Fighting!
It unsurprisingly hurt like a son of a bitch. Any pleasure that the bravo might have had from his opponent’s shout of pain was probably cut short when Gregor’s staff cruelly slammed up and into the man’s groin, though. Another vicious jerk (this time, sideways), and suddenly the bravo was on the ground, howling in his turn while clutching himself.
Gregor absolutely meant to cave the bastard’s skull in, at that point. He absolutely did — but his would-be coup de grace instead ended up solidly in the pit of the bravo’s stomach. His opponent stopped howling and started wheezing, instead; Gregor decided he didn’t care, and whirled to see if anybody else was up for a fight.
None of them were, except maybe the former victim; he was getting to his feet, and glaring at the three groaning figures on the ground. “My thanks, stranger,” he told Gregor, the strain in his voice obvious. Or maybe it was age; the guy had more white than brown in his beard. “But we need to go. No!” he said with well-controlled panic as Gregor started to stoop over one bravo. “No time to cut purses, or throats. More of their friends will be coming.”