The eyepatch left him like lingerie that lost the taste of its agent. In this case, the result was imperviously fearsome, manufacturing an image of a downward slit scar over his right eye. He says, "And I should add…"
The gasp of those before him continued, until he stated, "… The Younger's patch is on his left eye."
Without casting dice, there jumped at him one of these men, before the young man in his cloak leaned toward the man with his brandished knife. Like a spike on a poisoned porcupine, the assailant ardently repressed his attacker with a shoulder held towards him. The man fell back, only to be quickly cut off with a strange rain of blood gushing out of his stomach. The flow came like rose, a color not quickly thought of death. In travel, the young man had pulled off his cloak and captioned the fear of those around him.
They screamed and one said in shrill laughter of terror, "But you're just a kid! You're just a Goddamned kid!"
The youth rose his index finger and said, "Twenty-one, to be exact. I can drink with the best of you three."