There were few places where genuine neutrality in all matters could be trusted, and one of them was the Minstrel’s Perch. Molotov had heard of the place from his days as a mercenary. True, the bar was always moving with some of the best and worst of the sentient beings, but even then, none of them paid much attention to the business of others. Everyone was too busy moving, running their own race to worry about the business of others. That was why Molotov liked it. It was privacy in public.
He had come on a relatively simple mission. It was up to him, and of course, Kyosku, to find the people they would need to defeat the monsters that could destroy their dream of a new Bandit Brotherhood even before it got off the ground. The mutant had first been surprised that the Ceann Cath had made an offer of so much land, but once he had heard they had monsters there, he knew of their true objective. The draconian generals were sending them there to die.
Molotov was not intimidated. He had memory on his side. Memory was a very strong weapon, strong enough to even move mountains with the help of good fortune. And all Molotov wanted from memory was to have it help him defeat a few monsters.
With his cup of ale raised to the sky, the mutant offered a small toast. “To people who want to be bandits!” he shouted. “And to those who believe monsters can be killed!”
There was a murmured “hear hear” among the room, but it was the kind of agreement that came more out of good manners than genuine conviction. Molotov didn’t mind. The toast had been excellent, and the people to whom it might interest would soon come in running. Molotov couldn’t wait. He wanted to look into the eyes of more people who believed that they could kill monsters.
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