mugging

Ikenvul grunts as his back slams against the wall. He sputters and coughs. One punch would mean nothing, while numerous have taken him out of any fighting position. Once more, after many, many times of holding his hands up in defense, he protests to the smaller folk whom corner him, holding knives and threatening to skewer him should he fight back, “Lads...can’t we talk?” Another cough escapes him, “I don’t have anything else.”

*Written sloppily as if by a drunk hand*

What luck I've had of late! That young Watcher, Baymon I think he was called, was hefting around a fat coin purse the other night in The Pony as if begging for it to be cut from his belt - the fool. I would have cut it myself if it wasn't for the fact he blathered on about going fishing at Halecatch lake that evening.