the smuggler’s bible


Pellinore misses his shot at the questing beast, and he’s sore about it. Awful sore. To blow off some steam, he puts his chair in an inconvenient spot and waits patiently for trouble to stir itself up. He is not disappointed.

“Hey, asshole. You’re blocking the road. You better move if you know what’s good for you.”

“Buddy, I’ll move when somebody makes me.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll make you.”

Later, Pellinore is sitting on the guy’s chest, grinning through a busted lip and hitting him with both hands. Goddamn—he thinks—it’d take a wizard to save this fella now.