The Hunter's Guild of Aiedo, Motavia's association of adventurers, mercenaries, and monster-slayers, was made up of a wide variety of people. Some were fighters, skilled in the use of sword or bow-gun. Some were wise in the ways of the wilderness, survivalists and trackers who knew the ways of wind and wave, animal and plant as well as they knew their own name. Some might as well have been scholars, employing all manner of lost and forgotten knowledge to lead them to their quarry. Some were tech-users, masters of the mystic techniques that had centuries ago been codified out of the "magic" used by the legendary Espers.

Some, like the famous Alys Brangwin, were a touch of all of those. Alys hadn't become Motavia's most celebrated hunter by having weaknesses in her skillset. Her mentor Galf had always taught her that a hunter's success began with their mind. Intelligence, willpower, and common sense were the foundation for everything a hunter did.

Joss Howland, she sighed to herself, had obviously never had a mentor like Galf. Joss was large, strong, generally able at combat so long as it didn't require too much in the way of tactical planning, and roughly as intelligent as his sword.

Maybe. If the sword hadn't had its morning coffee.

"Yo, Alys, babe!"

She had to give him credit for one aspect of a strong mind, though. His willpower and perseverance were top-class. He had, after all, been convinced that Alys was the woman for him for over three years, now, and neither public embarrassment nor personal injury could shake his dedication.

"How many times have we heard that bellow, now?" Alys asked Garn, the owner of the Hunter's Guild bar, as he set down Alys's new drink next to her empty glass.

"I've lost count."

"Me, too," she sighed.

"Try to keep the property damage down to a minimum, if you can."

Alys's eyebrows rose.

"Did he stiff you last time?"

"No, he always pays up, but it takes time to get new furniture and I can't fill tables that I don't have."

"Well, I'll do my best, but if he sets himself on fire again I can't be responsible."

Without waiting to be acknowledged, Joss sauntered over to Alys's table. Garn, wisely not wanting to be caught in any crossfire, made a quick exit.

"Hey, Garn, you forgot to—" Alys called, and then gave up as it was clear the bartender wasn't coming back. "Hello, Joss," she said with another sigh.

"Hey, Alys, you are looking fine tonight."

"And you're looking smug. Did a job go well?"

"Nah; I've been working out. Been practicing my grip strength!" He flexed his right hand in case some illustration of his meaning was necessary. In fairness, Alys supposed that if she has been talking to him, she would have assumed that he needed a visual aid. "You won't be knocking my sword loose three times running like the last time we sparred!"

Alys could have pointed out that a good disarming maneuver relied on applying the correct amount of leverage and force to the correct place and had little to do with the sheer muscle power of the target's hand, but that would have required that she cared about helping him. Still, he was a fellow hunter, and she supposed that she ought to make the effort for the sake of Guild solidarity.

"Joss, I don't think—"

"Don't believe me, huh? Well, let me prove it! Hey, looks like you've got one of those metal jars from a Motavian mekhra-brew. That'll be perfect!"

He reached down and grabbed the cylinder off the table and squeezed, instantly crushing the thin metal with the fairly impressive strength of his fingers.

What he had failed to take into account was that Garn had made his exit so quickly that he'd neglected to take away the empty glass from Alys's first drink. Therefore, the jar he'd picked up was not the discarded empty that he believed it was, but a full one open and ready to drink, and his brain didn't notice the greater weight in time to stop his hand. The jar already being open, its contents took the path of least resistance, jetting out to spray Joss in the face with about six fluid ounces or so of Alys's drink.

Motavian mekhra-brew, like most of the food enjoyed by the planet's blue-furred native race, had the spiciness one might expect from a people who had beaks instead of fleshy lips. Getting that squarely in his Parmanian eyes, Joss howled in pain, staggered back, slipped on some of the spilled brew, and went crashing to the floor, where the crack of his skull against the hardwood heralded yet another concussion.

Garn strolled back to the table.

"At least he missed the furniture this time," Alys said.

"Small favors. Oh, and here's another mekhra-brew for you." He set a fresh jar down on the table. "You won't owe me any extra since, after all, your last one is on him."

Alys momentarily envied Joss, given that unconscious people can't hear jokes.

~X X X~

A/N: After all these chapters of a story set at a bar, somebody had to crush a beer can, even if I had to invent them for the setting.