. He felt something in his shoulder fracture from the hold, his arm pulled forward but body forced to halt. Dismas snarled and punched him in the jaw with his free hand. Damian threw a haymaker of his own. Dismas ducked, jammed a punch into his ribs, then grabbed him by the face and ripped himself out of the hold.
Damian replied immediately, spinning out of his stumble and throwing another punch. Dismas dodged it, then another, then tried to tackle him. The penitent braced and caught his charge, wrapped his hands around the rouge’s torso and lifted him into the air.
Dismas lost a sense of direction for a moment. Then he crashed through a bar table like a rock through a window. Pain rocketed through his body as wood splintered beneath him. The table had split directly in half from Damian’s throw, and he was lying in the wreckage. The brief moment of pause made him wise to the surrounding shouts and roars of the brawl, as well as the bartender shouting angrily. He wondered if he or Damian would have to pay for the table.
Speaking of Damian, he was about to body-slam the rouge back into unconsciousness, elbow-first.
Thinking quickly as always, the Highwayman fumbled for and snatched up a stray piece of broken timber and rolled sideways as Damian landed hard on the wooden floor. Dismas rolled to his feet and smashed the makeshift club across the Flagellant’s face. Reeling from the force, Damian propped himself up on the wreckage of the split table. Then, in one motion, he picked up the mass of broken wood and tossed it at Dimas’s head.
Meanwhile.
Tardif tumbled backwards over the bar, glass shattering as his feet clipped the shelves and spilled booze soaked his cloak. He snatched up the remains of a bottle and rolled sideways to a kneel, then smashed it across Boudica’s cheek as she vaulted the bar. The Bounty Hunter attempted to knock her out with a right hook to the temple, and promptly met air as she ducked the strike. A hand clasped the side of his helmet, and she bashed his head into the wine rack.
Boudica was a grappler. Tardif was a slugger. That’s what you would say, if you really wanted to dignify their fighting styles. A more apt description was that Tardif hit Boudica with things, and Boudica hit things with Tardif.
She bashed his skull into the wall of broken glass and wood again, his ears ringing as the sharp edges scraped along his helmet. He slung a hook at her stomach and she retreated. The Hunter stepped back and threw another glass bottle at her head. The barbarian took the projectile in stride and charged at him again, screaming a war cry.
He braced and returned the grapple, pulling Boudica sideways and slamming her into the side of the bar. He launched an uppercut into her nose that made her stumble back. She redoubled her assault and ducked under another of his hits. An elbow collided with his ribs, then a knee with his face as he keeled forward. As he stumbled, dazed, she stepped back like a bull readied to charge, ran forward and drop-kicked him in the chest.
Both fighters hit the ground with a painful thud. Boudica was already on top of him when his vision refocused. She grabbed him by the collar and bashed his head into the floor two times. Tardif grabbed her shoulders and threw a headbutt. As she recoiled he tossed the Hellion aside and kicked her in the nose, bouncing her head off the bar cabinets.
With a furious snarl, Boudica leapt on him like a dog on a wounded buck. Reflexively, he threw an uppercut.
Gloved fist connected with her jaw. She toppled backwards and fell still.
He knew how he hit here. She was out. He was just a bit surprised he’d actually managed it.
Tardif huffed and got to his feet.
The Hunter scanned the room for his quarry, hopping the bar. The whole tavern was in chaos; naturally, he supposed. Varied in population as the Hamlet was, most everyone was either stressed or angry enough to throw a few hands if someone shoved them the wrong way.
The Bartender was outside, shouting for something. Damian had just tossed half an entire table at Dismas’s head. The Grave Robber sat in a far corner, holding several bottles of clearly stolen wine and watching the show. Barristan, that commander-type, was trying to break up one of the fights while the Jester cackled atop a table and strummed his lute in messy, dissonant chords. The lawman’s dog was barking somewhere outside, and the Houndsman himself was currently waving his blackjack and shouting about a spilled drink.
And amidst the battleground, Alhazred. His target, hunched in the shadows, sneaking for the bar’s entrance.
A pair of chains shackled themselves around his neck, and his head crashed backwards onto the bar’s surface. His ears rang again, his gloved hands moving immediately to the shoddy metal noose.
“Who the fuck-!”
He swung a fist at the aggressor behind him, and was met with air. The chains pulled tighter, and a face leaned into his view as he was forced onto the bar’s surface.
The local freak, that abominable man with pale skin, green blood, wrapped in torn rags and chains. The creature’s emancipated face, with that great A scarred onto his skull, was a grimace of determination and contempt.
For a moment, he didn’t bother to question why the frail thing had decided to pick a fight with him. He simply struggled. Scrabbled at the chains, searched for stray bottles or glass shards. His helmet and armor made it difficult to strangle him, but the pressure on his windpipe was nonetheless restrictive. It’d take him out with enough time.
“Who the hell do you think you are, freak-!” Tardif snarled, fumbling for a grip.
“Not really your concern, is it!?” He replied, straining. He readjusted the pin, pulling harder to keep his head forced against the wood.
“You’re out of your league-!” Tardif gasped.
“I’m helping out a friend.” He growled in reply. “Al didn’t cheat for shit.”
That was what set him off the most. Tardif stopped struggling enough to reach for his hip.
He retrieved the cruel hook bound across his belt and extended enough rope for his current purpose. The Bounty Hunter then slung it backwards, precisely sinking the crooked blade into the creature’s shoulder before yanking on the rope. The Abomination’s head slammed onto the table, drawing a shout of pain.
Tardif freed himself in the daze and dove over the bar, tackling the freak into the wall of splinters and glass shards. He easily overpowered him in the ensuing wrestle, pinning the frail man against the wall. Then he punched him in the nose. Twice. Thrice. A fourth time. The attempts at resistance were futile. Green blood covered his gloves.
“You done, freak?” He snarled, fist still raised.
“I have a name, prick.” The Abomination mumbled through his broken nose.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s Bigby.”
The fifth punch was his first mistake. Bigby dodged his head to the side and then vomited, acidic bile coating the Bounty Hunter’s body. He shrieked in pain as the poison seared his skin, burning straight through metal and cloth and leaking through chain mail. He swung his fist again, with further anger. Then the follow up, his seventh punch and final mistake, broke the creature’s jaw.
As he reared for another strike, the beast unleashed a mangled, primal roar of pain and fury, echoing across the tavern like a whistle of death. Teeth and acid spat out of the man’s mouth, molars rapidly replaced with fangs. Green blood lit up in his veins as his muscles pulsed with unnatural rage. In a single movement, Bigby grabbed Tardif and lifted him over his head like a child, standing as he did so, and tossed the Hunter across the tavern.
The first thing he hit was probably a table, or maybe a support beam, which he flew straight through with a great shattering of wood. Next it was the window. He clipped the edge with his foot and tumbled outside in a pile of shattered glass and splintered oak, landing hard and scorpioning on the rocks and gravel. His skin sizzled with burns as he hit the ground, rolling over with debris scraping his chain mail.
Tardif struggled to stand the moment he stilled, having landed just outside the now destroyed window. His entire body ached, he’d probably fractured something. Broken glass had jammed itself into his leg as he’d clipped the window and spun through it’s pane.
He saw the barkeep staring at him in a mixture of horror and frustration. Voices were exclaiming and whispering in the town.
He stood up, shaking off dust and debris. Then he bolted for the tavern’s entrance.
Another hook connected with Dismas’s jaw, and he fell backwards over a bar stool. Damian promptly picked up the wooden chair and raised it over his head. Dismas rolled out of the way as he slammed it onto the ground.
At some point, he’d given up on trying to get around Damian and to Tardif. At some point after that, he was annoyed and dazed and drunk enough to stop caring about things other than having a good fistfight. Although by now his logical brain was forcing it’s way back into power, as a problem had been presented to him.
Damian, naturally, was not easy to fight. And in fact, Dismas was starting to question if subduing him through anything short of actual murder or concussive force was even possible. He didn’t have knockout-punches. And all his slippery tactics and smaller hits naturally, just encouraged the Flagellant.
He jabbed twice more, ducked a swing, landed another shot to the ribs. Ducked, dodged. Damian sidestepped another of his punches and took control of his arm, then tossed him into another chair. His head ached and his ears rang.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a glint of steel.
The Flagellant was busy cackling in maddened glee. The shine was from his dagger, the failed throw at the beginning of this commotion having left it here on the floor.
Damian strode towards him, prepared for further blood. Dismas took the thin blade, it’s leather grip well fitted in his hand, and slashed as the penitent crouched to pummel him.
For once, the Flagellant did not smile at the pain. He shouted in anger, his grin becoming a scowl as the blade ripped open a gash in his scar-stricken chest. He clenched his bloodied fist, raising the spiked gauntlet as visceral radiance cascaded down from it.
Dismas shifted his head to the side, and Damian’s bloody fist left a crater in the wooden floor. Blood poured down his chest as a reddish light began to close his wound. The Flagellant grabbed the rouge by the face and smashed his head into the floor. Dismas attempted to swing again, but fell short. Damian reeled back a fist.
A large figure swept in front of him, the hellish glow blocked by a kite of metal. A fierce clang.
“Get up, you drunk!”
Barristan had blocked the strike, and promptly bashed Damian in the face with his shield and pushed him back. The Flagellant snarled in a mix of anger and glee and charged, leaping forward. Barristan braced his shield and caught the warrior in the middle, then shifted his weight and flipped the penitent’s entire body over his head. He pushed and tossed Damian across the room through another table.
Dismas finally stopped staring and started getting to his feet. He then was forced to duck as Damian threw another hunk of wood at his skull. Barristan charged, shield readied, and ran the Flagellant into the nearby wall. Braced there, he bashed two brutal punches into his face, then backhanded the man with his shield. Damian hit the ground like a ragdoll.
Barristan turned back to Dismas after a brief pause, shaking out his shield arm. “You’re welcome.”
Dismas laughed drunkenly. “I was gonna thank you, I swear...”
“Let’s break this up.” The commander said firmly.
He ran past Dismas towards the gambling tables, drawing the rouge’s eyes. Tardif had finally found his quarry, and Alhazred was holding out his skull-shaped candle like a ward against a devil. Bigby, the frail fellow with the sharp teeth, as Dismas remembered him, was stumbling to his feet nearby, a large cut above his eye bleeding slowly as his nails seemed to sharpen into claws.
The Abomination swung his chains like a whip as Dismas ran to stop the fight. Barristan jumped between them.
He deflected the metal links off his shield, kicked Alhazred to the ground and bashed Tardif in the nose in a single swift motion. Then he stilled.
“BREAK IT UP, BASTARDS!” He shouted. Dismas halted, watching both sides of the battle, waiting for aggression.
“We’ve caused enough trouble tonight!” He added loudly.
“Oh, shove it!” Bigby snapped.
He charged the commander, muscles pulsating with grotesque strength. Barristan turned and clotheslined him with his kite shield, leaving Bigby thudding to the ground. Alhazred snarled and raised his candle, causing an eldritch rune to sear onto the man’s armor and push him back. Tardif shoved past and socked the cultist in the jaw. Bigby fully sank his teeth into Barristan’s greaves like a rabid dog. Dismas sprinted past the two and tackled Tardif.
The rest of it was a bit of a blur. Acidic vomit. Clanging metal. Gloved fists. Bite, claw, kick, punch, slug, bash, grab, choke. Tardif knocked Dismas to the ground. Bigby tackled him. Alhazred tried to bash the hunter in the head with his knife’s pommel, but missed and smacked the Abomination. Dismas kicked out the cultist’s legs. Barristan shoved Bigby off Tardif.
The Bounty Hunter grabbed Dismas’s leg and dragged him closer, then punched him in the stomach. Bigby fumbled to a kneel and vomited into the crowd. Barristan’s shield took the brunt of the acid. Tardif swung a punch at the creature. Alhazred seared a rune onto the side of his helmet. Barristan charged and shoved the cultist against the wall. Dismas kicked Tardif in the stomach.
The Bounty Hunter stumbled, then his hand moved for the crooked axe at his side. He drew the weapon and used it to catch a whip of Bigby’s chains before yanking the abomination off his feet. Then he swung at Dismas. He dodged. A brutal punch knocked wind from his chest. His hand moved for his pistol. He ducked another swing and raised the gun, aiming for the leg.
A deafening crunch sounded from the tavern’s exit, like the door’s hinge was bending under furious force. The whole room went compulsively silent.
In the doorway stood an unassuming figure, shrouded completely in a dark cloak. Their posture was crooked, and they carried no weapons, nor implied any threats. Nonetheless, something was off about their unseen gaze.
The Heir.
Silently, their unseen gaze wandered around the room, searing it’s way into the heroes. The figure’s stare evoked a feeling that you were being watched, not just by those shadowed eyes, but something else. Something deeper.
Floorboards creaked. The Descendant stepped forward, stare settling on Alhazred. They trudged over to the Occultist, paused a moment, then extended a hand palm-up, as if expecting something.
“… What do you want?” Alhazred questioned, uncertainly receding into his cloak.
The haggard figure gestured slightly at Tardif, then to the flipped gambling table on the other side of the room.
After a pause, the Occultist reluctantly reached into his cloak and retrieved a wooden amulet, it’s pendant bearing a yellowish star weaved into the wood with grass and thread. He handed the trinket over and stepped back.
The Descendant promptly tossed the charm at Tardif, who reflexively caught it.
“… I told you to be ready for an expedition, yes?”
The figure’s voice was uncanny, ragged, laced with exhaustion, surprisingly human despite their terrible presence. But something malignant was laced beneath, like the victim of a parasite who knew it would one day take control.
“You did.” Tardif replied. “Am I not?”
“You appear to have gambled away the charm I provided, so no. You are not.” The Descendant replied tersely.
“He cheated!” The Bounty Hunter snapped.
The figure said nothing. The silence was enough of an answer to his complaint.
“… William, Dismas.” They sighed, turning away from Tardif and pointing at the Houndmaster and rouge. “You’ll be heading to the warrens this week. I want the pigs beaten back or… quite frankly, we’ll be wiped out by their diseases. Junia will accompany. She was smart enough to leave early.”
Dismas cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we-?”
“Get someone better for the job? Perhaps. But the best people for the job are unconscious, judging by Damian’s condition.” They interrupted, slight frustration in their tone. “Unless Boudica is around?”
As if on cue, the Hellion groaned loudly and stumbled to her feet, clutching her head and propping herself up on the bar.
The Heir stared for a few seconds. Unnatural fury seemed to emanate from them.
”… lovely.” They turned to Dismas. “You’ll have to do. Meet me before you leave, I’ve a few charms to help bleed them.” Then to Tardif. “Wear the amulet. Stay out of trouble until the exposition.”
They started for the door.
“… And pay for your drinks and broken tables, or I’ll lock you in the penance hall with Damian the next time you go insane.”
The Descendant left the tavern in silence.
The various adventurers exchanged glances.
“… I need another drink.” Dismas muttered.
“No you don’t. Let’s get ready.” Tardif replied.