The waiting was proving to be incredibly tense. Rube had ordered a drink, so as to fit in, and now he and Luka sat at one of the tables, waiting for---
---and there he was. Lorand strode in, cocky as ever. “All right, mates!” he called out. “We’re taking this tavern – hope none’f you mind, of course – so everyone be real calm and you won’t get hurt, right?”
The lack of response was stunning. A few glances turned his way, but not many and not for long. Clearing his throat, Lorand took another stab at it.
“I’ve already got my brilliant gang of cohorts snuck throughout, so nobody better try anything clever, understood? If you’ve got weapons, drop ‘em.”
Again, not much. And from what Luka could see, most of the looks cast in Lorand’s direction were either amused or annoyed. Nobody looked very intimidated.
This had done very little to diminish Lorand’s swagger, but even from where Luka peered out from beneath his oversized hood, he could see the thief’s patience fading. He had just enough time to entertain a brief sensation of dread – something was about to go very wrong, said his instincts – before Lorand proceeded to give credence to that feeling.
“You! Set an example for the rest of these folk, why doncha?” he ordered boldly, striding over to grab the ceramic mug right out from in front of one seated elf. While Luka gaped, Lorand lifted the mug and drained the contents in one smug gulp – only to end up fighting a cough and forcing his cool expression back on as he plinked it back onto the table. “Put whatever weapons you’ve got on the table and hand over anything valuable, get it?”
The elf to whom the drink had belonged had watched all this with a calm that made Luka increasingly nervous, and at Lorand’s final order, he didn’t so much as flinch. If anything, he seemed intent on proving that he was in no hurry to answer, and let a good moment pass – the tavern had fallen into an unnerving hush – before glancing patiently up to his challenger.
“You really should leave.”