Bertolo’s grin widened as did his large halfling eyes. With a cackle, he scraped all the coin from the table, pouring it into his loose shirt front like a make shift money purse.
“Looks to be loik oim flush with coin lads, and you haven’t any, hows ‘bout we call it a nigh--”
A large meaty hand slammed down on the table, shaking the dice, spilling an ale and wiping Bertolo’s grin from his round little face. The brute of a man stood slowly across from him, his bushy red moustache vibrating as he snorted like an angered bull. Bertolo was already planning his escape. He glanced at his favourite loaded dice on the table, he knew it was unlikely he would get them back. His new doublet was hanging on the back of his chair, that would probably be lost too, for he would have to move as quick as his furry feet would take him. One of his deft little hands was already gripping a dirk hidden in his boots, the other, tightening its grip on his shirt-full of swag. He had always made a point of sitting closest to the doors, and he had already weighed up three options before the fiery brute spoke in a drunken stupor.
“Look ‘ere half-pint! You aint goin’ anywheresh.. "
Bertolo swallowed hard. The brute continued through a spray of ale and spittle.
"...not ‘til Ive won me munney backsh!”
...Bertolo’s grin returned. His hands relaxed, and he glanced back at this dice. He quickly pulled his doublet back on, took up his dice and rolled...
“your bet friend...”