The dagger had superb balance and Beegle had spent many hours practicing throwing it. His aim was precise and deadly, and he could clip the wings off of a fly at twenty paces. This was not an idle bit of braggadocio. (( ah... Braggadocio... what a beautiful word! I love it! Sorry to have to say this, dear heart, but as lovely a word as it is, it doesn't really FIT here... in your story, it kind of sticks out like an equisite and rare jewel in a dock-side whore house. *sigh* You may need more a word like "bravado", more mundane, alas... but that fits better into the fabric of your story...))
Nobody would admit to the deed, but Gregg looked suspiciously sheepish, and Bags walked over to him and through ((threw??)) an arm, companion-like, around Gregg's massive shoulders.
This caused all the men to laugh and cheer their leader, and they all started chanting "Bags! Bags!" over an over.
The chanting brought the townsfolk, who had been kept prisoner inside the walls of their own kingdom, creeping and slinking out from their houses and hovels to see what all the noise was about. Seeing that all of Beegle's men were dead or very wounded, a cheer went up, hailing the heroes. The chant of "Bags! Bags!" grew even louder.
((( i think you wrote this whole story just so you could make the whole town chant "Bags! Bags!" on a bet or something! I mean, really! Whoever HEARD of such a thing! *LOL*!! And you, being you, had to make them do it LOUDER, just because once wouldn't satisfy... *LOL* Imagine it! Come on, own up! Y'all had too many at the pub one night, years ago, and this was the true goal of the entire series..... *laughing and laughing* )))
"No Swinehart's?" Bags was silent. "Well, that's the first thing that has to change. I need a beer, now." Remember (( remembering? )) what he was talking about, his face took on a glower again. "The point is that Pockets, for all of his oddity, made your lives better. He created that refrigy thing that kept beer and ale cold at Swinehart's. Any farmers here?"
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(( ah... Braggadocio... what a beautiful word! I love it! Sorry to have to say this, dear heart, but as lovely a word as it is, it doesn't really FIT here... in your story, it kind of sticks out like an equisite and rare jewel in a dock-side whore house. *sigh* You may need more a word like "bravado", more mundane, alas... but that fits better into the fabric of your story...))
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Nobody would admit to the deed, but Gregg looked suspiciously sheepish, and Bags walked over to him and through ((threw??)) an arm, companion-like, around Gregg's massive shoulders.
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This caused all the men to laugh and cheer their leader, and they all started chanting "Bags! Bags!" over an over.
The chanting brought the townsfolk, who had been kept prisoner inside the walls of their own kingdom, creeping and slinking out from their houses and hovels to see what all the noise was about. Seeing that all of Beegle's men were dead or very wounded, a cheer went up, hailing the heroes. The chant of "Bags! Bags!" grew even louder.
((( i think you wrote this whole story just so you could make the whole town chant "Bags! Bags!" on a bet or something! I mean, really! Whoever HEARD of such a thing! *LOL*!! And you, being you, had to make them do it LOUDER, just because once wouldn't satisfy... *LOL* Imagine it! Come on, own up! Y'all had too many at the pub one night, years ago, and this was the true goal of the entire series..... *laughing and laughing* )))
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Damien's dead??? Dang, he sure takes that with a grain.... *whew*
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"No Swinehart's?" Bags was silent. "Well, that's the first thing that has to change. I need a beer, now." Remember (( remembering? )) what he was talking about, his face took on a glower again. "The point is that Pockets, for all of his oddity, made your lives better. He created that refrigy thing that kept beer and ale cold at Swinehart's. Any farmers here?"
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(to be continued....)