This is about as far as I got with any sort of character concept.
I'm just not feeling it:
His hands rested on the counter, the one hand silent, stale, unmoving as it sat there, the other gripping a tankard of ale, white knuckled, anxious. The tankard was empty. “How did that happen?” He couldn’t remember how it had gotten that way, but before he knew it was filled again, and drained a second later. The ale flowed like the tides, back and forth.
Time passed, slowly, steadily. A rhythm pulsed in the air that matched his heartbeat. Stannis didn’t look up when the bartender walked over to fill his cup. They had that kind of arrangement, speak only when necessary. A few tried to strike up some conversation. Stannis hardly even paid them mind.
Stannis was only looking to dance. He whiled away the hours in his drink, hands in their positions. Three Hare’s Grace was a good kind of tavern. There was always looking for work, his kind of work, the ale flowed nicely, and once in a while there would be somebody looking to dance.
A man walks in, unnoticed at first, innocuous. Eventually his voice gets louder, reverberating off the rafters in the high ceiling. Eventually his voice finds Stannis’s ears. His eyes glance downward towards his empty tankard, and back up again to stare at the wall.
The man is mouthing off, saying he’s the best fighter in town, best fighter in the city. It’s a large city, Absalom, but the man likes to boast. It takes awhile, but Stannis finally knows his partner. “And I thought today would be boring,” he says, aloud, turning in his seat.
The man turns, smiles, brandishes his longsword. “Think you can take me, friend. Please, by all means,” he smashes the table away with a swipe of a tattooed arm.
Stannis stares at him, his face as stone. “I suppose I’ll dance with you, ‘friend,’” he says, pushing himself off the barstool, falling the foot of distance to the floor with a loud thump. The Bartender walks over, says to Stannis, “Brute, try to be careful this time. Don’t destroy all of my tables,” before jumping over the bar, yelling to the already gathering crowd, “place your bets people!”
The man, mercenary by the looks of him, tall, rugged handsomeness, jet black hair, tattooed arms, shining plate armor, fancy, he says to Stannis, “So that’s your name, dwarf, “Brute?” Well, looks like you live up to the title. Think you can take me? Draw your weapon, I promise to leave you at least a few limbs!”
Stannis crouches low, empty fists extended. “The only weapons I need,” he thinks to himself before saying, “I hope you know the steps; it’s terrible to dance with a neophyte.”
Stannis, “The Brute,” launches himself at the man, his eyes gleaming, wild, hurtling through the air, before slamming his fist into the mercenary’s stomach.
… And that’s all she wrote. Just not feelin’ it.
