Prompt: A flash about a broken bone.
Time: 1000h to 1020h
"I still can't believe you thought you could just walk on in." Curzo slid the bottle across the tabletop to Tor.
"There's a reason it took me four years to show up." Tor picked up the bottle. "I figured that either you'd be over it--"
"And if not?"
"Four years is plenty of time to heal and learn to work around any permanent crippling I might have left you. Give us a fight on an even footing."
"You caught me off guard, you Northern wimp."
"Of course I did." Tor took a swig from the bottle, letting the sharp tang of the lemon wedged in the neck sparkle against the mellow background of the lager. "Your fault. There were four of you and one of me. Did you really think I was going to stand still for it?"
"Guild gave the orders. You weren't even using your Blade any more." Curzo rolled his eyes and popped the cap off his bottle. Drank it straight; no chill, no lemon, just room-temperature dark ale. "I thought you were done with the whole thing."
"Be glad. If I'd been using my Blade instead of my walking stick you'd be doing all this," Tor waved, "one-handed."
"I can't believe I got my arm broken by you."
"Give it a rest, Curzo, it was only your radius and your wrist. Guild's got good fleshweavers. Ask what happened to the three thugs the Guild sent that I didn't know personally."
Curzo grunted.
"Civilian."
"You're running a fucking bar, big guy. You're hardly in a position to talk about manliness."
"Bar's just money. Pays for... everything else."
Tor paused mid-sip.
"You're the landlord, huh."
"Always been fast, Northener. Yes."
"Including the salle at the back."
"Including that. You should come by sometime. Finish the match we started."
Tor waggled the bottle.
"Not happening."
"You've gone soft."
Tor tapped his walking stick.
"If it came down to you against me again, Curzo, there are only two options: Either I let you win, or I make you dead. Be informed in advance that I do not like losing."
Curzo snorted.
"Always one with a pretty phrase. So what exactly did you want, Redgrave?"
"Not much. Just a quick chat with the Guild senior council. Nice and unofficial."
"That's absurd. Nobody gets to just waltz in--"
"-without an application from a member in good standing. Which is why you, Curzo, are going to supply me with that application."
"How about... no."
"Then the cops come by with an official warrant and a letter stating that we approached you unofficially. And you declined to help."
"... this is blackmail."
Tor finished his beer; set it down on the table with a clunk that made Curzo wince.
"Yes." He smiled. "Yes, it is."
Next prompt: old friends, best enemies
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