Ten measly pieces of gold for clemency.
[i]"[color=DC381F]“If only you’d offered us that deal all those years ago, beast. We’d have lined your pockets nicely.[/color]”[/i]
Brande smiled tightly, and settled into a less confrontational pose despite himself. He lowered his sword, but didn’t sheath it: at the first sign of a strike, Brande would have this orc’s left eye.
Still, he tried to give off the air of a sociable, sportive negotiator, but it was clear in his laboured expressions that his fighter’s muscle ached to be used. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were hardening like frost over glass.
Deep within, the metaphorical flame had been lit: the fire elementos felt his mouth dry as though it were filled with buds of cotton. 

He knew it would only be a matter of striking a match, and he could tear both these behemoths down: but the ensuing commotion would be devastating to his mission, and would likely kill more people than it saved. 
He breathed in – he breathed out. And he heard his father’s voice.
[i]”What good is a quick sword in a slow witted man’s hands? Think, boy, think.”[/i]
And he was right: Brande needed to think. Today wasn’t worth the fight, it would only prolong his march towards his perfect duel.

It took an instant for Brande to quell the fire in his belly, after that. He smiled a little wider, a little thinner. Not sincere, but polite, respectful.
“[color=DC381F]Ten gold pieces, huh?[/color]”
He instinctively let his subservient hand slide into his pocket, an echo of a behaviour, something he’d seen his father do whenever it came time to pay his way.
Nothing. Brande was a penniless vagrant, and the hordes that had stolen his life from him hadn’t even had the decency to leave him a coin purse. Brande was flat out, perhaps irreparably broke… but his tastes were still rich.
He took his hand from his pocket, and reached into his messenger’s bag instead.
“[color=DC381F]I’m afraid I don’t have the fare, my man,[/color]” he admitted, his voice soft, regulated, accented faintly by the inflections of his father, the familial inheritance from a land far away. One might even have thought it friendly, were it not for the tense context.
“[color=DC381F]But I can offer you a good time that’s worth more, and will kick less, if you think yourself a man of refinement.[/color]”

The gesture pained him, raking his fingers along his bag’s meagre contents until he felt the rough texture of a lovingly folded, golden-brown leaf. 
Cured for years on some foreign, sunny shore, and hand-wrapped by delicate, tanned fingers. As thick as wide bottle necks, and packed densely.
Brande withdrew two cigars, two of five. They were the closest he’d ever gotten to an inheritance, unnoticed by the marauders who ransacked his home, in the drawer of the burnt husk that was once his father’s desk. He’d smoked one each anniversary of the fire- it had seemed ironic but appropriate- but soon he would be out.
He wasn’t sure how much they were worth: only that the quality of the tobacco alone made ten gold pieces seem like pittance to a discerning smoker.
“[color=DC381F]I’ll even throw one in for your friend over there,[/color]” he offered, holding both of them up, “[color=DC381F]What do you say, amico, let bygones be bygones?[/color]”
[i]"[color=DC381F]Or give me the excuse to light a match.[/color]"[/i]