Harrowheart smiles like a knowing sage and shakes his head lightly at Isidor's curiosity. "Gotta get a warmup in, ain't that right?" He nods in Runa's direction then and waves for Isidor to follow as he picks up the pace to catch up with their younger companions.
At the strongman stand Harrowheart waits for some generous patron to pay his way before his hubris gets the better of him and he ushers all of his friends off to the side. He'll be stepping up first, thank y'all very much. He picks his mallet – the largest one available, of course – and squares up to the target.
But after a little butt-wiggling he can't quite find his center. He sets the mallet down and reaches behind his neck to tug off his tanktop, leaving him a shirtless, Godless heathen bare-chested for the whole of England (and a Swede) to see. He tosses his shirt at Viatorus and doesn't wait to see if he catches it before he gets to making an embarrassing show of stretching. Arms up, arms out, look at Isidor, bend at the waist, limber up, flex the biceps, look at Isidor...
Finally he picks up the mallet again. He stands there before the target with his scar-hatched back to his friends and he starts to widen his stance. Shoulder width... No, wider. Wider than that. Way wider. He raises the mallet above his head, juts his rump out like a fool, and brings the hammer down with great speed... Only to stop it a few inches before the target and ever-so-gently tap it. The gauge moves a few inches at most, just enough to qualify Harrowheart Wolfgang for the smallest of consolation prizes: A cheap plastic goldfish with buggy little eyes that aren't quite painted right. He beams like a proud father at his dearest little fish before he carefully stows it in one of the many pockets of his shorts.
He trades his heavy mallet then for a medium one, and without a moment's hesitation lifts it above his head with both strong arms and slams the ever-loving unholy fuck out of the target. The gauge rises as it should have in the first place and hits the bell at the top, which gives a satisfying ding. Harrowheart puts on a serious expression and golfclaps for himself as the ringing of the bell dissipates, and then he chooses his prize: A completely round plush dragon with stubbly little arms and legs and a short, floppy tail jutting from its fat little body. A wisp of cloth hangs out of its snout like a tongue, giving it a lovably dopey look.
He takes his place by his friends and without looking Isidor's way he shyly mutters, "I won this for ya..."
That's when he reaches into his pocket and hands her the fish.
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At the strongman stand Harrowheart waits for some generous patron to pay his way before his hubris gets the better of him and he ushers all of his friends off to the side. He'll be stepping up first, thank y'all very much. He picks his mallet – the largest one available, of course – and squares up to the target.
But after a little butt-wiggling he can't quite find his center. He sets the mallet down and reaches behind his neck to tug off his tanktop, leaving him a shirtless, Godless heathen bare-chested for the whole of England (and a Swede) to see. He tosses his shirt at Viatorus and doesn't wait to see if he catches it before he gets to making an embarrassing show of stretching. Arms up, arms out, look at Isidor, bend at the waist, limber up, flex the biceps, look at Isidor...
Finally he picks up the mallet again. He stands there before the target with his scar-hatched back to his friends and he starts to widen his stance. Shoulder width... No, wider. Wider than that. Way wider. He raises the mallet above his head, juts his rump out like a fool, and brings the hammer down with great speed... Only to stop it a few inches before the target and ever-so-gently tap it. The gauge moves a few inches at most, just enough to qualify
HarrowheartWolfgang for the smallest of consolation prizes: A cheap plastic goldfish with buggy little eyes that aren't quite painted right. He beams like a proud father at his dearest little fish before he carefully stows it in one of the many pockets of his shorts.He trades his heavy mallet then for a medium one, and without a moment's hesitation lifts it above his head with both strong arms and slams the ever-loving unholy fuck out of the target. The gauge rises as it should have in the first place and hits the bell at the top, which gives a satisfying ding. Harrowheart puts on a serious expression and golfclaps for himself as the ringing of the bell dissipates, and then he chooses his prize: A completely round plush dragon with stubbly little arms and legs and a short, floppy tail jutting from its fat little body. A wisp of cloth hangs out of its snout like a tongue, giving it a lovably dopey look.
He takes his place by his friends and without looking Isidor's way he shyly mutters, "I won this for ya..."
That's when he reaches into his pocket and hands her the fish.