Incredulous, the drunk reminds you of your sworn duty, but the blade at your throat presents a compelling counter argument. The other hired arms attempt to wring themselves free from their captives, but are swiftly and definitively dealt with. The drunk is then carted off to a back room, while you are held firm.

The scary looking man expresses his admiration for your intelligence, observing that, as a sellsword, one should not expect devotion unto death. He enquires if you would be interested in joining his merry band, an offer that you accept, surmising that you do not really have a choice in the matter. The scary man claps his hands triumphantly, and begins putting you to work.

THE END

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