The troll of a man sitting across from her at the table reeked of rum. He said, “I can see that you are a smart woman. I know this because Chaos Cove is where smart people come when they need to hire the best and, well, here you are.”
The man was filthy. It looked like the stains on his shirt had stains. “Sure, they’re miscreants and criminals to a man, but they are… let’s say ‘talented’ in ways you will not find elsewhere.” He nodded over to the bar where a shirtless brute of a man milked a gigantic mug of some brownish-green liquid. The man looked angry about something. “Take Moaf over there,” said the trollish man. “Moaf once bested 6 men at once in hand-to-hand combat.”
As if on queue, Moaf lifted the mug and swallowed the entire contents. Whatever Moaf was angry about, the drink didn’t help. He leaped onto the bar, produced a massive chain from somewhere that she could not see, and began swinging it over his head like a lasso. “You call this swill Scrumble?” he roared. He let slip one end of the chain, which flew down the bar and wrapped around the bartender. Moaf gave a great heave on the other end of the chain and the bartender flew through the air toward him. Next to Moaf, the quaking bartender looked like a small child. Moaf picked up the protesting bartender, lifted him overhead, and heaved him back across the room and through the front window of the Three Sheets to the Wind bar. He then reached over the bar, poured himself another Scrumble, and sat back down in glum contemplation.
The bar’s occupants returned to their drinks and conversation, more more annoyed than amazed at the exhibition of strength. A tropical night breeze from the bay blew in the broken window.
“So you see,” said the man across from her as a sort of a Q.E.D. to Moaf’s demonstration. “Now, let us talk about your particular needs, and who we can find to help you fill them.”