Ikenvul grunts as his back slams against the wall. He sputters and coughs. One punch would mean nothing, while numerous have taken him out of any fighting position. Once more, after many, many times of holding his hands up in defense, he protests to the smaller folk whom corner him, holding knives and threatening to skewer him should he fight back, “Lads...can’t we talk?” Another cough escapes him, “I don’t have anything else.”
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Robbery
