"Explain that to me again."

The tavern was utterly silent after the proprietor's demand, save for the rhythmic smacking of young Fabien's chops. The boy had been drinking heavily, and it was all he could do to resist reaching into the pouch at his hip and keep riding the buzz he'd built up.

He recoiled from the stench of the man's breath and shied away from the stare of his bloodshot, wide eyes. He'd been sitting across the bar for hours now, ordering as many stiff drinks as his body could handle, but only now took notice of the man's stature. Barrel-chested, arms like rivets, a stomach that cascaded over the buckle of his belt.

"Don't have any," he mumbled. It wasn't the first time he'd admitted to being broke after hours of a trusting server's time and effort, but he wasn't known to those in this particular establishment.

He knew what came next, of course, and there had been no plan brewing to deal with the situation. The tender's eyes flashed and he leaned forward with a thick-fingered, ale-sticky hand for the boy's collar.

Fabien was quicker, however, and lurched back in his stool while tucking his chin into his chest. A strange gurgle came from his throat as he watched the hand whiff by, but his movement came at a cost. Wobbling on the high chair, the boy tried to regain his balance but swiveled and tumbled to the floor, his shirt hiking up as his warm cheek smacked the cold wooden surface. He was moving to get up immediately, knowing he could outrun the bastard even in his current state.

He felt hands grabbing him, though, pulling at his shirt and hair, and knew that the nearby customers were not going to tolerate his freeloading. Before they could restrain him fully, one of Fabien's hands darted down to make sure he hadn't dropped the pouch in the fall. It was still there. Good.

That was all he needed.

In the blink of an eye and serenaded by the angry badgering of a half-dozen patrons, he was carried through the doors of the parlor and launched, roughly, off of the shallow balcony and into the dirt of the road. His sword tumbled out of its sheath next to him and he rolled not once, but twice, to rest on his back staring up at the night sky. He couldn't hear the continued shouting from the doorway over the ringing in his ears.

In a moment the yelling stopped, and Fabien lay quietly by the side of the road by his lonesome. He could taste blood, dirt, and booze.

Still, he could manage one deft motion attributed to tremendous practice. He untied the pouch strapped to his hip and dipped his thumb and forefinger inside, then re-fastened it using the others. A silvery, coarse dust in his hand, he dipped his fingers deep into his mouth behind his tongue - for that was how one avoided the flavor - and let it melt at the back of his throat.

And it was a wonderful evening.