[The Blue Bull] Pragmatism

[Razkar]

9th of Fall, 512AV

"And mind your petching manners next time!"

The towering Akalak actually got the squirming human airborne as he literally ejected him from the front door of the tavern. The foggy darkness of night was split as the door was kicked open, shaft of light spilling out along with a tumult of laughs, shouts, curses, wood scraping on stone, shattering glass and toasts and jeers. The Myrian's nose crinkled from his shadowy position across the street. He could smell the fetid crowd from here.

Then the door of light was eclipsed, an Akalak gigantic even by his own race's standards filling it with a wriggling, twitching, spitting human held in both arms. With that final cursed warning, he flung the man outside.

A wet, heavy thunk as flesh met cobblestones. Razkar thought he heard something crack. The human did not get back up for a while, and after a few chimes, Razkar decided he would be making his bed right there for a while.

He smiled in the darkness, cloak of scalps wrapped around his muscled body, keeping the chill from his bones and dark skin. The Akalak was everything he had heard from a dozen conversations around Riverfall that day, from the Baazar and the Port to the Arena just over the road and the Academy over the river behind him. He recalled them now, words reverberating around inside his skull as he readied himself to move.

Bartender there, I think he owns it, too, big, broad bastard, doesn't take any-

-and then I saw him smash the bottle over the big one's head and use the broken end to-

-four of 'em, friend, all blooded up, and he wiped the floor with 'em, ripped out one's-

-because he keeps it all in the Bull, and trust me, anyone who causes trouble in there, the Council aren't gonna give two-

-stay away, mate, they don't like outsider, especially-

-stay out of his way-

-go somewhere else-

Razkar smiled broadly in the shadows, but it is gone from his face when his form sweeps into the flickering street light, torches on buildings sputtering and hissing in the foggy air. With long, sure strides, he approached the Blue Bull, belt of weapons hidden under his cloak, eyes shining in sweet anticipation.

Kevlar. The man's name is Kevlar.

[Razkar]

Razkar remembered stories from his kin, that when the new arrival stepped into the rough tavern, the whole room went silent as the cutthroats and drunks there sized up the new meat. As he stood on the threshold of the Blue Bull, he found an oddly-immature part of him hoping for that reaction. The Myrian took a breath, felt his sword and axe weighing on his belt, and opened it-

A wind of noise and stink like a flabby, hot fist in his face. Burning tobacco, stale ale, foamy beer, fresh wounds and sweat from a half-dozen species assailed his nostrils. Akalaks, humans, Konti, other races he had never even seen before were spread out around tables and booths, roaring and jabbering and arguing and drinking, drinking, drinking...

The noise lessened not a decibel. Few eyes are turned, and those that do turned back after a few moments with merely an "huh, a Myrian; how quaint" look in them.

Razkar deflated minutely, then shrugged under his cloak.

Well, can't expect all stories to be true, can you?

The Myrian attracted a few more stares as he walked to the bar, the torches in there low to give each table its own oasis of privacy. The booths were wreathed in shadows and he heard tongues that he swore he would never fully grasp. But his eyes flicker and dart under his cloak's good, searching out the one he was told about...

There.

That same Akalak he saw at the door, handling some human trash who was either too drunk or to raucous for even this place. Now he was tending with a practiced ease, filling flagons and steins and cracking open bottles for the dozen or so individuals lining the gleaming bar. But after every order, every exchange, his eyes took a sweep of the entire tavern, from corner to corner... and make a note of everything they see.

Like Razkar, for example.

The huge man, epic in stature, making the other Akalaks in the room look like Razkar did to them. More than two feet taller than Razkar, he's already waiting at the other side of the bar when the Myrian took a stool opposite him. His eyes were cool, not friendly, not threatening, just businesslike and neutral. Guarded.

"We serve anyone in here who don't cause trouble," the big man said with that bass rumbles that Razkar was fast finding all Akalak's seemed to share, "That includes Myrians. You're new, so you get the speech. Don't cause trouble, don't touch the girls working here, and don't bring trouble into my tavern. You understand all that?"

Razkar frowned as he followed the big man's mouth, learning that it helped if he used both his eyes and his ears to understand Common. But he was improving, day by day, and...

"Yes. I understand."

"What'll you be having?"

"Water. Please."

Kevlar cocked an eyebrow and nods, turning around to rummage through the barrels, bottles and miscellaneous receptacles lining the wall behind the bar beneath a mirror the size of a cart. Razkar waited patiently and a wooden cup was placed in front of him, perfectly clear liquid carefully poured into it.

"Any flavoring?"

"Huh?"

"Something to... give it some taste?"

Razkar just blinked in response. Kevlar held up a finger for patience, and some further rummaging came up with a jar of runny honey.

"In the water. Taste better."

Razkar pondered this for a moment, and decided that he would only live once. He would not drink ale or wine, he knew how strong drink weakened and befuddled a warrior, and that was not what he needed tonight. But he would be open to try harmless little pleasures like this...

"Thank you."

A few drops was all it took, and he sipped the water slowly. Savored the unusual, unexpected sweetness in the plain liquid, brows furrowing even more... then shooting back up, his forehead tattoo bobbing like a black ball on a raging river.

"Good. Is good. How much?"

Kevlar shrugged, as if trying to remember the last time any of the "patrons" of his tavern had ever ordered a water of all things. Finally he scratched his unshaven chin and grimaced slightly.

"Meh, we'll call it a copper. Not exactly a vintage, is it?"

"A what?"

"Never mind. One copper."

Razkar placed the coin on the table, but when Kevlar's hand went for it, his forefinger jerked it back an inch. He read the man's body in that moment of surprise: such as the fact it did indeed only last a moment. Then his body tensed, his footing shifted, and those green eyes darted up with that same cold, careful expression.

"Problem?"

"Hear things. About you. Saw you brawler. Fighter. Good at fighting, but..." Razkar made a pantomime of disgust, but ended it with a smile. "Not like... gentleman."

And then spat on the floor to illustrate exactly what he thought of both "gentlemen" and their much-vaunted martial honor.

"That very good. That way warrior should fight. I want to learn. Want you to teach me."

As he expected, that made the big blue man pause. He studied him with those blue eyes, far above his own head and face impassive. They flickered down to the weapons adorning the Myrian's belt, just once, then went back to his face.

"I pay." The other option was starting a brawl in this place to get the man into the ring, so to speak, but given what he'd heard of this place, he'd last maybe ten seconds. "I pay ten gold. Ten miza."

"You really want to learn?"

"Yes."

"And you'll take your lumps?"

"What?"

"You're OK with me beating you?"

Ah, now that Razkar did understand, and very well. The Garrison's training regime was basically to beat and abuse the new meat until they were mean and tough and muscle-memory-addled enough to fight back out of instinct. He doubted there was little worse this Akalak could do.

"Yes. Is part of learning."

Kevlar took a few more moments, and finally nodded.

"Gimme an hour, rush is nearly over. Once it is, we'll go to the basement, and I'll... instruct. The money?"

Razkar cocked his head to one side and counted out five gold miza, placing them in a neat little pile in front of the bartender.

"Half now, half after."

"Barely two weeks months in Riverfall, and already a trader."

Razkar chuckled low at the backhanded compliment and then the sound died in his throat, smile lessening.

"How did you-"

Size of a Myrian Tiger's paw, Kevlar's hand swooped lazily over the little stack of gold, and when his hand moved aside, it was gone. He grinned down at the frowning Myrian and winked.

"Word gets around, Razkar. And usually it stops here for a drink."

Before Razkar can say anything else - like ask how in the hells he knew his name - the big man saunters off to a clutch of Akalak's clamoring for booze. Clever bugger, huh? Well... fine.

At least he has the tasty water until its time to train.

[Razkar]

Kevlar leads him down the stone steps, footfalls booming off the walls as they get further down. The basement is more of a cellar, filled with stacks of food stuffs, crates and baskets, countless bottles and other sundry items any tavern would require. But there is one open area, in the middle, maybe twenty feet square...

Razkar looked down and saw scratched and a dark, dried stain on the stone.

He was in the right place.

He didn't expect mats, or training weapons, or any of the safety and rules of the Kendoka Sasaran. That would defeat the purpose, after all. In a brawl, a bar fight, a street scrap, the brutal ruthlessness of a battlefield grapple, there were no rules and you didn't fight on a straw-filled pseudo-mattress.

Razkar took off his cloak and laid it to one side. Then his weapons. Kevlar watched him with a slightly bored expression, then stepped into the torchlight makeshift training circle.

"Ready?"

Razkar nod-

-and folded as something huge and boot-shaped smacked into his crotch.

"First lesson." Kevlar said from above him, covering the distance between them in one easy stride and cocking his boot for that blow in the same step. His voice is colder now, teaching, not talking. "Choose your battle wisely. But if you can't avoid it, be fast, and make the first blow count."

Arms crossed across his barrel-chest, he bent slightly at the waist and looked down at Razkar, who by some inhuman effort had managed to get to one knee.

"Did that one count to you?"

"Y... Ye-"

The next kick is delivered right under his kneecap, a second explosion under that bone. But Razkar knew enough about blows to know these weren't even close to as hard as a being this massive could deliver. They were instructive, not destructive.

But that didn't stop him from falling onto his back, head smacking onto the stone floor as Kevlar's words oozed in from somewhere far, far away.

"Next lesson. Always kick a man while he's down. It's probably gonna be the best chance you'll get."

This is going to be a long night...

[Razkar]

Continued here

[Gossamer]

. Character: Razkar Experience: +1 Persuasion, +1 Planning, +1 Negotiation, +1 Unarmed, +1 Brawling Lore: Identifying Kelvar as a threat/rival/teacher, Akalaks can flavor water: Yum, Make The First Blow Count, Choose Your Battle Wisely, Always Kick A Man When He’s Down, How To Fight Dirty, Additional Note: First off, your cloak of scalps is disturbing. That being said interesting thread! Your common is getting notably better. I think you can safely call it ‘conversational’ now. .