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[right][code]Outside the Waystone Inn
Interactions: Ransom 
Outfit: This coat was made for fightin'[/code][/right][hr]

A smoke.

Just a smoke.

Just a GODDAMN smoke.

All he wanted was to have a quick smoke then go back to drinking with his only friend.

That's all he fucking wanted.

But Lucky- no, Bartholomew Winch is not a man who gets what he wants in life. This is something that he's known for a long time. He was used to it by now.

Swaying from side to side, Lucky took another long, slow drag of his cigarette. He was drunk, but not drunk enough that he couldn't still use The Focus. He looked Ransom up and down, trying to gauge his general fighting ability and style. He had plenty of experience handling big & bulky opponents, but these high-society types usually fought with more finesse than a drunken Gulda did. He was confident he could handle this guy, but he'd need to take this scrap a bit more seriously than the standard bar fight.

[color=a36209]"What's with this big shiny buffoon? He wants to duel me? Without a gun? What kind of lunatic duels somebody without a gun?"[/color] Lucky thought to himself as he blew smoke in Ransom's face.

Knowing there was no way out of this, he tossed his cigarette to the ground, right on top of Ransom's glove.

[color=a36209]"Look here, ya rootin'-tootin' highfalutin' fool. I can tell that yer all hat and no cattle, so I'll make this damn simple: Ya want satisfaction? Fuck off, leave me to my smokes, go home, & grip yer dick. Ya hear?"[/color]

Lucky took a single step back, extended his feline claws, and began staring intensely at Ransom. He took a long, deep breath, then another, then another. With every breath his eyes began to slowly cloud over as he lulled into a semi-trance state. From his perspective, everything around him began to blur, except for Ransom. 

His plan was simple. He knew he could dodge any first, second, and third strike the man threw at him from underneath all that heavy armor. The Focus made sure of that. He was also [i]probably[/i] sure that armor would tire this fool out quicker than The Focus would do for himself. All he had to do was wait for an opening, then claw at his face until he begs for mercy.