Recart took another sip of beer and dried gently his long moustache.
“Magic beasts, werewolves, undead, orcs or demons…No one is a problem for me”.

He adjusted himself on the chair and pushed the beer to the side of the table, then approached the stocky man in front of him, the village chief, who, in his whole life, had only had to deal with small fights, until then…

Recart saw a flash of fear in his small eyes, the plump man instinctively put his hand on the stick at his side. 
The reputation of the hunters always preceded him, the brutality of the work had become a story full of blood and fear. He could exploit it, and a lot…

Recart had one last look at the village chief. “For the right price”.