At the same time, elsewhere in the Broken Arm, a moderately rowdy company was already quite deep into its cups. They were all around thirty; the youngest somewhere in his twenties. Their clothes were undistinguished - somewhat worn, by no means new, but hardly rags either - but something about their bearing and their speech betrayed their erstwhile occupation: former soldiers, left behind when Amestris shrunk back, or deserters who didn't wait to be abandoned or dismissed.

By now, as said, most of them were quite drunk and out of sorts. The reminiscing and the stories had wore out their novelty for them already. But two among them, despite drinking no less than the rest, seemed to remain more or less sober to all outwards appearances: they did not shake or sway, nor did their words become slurred.

The first was a hard-faced woman with plainly worn, shoulder-length black hair, the only female in the company. Her face was seemingly never without a frown. "...No. None of us saw him leave. There are options for someone like that... but I think the trail goes cold here. Either he's dead or he moved on."

"Dead? Do you know who might have killed him?" A thin man with straw-like hair replied, his plain and common face the image of concentration despite the bottle of whiskey that he must have gone through already.

For once a smirk emerges to complement the woman's frown. "This isn't a nice kind of town. At least, it isn't now. Though he may have just died of his wounds."

"Yeah. Maybe..." Clearly he wasn't satisfied with the answer. Before he could respond, however, an altercation at the other side of the ramshackle tavern caught his attention. Two men took turns beating up on a hapless patron.

"That?" the woman asked, her smirk hiding swiftly. "That's regular in here."

"Is it?" the man replied with a question of his own, his tone more harsh now, as he stood up. "Even this part?" he inquired as the unfortunate drunk suddenly caught fire.

The woman did not answer at first. Her eyes widened for a moment, before she composed herself and assessed the situation. "Luke..."

But the straw-haired ex-soldier was already heading towards the table, a slight limp failing to break up his steady stride. Spotting a bucket of water used for washing the floor (they washed the floor here?) along the way, he picked it up and emptied it on the man, then turned to his assailants. "Are we having a problem here?" he inquired rather sternly, examining the whole company with a careful, appraising gaze.