OOC:Open to all vermin.
BIC: Silfur stepped into the lantern light and smoke of the Mercenary's Den, a fairly famous hub for all the, he sniffed haughtily, filth of Mossflower. He adjusted his suit front and cuffs, then stepped further inside, allowing a small group of three foxes to enter behind him.
The den was filled with scores of vermin, smoking, drinking, chatting, singing, snoring, and generally making noise and stink. One of the Den's patrons, a large weasel with brown fur and no shirt on, turned toward Silfur and grinned. He turned back to the others at his table, "It's almost too easy," He whispered, then he shoved himself up from the table and waltzed up to Silfur.
Silfur smiled amiably at the weasel, who was nearly twice his height, "Hello chap," He said in a leisurly voice, looking the weasel up and down, "What's your name?"
The weasel grinned, revealing yellow teeth, missing teeth, and foul breath, "Broooooooooock," He breathed, exhaling a blast of poisonous air into Silfur's face. Silfur scrunched up his nose and waved away the cloud of gas as several patrons laughed. The foxes behind Silfur laughed as well, but rather at what fate they knew was about to befall the weasel.
"Well, Brock," Silfur said, coughing slightly, "Might I trouble you for some information?"
Brock chuckled, "How much you willing to pay?"
Silfur grinned, "As payment, I was thinking… I let you live."
Brock roared with mirth, "Ha-ha-ha!!! You've got to be kidding me! Now, if you don't want to do this civilized like," Brock scratched his tail and belched, "I s'pose I'll have to take my claim off your corpse."
The weasel made to rush Silfur, but the dormouse whipped his cane up and pulled it to a stop, just resting beneath the weasel's chin, never moving his paws from their position at his waist, so the cane was held at an angle.
"Tut tut now mister Brock. If you don't agree to my terms just say so. Now, do you agree to the terms?"
Brock was somewhat confused, "Uhh... no?"
Silfur continued to grin, "Very well," He clicked the button on his cane's head twice in quick succession.
The weasel stiffened and froze for a moment, then he slowly toppled backward and landed with a crash on his back.
A crowd formed around the fallen weasel and all the patrons in the Den stared at the blood oozing from the thin knife wound in his throat.
All noise ceased and all activity stopped. Everyone slowly turned their eyes on the deceptively small and well mannered mouse, who had returned to his earlier stance; paws together, back straight, and deadly cane held in front.
"Now then," an involuntary flinch went through the crowd, "Whomever can tell me something useful about Redwall Abbey, I will make you the same offer our dear departed Brock..." He prodded a limp footpaw of the body, "...so ignorantly declined," He grinned at the crowd, "Well? Who's first?"