Rated T for language, violence, and hinted sex.
This is the first time in wow... a while... that I've written in third person. So it's an attempt, and it's also me trying to write something with real plot and action. I'll need all the luck I can get.
Enjoy it!
Rough, sudden eruptions of noise sounded throughout the room, bellowing from the throats of the few broad-shouldered and ale-excited men seated on simple stools. The smell of beef stew bubbling over a hissing fire mixed with the stale scent of beer on the intimidatingly virile men's breath. Tino tried his best not to stare too long at the bearded men or stand too long in the doorway, but instead ducked his head and scurried off to a table far from the hearth, where it was too cold for any others to want to stay. He picked at a bowl of nuts and herbs sitting in the center of the table with shaky, red fingers, finding the perfect solution for his empty stomach and emptier wallet.
On the other side of the tavern, things were growing rowdy. Three burly men had gotten to their feet, long hair flowing from their scalp to shoulders and chin to neck, and they were arguing with someone else, a quieter someone who was hidden by the mass of bodies. Tino listened in silence, rationing out the nuts still left in the bowl, as things escaladed into a fight.
"Ya think ya can talk t' us like that?" a hefty voice shouted. The man who owned it slammed his palm onto the accused's table, shaking a glass of ale. Out of the corner of his eye Tino saw another uninvolved group, who had been watching timidly as he was now, shuffle out the door.
"I'm not the one who started things here," a calm man replied. "You call him a fucking sansorðinn, you've gotta face me."
"Well, little boy, he's not here t' protect yer ass," a third person chimed in. "So why don'tcha tell us again what it was ya were gonna say t' us." Tino could see them closing in on their victim, forming a thick wall of muscle and flesh that the apparently small man wouldn't be able to force himself through.
"You bastards use that kinda language, the tavern owner and those police out on the street look the other way when I shove my fist through your skull." The calm man had a distinct way of speaking compared to the others, not only as if he had a higher authority, but also was more clear and distinct compared to the soft slur of the other men.
The gruff trio chucked heartily at the threat. In response, Tino heard the sharp scraping of a stool against the wooden floor as the victim stood, ashy blonde hair just barely visible through the wall of bodies and furs. The was a quick shuffling of feet followed by the slick sound of flesh hitting flesh—hard—and a grunt as the blonde fell to his knees. Tino couldn't help himself, and felt his legs lift his body off of the stool, away from the meager food that was slowly filling him up, to stand behind the three men and their pained victim.
"Hey—" Tino choked out before the three whirled to face him and cut off his sentence.
"Look, another little boy!" one chuckled, grabbing Tino roughly by the arm. His meaty fingers dug into what little muscle covered the bone. "Think it's the fag's little friend?"
Tino glanced at the blonde on the floor, who was reaching into his belt now that the attention was turned away from him, for any kind of help. The brawny man was now shaking Tino and yelling, but the words went through him, not quite heard, as he stared at the small figure on the floor. He was trying to catch a glimpse of his face, trying so desperately to communicate with him through the fear in his eyes.
Then, help came.
A sharp flash of silver suddenly shot across Tino's vision, then sank into the back of the man holding him. Gasping, Tino stumbled back, and the knife in the stranger's hand acted as if it hand a will of its own, quickly digging itself into the two other men in turn to send them choking and hollering to the floor. Tino's brown eyes couldn't drag themselves away from the scene in front of him, three burly men taken down in seconds by the petite man whose hair had fallen into his face to hide it. He was wiping the blood that clung to his blade on the sleeve of a gurgling man's coat.
On his way out of the tavern, with his thickly-woolen cape shuddering in the icy wind of the doorway, the blonde locked eyes with the bartender, but the angle still left his features shielded from Tino.
"If anyone asks," he spoke clearly, pointing the tip of his knife in Tino's direction. "He's the one who did it."
The frightened man nodded from behind the counter he'd scrubbed shiny throughout the length of the fight, eyes wide and still slightly glazed over from shock.
The blonde murderer scoffed humorlessly as he turned out of the tavern. "Don't you bastards dare call him a sansorðinn, even if he is."
Tino stared blankly at the empty doorway for a few dragged-out seconds, then caught the accusing stare of the tavern owner. And that was when he began running.
Note: "sansorðinn" is an extremely harsh Viking insult meaning that a man is gay, so harsh that if said, it was generally ignored if the accused killed the insulter.