Smoke hung on the air, swirling and almost fusing with the stench of stale brew and general filth. Looking around the drab, dim lit, and dingy room one would probably assume there was no more wretched hive of scum and villainy in all of Nesia, and that assumption was probably right. Under a low hanging light in the corner was an obviously unfriendly game of cards, the participants eyed each other carefully and intently, looking for both tells and hidden cards. The bar, half-full of thieves and cheats, was on edge about an unfamiliar face among them. The tall, muscular character gave off a feeling, an aura, that disquieted the ne'er-do-wells that were typically open about their misdeeds. He didn't give off the same scent as a lawman, it was much worse. 

He smelled of dirt, and grass, and something...odd...ash? It perplexed those nearest to the door, and the fiery, searching look in his eyes coaxed some of the weaker willed to clear their tabs and leave a bit earlier than they normally would have. They were probably smart to do so, the towering bronze figure raised his hand, and uncrumpled a piece of paper. On it, was a single name, a number, and sketch that matched one of the card sharks in the corner. The red-cloaked behemoth stalked toward the bar, slid a few pieces across the counter, "Whiskey, double," he growled. 

Daggers shot from inebriated eyes from every corner, nook, and cranny. He downed the drink in a single gulp, and sat on a stool for a few minutes more before rising and approaching the card table, "Mind cutting me in?" rumbled from below the red hood. "You got any metal?" shot back the face from the crumpled paper, with more than a hint of distrust. "You're Jorik Feld right?" returned the ever suspicious gravely tone from beneath the hood. "Yeh? What's it to you? Have you got any metal, or are ye goin to play?" Feld now obviously pissed at his game being paused. "Oh, I've got some metal," the behemoth quickly pulled the knife from the sheath on the front strap of his backpack, and skewered the criminal's hand to the table. Following a gasp of agony and a flurry of moving arms around the table, the criminal and his hunter found themselves surrounded by especially uneasy blades. "Whoa now, no need to be hasty boys, me and Mr. Feld just need to have a chat elsewhere, and this is my way of holding his hand on the way there." The dealer lunged at the stranger with a knife, and was sorely disappointed when the weak blade punctured the man's coat arm, and promptly shattered. "That's just sad," remarked the red giant, "If you're going to try and kill me with something so poorly made, why the hell would you go for my arm? And this is my absolute favorite coat, gods, just sit down you oaf." He raised the arm that, by logic, should be bleeding, but only showed a scratch and held several fragments from the broken blade. 

Flabbergasted, the room fell silent. "Now, for those of you who want to listen, my name is Drake, some of you might have heard the name before," "Who? Piss off, who do you think you are?" interrupted from across the room, "See, do you want a knife in your hand? Ask this guy, I don't think you do." "You don't, you really don't." Drake's claim was given less than enthusiastic, yet earnest support from the criminal Feld. "Thank you, genuinely. I'm going to leave with Mr. Feld now, feel free to stop me, but, I'd just like to point out, this moronic dealer, who is now unarmed, is worth a couple gold. Think about that, and have a good day." Drake carefully removed his knife from the table, and clinched onto Feld's wrist and removed his weapons from his belt, tossing them to the floor. He wrangled the lowlife out the door while the room jumped the dealer, which struck a handful of unswayed patrons as profoundly odd. Stepping out into the first tier's underbelly, the cloaked bounty hunter and his prisoner started down the dirty street, dodging patrons and peddlers alike.