The Pub Challenge

Mary sat at a corner table in the dimly lit tavern, her shillelagh leaning casually against the wall beside her. Its knobby, polished surface gleamed faintly in the firelight, and the iron cap at the top had a few small nicks—a telltale sign of use. To the other patrons, it looked like nothing more than a traveler's walking stick, albeit a sturdy one. The rowdy crowd barely noticed her as she sipped her drink, keeping a low profile. But that changed when a burly, red-faced man slammed his mug down on the table across from Mary. "Oi, lass," the man barked, slurring slightly. "What's a young kit like you doin' with an old man's stick? Think you're some kind o' fighter, eh?" Mary raised an eyebrow, looking up from her drink and directing her gaze ahead. "It's just a walking stick," she said with a shrug. "Good for long roads and… other things." The man laughed, loud and brash, failing to attract her eye his way but drawing the attention of the nearby patrons. "A walking stick and... other things? No wonder you kept it nice an' polished." Most male patrons joined in on the laugh as the obvious drunkard guffawed at his presumed and crude observation. "Why not I show you my 'walking stick' for you to polish, eh?" Mary smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Mine's bigger," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh-ho-ho, I don't know about that." He leans in and looms over both the lass not looking up at him and the counter she sits at, making his presence difficult to ignore. "Looks like it couldn't knock over a lamb, let alone a man. Why don't we see what that stick of yours can really do, eh?" A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd as the man gestured toward the open space by the hearth. Mary sighed, leaning back in her chair as she glided her fingertips across the bar top and towards the shillelagh. She hated drawing attention, but sometimes a girl had to play along to keep from getting dragged into something worse. "Alright," Mary said, standing up and grabbing the shillelagh. "But don't blame me if you regret it." When Mary raised up off her seat, the burly man faltered, his grin wavering as his gaze met hers. Her eyes, clouded and milky-white, didn’t seem to focus on anything yet held an intensity that sent a shiver crawling down his spine. For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, unnerved, before forcing out a laugh to mask his discomfort. "What’s the matter? Can’t see how this ends, eh, lass?" The man laughed again and squared off, open palms raised. Mary stepped into the open space, taking into account this overgrown ruffian fails to see her worth. The bar patrons also account for his normally closed fist not being in the fight even when she is casually holding the shillelagh in one hand. The crowd jeered and shouted encouragement to the burly challenger, but Mary stayed calm. When the man lunged forward with an audible whoop, Mary moved with surprising speed. She swung the shillelagh in a tight arc, its knobby head connecting with the man's outstretched arm with a sharp crack. The iron cap on the shillelagh gave the strike an extra weight, the man yelped, stumbling back. "Fucking kit's got claws," he laughed again at her. "When I take that stick from you, I am going to shove it so far up you—uwaah! OOF!" With her 'walking stick,' she tripped him up, a downward stab at the floor between his legs and a crank up at his family jewels. The crowd gasped, but Mary wasn't done. "Wanna play with my 'stick' too, do you?!" After his huffed shout, he grabbed her by the collar and lifted her up from the floor. With a quick motion, she shifted the shillelagh against the man at pointblank, muttering an incantation under her breath during his crudely petty threat. A faint blue light shimmered along the wood before a burst of magical force slammed into the man's chest, sending him sprawling into a pile of overturned chairs. Silence fell over the tavern as Mary lowered the shillelagh down to sup