Like magic Methnik’s sword passed through that of his foes….All too late, the blade was at his neck, it burnt, stinging like acid, it slivered through skin and muscle. Methnik crumpled to his knees, then to the floor, his eyes greyed over and he heard faint words, maybe those of his foe? "Your last lesson in this life. Your teacher? A Serivemn"
‘To the victor goes the spoils’ it is said but what if those spoils are not what they seem. What if those items of victory, are deadly.
Small village tavern specialty of the house is fresh cow blood mixed with milk. For each order they go out back and actually draw blood from a cow by puncturing a vein in it's neck. Fresh blood brought to the table where they poor milk into the glass of blood in front of the customer so they know how much blood they are getting.