"I used to be a hunter like you."
Two men sat next to each other, as complete strangers – one was obviously a veteran, the other of only the lower end of intermediate. The desert tavern was at its usual pace, serving a decent amount of customers, but just short of enough to call it crowded. Hunters of all genders, ages and ranks gathered in the Loc Lac Guild Hall's tavern, a renowned place – both for its brews and its quests. Wooden tables sat upon the cobbled floor, the walls providing a sort of shade for people – the door was non-existent, one must understand, so heat did inevitably get in, through the windows as well. The chatter of many a resting hunter filled the air, with laughs and the clink of tankards accompanying it; to a lesser degree. The veteran in question had obviously seen better days, though he still appeared more formidable than any Rathalos. His hair had been left unkempt – though washed, the coal-black follicles were still in a haphazard "style." Scars littered the man's face, gathered throughout his career, some spanning several inches, others barely millimetres. Most noticeable was his eye patch, however – a simple piece of cloth, but enough to tell the world of his incapacitation. His eyes, bleary and cobalt blue, stared at his own reflection in the brew, the only thing keeping him sane.
Having been forcefully removed from the business a while ago, he did not wear armour, but as final gesture, had fashioned clothing from what resources he had left in his storage. His top was fashioned from the hide of a Great Jaggi, with chemicals rubbed in in order to darken the purple – the result was a heat-resistant t-shirt, dark purple in colour, with sand-coloured frills of Jaggi hair around the ends of it. His trousers were heavy-duty Rhenoplos ones, hewn from the hide of such a beast – as opposed to its carapace.
"Is that so?"
"Aye," replied the older male, not even bothering to even look at the hunter in Barroth armour, instead drinking heavily, "I was. I was in the Hell Squadron, I'll have you know. Feistiest team on the block, with some fine hunters to boot. There was Big Ben, who could probably haul an Aptonoth across several areas and still have energy left for an arm wrestle. You think you've seen some strength? Hah, half of us didn't think he needed that hammer.
Then there was Sure Shot Shirley, a dab hand with a bowgun. I've seen her snipe monsters we didn't even know were there – hell, sometimes, not even she knew they were there, and she just shot on instinct. Then there was Iron-Clad Iris…"
He seemed to pause for thought on Iris, seemingly recalling fond memories of her – what sort of thoughts they were could not be discerned, but he seemed wistful, regardless. "For a girl her age, to be able to hold a lance and shield like that was incredible. You know Barroths? One charged straight into her defence. It ended up with a cracked forehead. She was brilliant, she was…"
"And you?"
"Me? I was never really anyone. Quick-Slash Quentin was my title. And a damn fitting one as well. I could use a short sword and shield with such deadly speed and precision, the monster would have died before it hit the ground."
"So what happened?
"Pyorness happened."
