The tavern had a new patron. In walked in a hooded figure cloaked in green, with nothing to show but two iron gauntlets adorning each hand. When he sat down, the innkeeper offered him a drink, but he refused and requested only a flagon. When his needs were met, he conjured up a greenish glowing liquid and filled his flagon. He drank in slow, civilized sips, unlike many of the other drunks around him.
"'Ey, you. Wanna fight?"
It was a common drunk, but in his hand he looked like he was wielding a spiked club. May an intoxicated thug. The hooded figure did not move.
"I said, you wanna fight?"
Again, the figure did not answer. The thug drunkenly lifted up his club, but the next second later all the spikes were gone. They had seemingly reattached onto the newcomer's gauntlet. The figure plunged his spiked hand into the thug's face. The drunk reeled back in absolute terror, clutching his face in horror and pain. He stumbled back into a gathering of his cronies. Under normal circumstances a bar brawl would've broken out, but what ordinary man could make spikes attach to his hand? Maybe he was a warlock, a magic user. The hooded figure returned to his drink.