Corlan stared blandly over his cards at the dwarf across from him. After six hours at the table, even Corlan's characteristic swagger was starting to falter. The stumpy creep had won the last six hands, blowing obnoxious cigar smoke the whole time, and Corlan's purse was insufficient to cover his latest raise.
But there was something Corlan knew that the dwarf didn't.
Leaning back, Corlan drew his short sword, then laid it carefully on the table, the blade pointing directly at the dwarf's cigar.
"This ought to cover the difference," he said, then added, "By the way, Bruggan of the Kron Hills, you killed Pol O'Davery in Veluna last year. I tracked you all the way to Hardby before you made it on the riverboat there. It's almost fitting that I finally caught up with you here in Greyhawk, where I was born."
The dwarf wasted no time protesting; he reached for the short sword instead. But Corlan was already on his feet, longsword drawn. "Game's over, fellas," he said to the other players. "I have a feeling I'm going to clean up on this hand."
