The gang makes their way out of the tavern before the barkeep can notice the false coin laid on the table.
Outside, their caught by a band of figures, clad in armour, brandishing weapons of crushing, slashing, piercing.
“Do we know you?” asks Shyan.
“I do believe so,” says Cang. He’s right. Their armour is distinctive, the helmets featuring fanged beasts in place of the human visage.
Shyan deflates a little. “The rabble from the blacksmith’s?”
“Hey, we’re not rabble,” one of the figures says. “You’ve wronged our honour, you know?”
“We did?” Fassn asks.
“Well, we’ve had a lot on our minds,” says Shyan.
“Then maybe we can make a little deal. Take some of the stress off.”
Drawing her blade, Shyan says, “I doubt it.”