PM to join Underground [Clyde and Midna]

[Razkar]

57th Day of Fall
East Street
23rd Bell

You couldn't keep secrets in a city. People always talked, and even if they didn't, there was always others who listened. Drinks in the pub, gossip at work, visits to friends, furtive conversations in shadows or perhaps just in your living room in front of the fire, the hundred invisible people you saw every day who served drinks or delivered packages or shines shoes... word got around.

Razkar knew this, unaccustomed as he was to life in the big city. He also knew that the biggest problem was tapping into the grapevine. Outsiders were just that, and even the meanest hanger-on would know more than the richest stranger (at least until his purse had started negotiating).

Fortunately for him, while he didn't know, he did know a man who would know a man who... well, you get the general idea.

East Street was a roiling mess near the witching hour. Unlike the wide, carefully-maintained avenues of West Street, its polar opposite seemed to be entirely constructed out of alleys, lined with houses and stores wedged tight next to each other or looming over roads covered in shadows where even the street lamps had been torn down.

The inhabitants here didn't like lights. Too much of their livelihoods depended on safe, blind darkness.

It was the Myrian's third tavern and his patience was beginning to fray, if not his resolve. Subtle questions to bartenders were yielding little real information, aside from scratched chins and vague suggestions as to where his friend could be found. Unfortunately, each barkeep seemed as ignorant as each other, so Razkar had just decided to work his way down East Street until he found whom he was looking for. Easy, right?

He never knew there could be so many dives in one street...

"What can I getcha?"

"Pint of stout." Razkar said shortly, siding onto a barstool that seemed halfway clean and pointedly avoiding the suspicious glances thrown his way. A shroud of gloom covered the interior of the tavern and the locals didn't like new faces. Especially when you had Razkar's face. "And a little help, if you can..."

Reg cocked an eyebrow as he pushed over a frothing wooden mug. "Wadaya need help with?"

"Looking for a friend of mine. Human named Sebastien, answers to Seb, more often. Sellsword, on the wide side, older than me. Usually with a younger man, named-"

"-Manny."

That came from a voice a little further down the bar, the owner of it suddenly subjected to more than a few withering stares. Volunteering advice? To an outsider? Without even getting paid?! Bloody criminal, it was, but Old Andy was drunk enough to be impervious to such concerns.

Reg's eyes flickered over to the drunk and he shrugged. "He might know, but he's had-"

"Too much to drink, oh, put a bloody sock in it, will ya?" Old Andy tipped back the rest of his brew and nearly fell off his chair. "If it wasn't for me here every night you wouldn't be able to pay the rent."

Reg was clearly in no mood to delve into the same old sparring session and simply ambled off, flicking a warning glance at Razkar before he did. The Myrian noted it and turned to his new "friend".

Old Andy, he soon found out, had been such for, oh, probably since he was twenty. A fixture of the dives and parlors of East Street, he made his way through petty theft, begging and occasional lucky streaks with dice and cards that he inevitably wasted. Hard living for decades had wizened him beyond his forty years and Razkar had to remind himself the pickled sot was only just over ten years older than him.

"How'd you meet him?"

"Ah, you know sellswords, laddie," Andy said, plied with as much booze as Raz could supply, always a useful truth serum, "Long seasons on the Kabrin, bored out their minds, all pent up! So wada they do when they get to civilization? Drink, fuck and squander!"

Another glass was emptied in a salute. Most went into his mouth.

"And gods bless 'em for it. Essential comm... cum... comm-une-ee-tee spirit, eh?"

Razkar waved for a fresh round and took a sip from his own, barely-touched pint. "One way to see it, yes. You know where he is?"

"Usually at the Mansion but, heh, that bunch aren't welcome there anymore," rheumy eyes suddenly tried to focus on Razkar as if he were a long way away, ill-used brain cells jostling for attention, "Said that some Myrian and... and Svefra, yeah, they caused some trouble-"

"Yes, I heard that," Razkar said mildly, as if that was the case... and, to a degree, it was. He'd heard it because he'd been in the middle of the brawl Edreina had started (very ably, as it turned out). "So, where is he now?"

"You don't know?"

"Why would I ask if I did?"

"Why d'you wanna know?"

"We worked together. Caravan guards. We got here, everyone goes his own way... thought I'd try and find him. And Manny."

He left out what his real purpose for Seb was. The wily old sellsword had been riding up and down the Kabrin for years, and Razkar sincerely doubted there was not a shady business in Syliras, Kenash, Zeltiva or Sunberth he didn't have at least a passing knowledge of. And that's what Razkar needed: a way into the underground.

It was here, he knew it. If Syliras, the civilized capital of Mizahar, had one, then the City of Books certainly did. He just had to knock on the right door, and then...

Razkar's eyes glittered for a moment, black stones in a dusky face that went well with the teeth filed to points that gleamed like the steel and iron stewn about his body.

Then you can do what you do best.

"Weeeeeell..." Andy said, rubbing his nearly-extinct chin, and Goddess, Razkar could hear his rough stubble scratching like sandpaper. "I have heard that him an' his boy have been shacking up 'round Madam Mary's. That's the, er... laundry..."

The sudden guilty-but-nostalgic tone was all Razkar needed to hear. If Madam Mary's (notice the "Madam") was all about soap suds and clean shirts, he was a petching Eypharian.

"And where is this... laundry? Need a fresh glass, my friend?"

"Oh, I'm sure it couldn't hurt..."

----------

"For the love of Blessed Myri, man, can you at least put a towel on?!"

"Well, excuse me for not expecting the bloody commander stopping by!"

Razkar looked swiftly away as some sort of cover was roughly thrown around Sebastian's bulging waistline. He wished he could burn out the memory of the flopping, disappointed thing he'd seen dangling there but-

Gods, stop fucking revisiting it!

Mona quit her act and rolled onto her back with the air of an actress who didn't get to really throw herself into the role but hey, repeat performances were her speciality. Her hand slid to a pack of cheap cigars and she gave the Myrian a once-over before lighting one.

Could be the next. I've heard they're... a little excitable.

"Right!" Seb barked, with as much indignation as a forty-nine-year-old can when he's clothed in nothing but a damp pink towel. "First things first!"

"What am I doing here?"

"Well, go ahead!"

"I need your memory. You know things that happen in Zeltiva. You have been here many times. You know... places that are not... all the way in the light..."

Seb didn't survive twenty-five years as a sword-for-hire by being slow on the uptake (being fast on his feet helped, tool; when in doubt, never doubt you can flee). He settled back on the frilly mattress and glanced at the door when Little Roger, all three hundred pounds of him, loomed into the open doorway.

"Problem?"

The questioning tone was a formality; one look at the savage told the minder that, yes, there was, and it was Razkar-shaped. The man himself just rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall.

"Nah, Rog, just a mate of mine."

"I heard Mona scream."

"You hear that every day."

"That time it was real."

Seb glared a hole through that square, solid face until Roger shuffled away, content to let this play out. No violence, no blood, no problems, as far as he and Mary were concerned. Razkar waited until the heavy footsteps were away before turning back to his comrade in hired-arms.

"Remember the Spinning Coin?"

"Yeah, it leaves a bloody impression, don't it?"

"I want to find place like that. Place with fights, for money."

"Blown yours already, eh?"

Razkar paused. Not even close. He had well over a thousand mizas to his name, enough to go anywhere in the world if he wanted, but pieces of shiny metal weren't his concern. For days he and Edri had been stewing, waiting, trying to fill the hours until their ship sailed and by Ruros' dead cock, he was tired of it.

He needed The Buzz. The Roar. The Rush.

Try explaining that to a human, though. No, best to keep it simple and understandable...

"Not... all..." he said sheepishly, playing it up as best he could, "But I could stand to make a little more..."

Now it was Sebastian's turn to pause, wheels turning slowly but thoroughly. Manny was two rooms down, enjoying the tender ministrations of Suzi, and he'd booked the night with Mona... but he smelled some chance for profit, here. He certainly didn't have a thousand mizas in his purse, though when the Valini Expedition moved back out towards Syliras, he'd have a nice chunk...

But in the meantime, no reason I can't scrape together a little more. Besides, it won't be [i]me getting a good going over...[/i]

"Raz, my friend," he said with that easy, honest grin of the born hustler, "I think I can help ya..."

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde was lost. He had not been in Zeltiva for many years, and for this visit it was only his second day. He did not have much with him, his ever present staff in his right hand, a hammer tucked into his belt and hidden underneath his robes. They however were not as mundane as the plain grey cloth appeared, as would be obvious to anyone with magical sight. The rest of his clothes looked just as plain and simple, and in actuality were just simple mundane clothing. His back had his pack, with a few of his well used Glyphing supplies, and little else. He had emptied out most of its contents, along with his excess supplies, in his room. It was in this state, that Clyde found himself so lost, here in East Street late at night. After being propositioned by the third whore, Clyde realized he was in the wrong side of town. For the scholarly and wealthy certainly would not allow such people out in the streets. No, they would push them off to their own part. Clyde knew of that, knew most any city had such places, except perhaps Syliras. Ravok went in the opposite direction, in that such places were celebrated and quite nice and clean. But not here, here such places were secreted away out of sight. His apparent age probably did not help, barely in his twenties, people would likely assume he was foolish or youthful. Not knowing the wisdom behind those eyes, the experiences he had gone through that had aged his mind beyond his years, if not his body. However while he was lost, to a improbable degree, the last thing he wanted to do was to ask for directions. Not in this part of town. He knew how bad of an idea that would be, and the last thing he needed was to get into a fight and be forced to kill someone, and chance calling in the guard, or whatever served such a purpose in this part of town... If they even came here... Finally, Clyde heard some shouted voices, and saw a few of them walk into a building which appeared open, despite the late bell. Letting out a sigh, Clyde headed inside, unsure of what he would find. But it seemed a better idea than hanging around out in the streets.

[Razkar]

"Just let me do the talking..."

Razkar decided to follow that advice for the moment but grunting his response, keeping his eyes fixed on the looming building that seemed to skulk, squat and fester in the middle of East Street. It seemed to be composed entirely of flitting shadows, dark spaces and corner that were just... wrong. What had once been a simple tenement block had been rebuilt, refashioned and re-purposed countless times in half a millenium, not home to a bakery, two taverns, a warehouse, a poultry store, seamstresses and...

Yes. "And".

"Freddy! How've you been, mate?"

A thin man that immediately made Razkar think "rat" whipped his head around sharply to see one familiar face and one grisly stranger. Beady, piercing eyes found Seb's face and thin lips twisted into a surprised smile.

"Sebastian... here to pay your tab?"

"How about we wipe it clean, when my friend here wipes the floor with your best man?"

Freddy turned his full attention to the hooded figure, and it allowed Razkar to do the same. Colorful, garish clothes, trying desperately to be refined and unique but just appearing... well, desperate. Face half-hidden by the hood of his Cloak of Fallen, Razkar couldn't hide the grimace that curled his lip as he noticed the top hat that added another foot to Freddy March.

It looked like it had been stomped by an Akalak. Pretension was one thing; but when it fails so utterly...

"Interesting sorta' friend your keeping nowadays."

The human muttered, spitting a long, thick stream of tobacco juice to his side but not taking his eyes off Razkar. Even his voice was annoying: he tried to hard to deepen it, masking that telltale pitch of one who'd sounded like a girl since puberty and was trying...

Ah. That was it. Underneath everything about Freddy March, there was desperation. To be feared, to be respected, to be noticed and for that notice to shine so bright his gutter-bred past would be lost forever.

Razkar blinked and tilted up his chin, letting the human look clearly into eyes that seemed impossibly darker than the cowl around them...

"Yeah, well, er..." Seb stepped up admirably enough, moving slightly between them, getting the conversation back on track. More people drifted around them, most heading into the cellar entrance, and Razkar noticed more than a few fine examples of clothing and (he assumed) breeding, mixed in with East Street's usual scum. "He's a little... exotic, I'll give ya that. Friend of mine from the caravan."

Freddy tilted his head back and gave an "ahhhhh!" that seemed to indicate profound knowledge backing clear realization. Razkar blinked. Myrians were scarce on the ground in Zeltiva; if he hadn't heard that he'd arrived by now, he was not the "entrepreneur" Sebastian had painted him as.

But everyone has their games. Their masks. Let him were his, as long as it profits you.

"Yeeeees! The Myrian with the Valini Expedition! Killer of Yukmen and escort of a fine Sevfra wench, I hear." The grin widened, became lascivious as yellowed gums were revealed. "Pity she isn't here tonight."

The Myrian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mentioning the female to get a rise out of him. Didn't these barbarians have any imagination? Instead he shifted his feet slightly, crossing his arms, letting March and the two goons at his elbows see the scar- and pink-marked flesh covering them.

"I come to fight." He said, making his accent harder, gruffer, everything these gormless humans seemed to think his people were. Better that way: much easier to manipulate. "Seb tell me you have fights. He can make coin; I make fights. Yes?"

"Oh, yes, my son," Freddy said, scratching his smooth chin, still nicked and notched here and there by an errant razor, "Definitely in order. Haven't had a Myrian here since... 'ere, Den, what was that one's name?"

"Dunno, boss. Don't remember names."

"Just remember faces."

"Or what was left of 'em."

The lines came from different mouths, one after the other, a double act they'd performed before, Razkar assumed. Freddy took his cue with practiced ease, grinning in a way he imagined was like the final imp at the gates of the nameless hells, relishing the fear of fallen souls.

Razkar sighed. He was growing impatient.

"Want to give us yours, anyway?"

"Do I need to?"

"No, I suppose not. "The Myrian" sounds much more mysterious, after all..."

It took him mere ticks to weigh his odds and make his forgone conclusion. Razkar knew that once vouched for by a familiar face, entry into the underground wouldn't be a problem. Securing a fight? Even less so. The barbarians seemed to love pitting him against their kind, or other races, like some rare animal the crowd could mutter over. A new thrill; new sight.

"Follow me."

Proof of which was in the stares of the people they passed on the way down the cellar steps. An orderly (well, orderly for East Street) line covered on wall of the old, wide staircase, perfumed ladies and gents mixing with grubby brawlers and toothless drunks, leering and gawping at the Myrian like Freddy was leading a monkey down into the darkness.

Razkar kept his eyes forward... and then his ears pricked...

Echoes. From high ceilings. The sound of... flat, wet flesh on flesh. Hard and screaming of pain. Cries and howls for each hit, the crowd unseen giving voice to all their minds as though they were one beast, expressing the victories and defeats of their chosen champion.

The Myrian felt his heart beat faster as he strode quickly, feeling the excitement feed his gnosis and the gnosis feed his excitement, trapped wire of nervous, crackling energy making his flesh tingle. The cloak of sewn scalps swished and danced at his ankles as he nearly pushed past Seb to get to the final metal door at the bottom, two thugs with broken knuckles and no necks flanking it.

A flash to his side. Just another piece of the background-

-with hair like a deranged hedgehog, staff in one hand, young... very young for this crowd; cool, calm eyes regarded him without fear... tall, too, nearly a head bigger than Razkar-

The Myrian kept walking, and the scent of fresh blood and clotted sawdust stung his nose with the most delicious, biting sensation. His tongue darted out all on his own, just to taste the air...

Seb frowned as the Myrian's lips moved quickly, eyes glassy and unseeing for a moment, just before Freddy let them into the cavern.

Glorious Myri, look down upon your son this day. Know he will grant you victory; know he will fulfill the vow he made before your glory and your wisdom...

The door opened and the glorious, fetid stench slammed into him like a fist, followed by the sight of braying crowds, silhouetted save for a hundred waving, pumping arms, and in the middle of it all, beneath the high, ancient arches and the massive chandelier above them all, two bloodied figures crashing like waves of flesh and will.

The Myrian grinned.

[Clyde Sullins]

Clyde had no sooner made his way to the entrance, than another group came in pushing from behind. He was unable to turn back, and so got shoved along with the flow of bodies, as they headed inside to who knew were. He noted a few things here and their, walls, floor, ceiling, a hand grasping at his side for a coin purse, only to be discouraged to find one was not there. Clyde knew better than to leave his money so open, and so instead had it hidden in his pack. He turned to see the hand slowly pulling back from his side, and struck out with the head of his staff. In response, Clyde heard a intake of breath, and saw the hand quickly pull back. Before Clyde could do anything else, they were pushed apart, lost in the motion of the people. And since nothing had been taken, Clyde would not bother to try and go after him again. It was just fortunate Clyde had noticed him snaking his hand up his side searching for loot. Finally, Clyde was thrust into a open area, one which looked quite old. Perhaps even decrepit. He noticed one face looking at him, that of a man with many piercings, and stared back unfazed, though still curious. He wondered what that was about. He certainly looked wild, though he seemed to be someone not to mess with. He was not scared, but caution was a good tenant for a Mage to follow. He heard screams of pain, cheers, people watching. Saw a fist descend into a face and the scrum of bodies in the open area. Two men fighting? What exactly had he come in on... And why was no one stopping these two men who were beating each other? He watched as one caught a fist to the chin, and fell to the ground heavily. He was unsure if he would rise.

[Razkar]

"Winner, and still the reigning champion of The Knuckle Club... SAVAGE HEN-RY!"

And the crowd, as they say, went wild. By that I mean they howled and jeered and gesticulated madly like spastics hooked up to a lightning rod, none of which interested Razkar in the slightest. He kept cool, piercing eyes on the man raising his hands to the heavens, making a slow, indulgent victory lap in the cage of sawdust... leaving the still, bloody figure to blissful oblivion at his feet.

He was human. Tall, perhaps taller than Razkar, and with each footfall on the sawdust-covered flaw, the Myrian saw no shake or tremble anywhere on him. Lean, hardened muscle; scrupulously-maintained not only by exercise, but... practical experience, shall we say.

Broken nose. Uneven knuckles. Faded pink scars across a chiseled abdomen. Proud, cruel face sneering, not smiling, drinking in the adulation of people he neither knew nor cared for...

Ego. A man's greatest weakness.

"Hey? Hey, are you listening?!"

Razkar turned to a scowling Freddy and decided replying honestly would only cause problems. Instead he whipped off his cloak and handed it to a waiting Seb, still just gawping at the shaven-headed monster with blood on his knuckles and splattered across his chest. Gods, and Razkar was fighting that?!

"Bloody Hells..."

That came from Freddy, however, getting a good, solid glimpse at everything the Myrian had on his weapon harness. Gladius and ax at his hips, both with leather bindings and blood-marked runes etched into thighbone hilts. Curved, heavy kukri strapped to his chest... and then he turned around.

Freddy's eyes widened a touch. Not at the double-bladed dagger at the small of Razkar's back, elegant and dangerous that it was. No, it was the two curved blades that were strapped higher up. Not... quite daggers, but not quite swords... but he recognized them after a while.

Lakans. The ancestral weapons of the Akalaks. Freddy was no anthropologist, but he knew there were only three ways to get hold of them: be an Akalak and earn them, save an Akalak and have them gifted to you, and...

Yes. "And".

"What rules on bets? On... gamble?"

He blinked another few times, before realizing that he was the one that had to be dragged out of his thoughts now. Freddy focused, and... yep... that broken growl sprinkled with fragments of Common had come from the savage. He cleared his throat and thumbed over to his shoulder where a huge blackboard was set up, neatly rowed and columned, names and odds and dates and fights, a trio of scurrying humans bustling around it, correcting, adding, removing...

Like the human they were dragging out by his ankles. Leaving a blood trail thick enough to paint a wall with. Razkar blinked dispassionately. You fought in this kind of "venue", you fought only when you knew you could win. If you didn't...

"Er, house gets fifteen percent... hey, don't look at me like that, Seb!"

"Used to be ten, didn't it?"

"Yeah, well, it ain't cheap keeping somewhere like this open, and since this is the only place like this in the city, I think the... er..."

"Unique experience?"

"Yeah, that! I think the unique experience is worth it..."

Seb shook his head but took the hustling little rodent's point. The Wave Guard were a potent force in Zeltiva, and generally honest, but they weren't entirely bereft of bad apples. Ditto the Customs officers. They took their cut, looked the other way, and business was well done.

"Long as they don't go making a buncha' bodies every night, the authorities leave 'em be. All just, wadaya call it... consenting adults. Besides," he'd explained to Razkar on the walk over, "It works out to their benefit, anyway, same as everything else in East Street. Better to have all the scum in one barrel rather than spread out over the whole city, bothering decent folks, right?"

Razkar caught the tone in "decent"; it was like he was saying "child molester".

Back in the present, Razkar quickly unbuckled the weapons harness and laid them into Seb's arms, too, the smaller man grunting under the weight. The Myrian's face... it was like stone. Almost bored, like this was a chore. But his eyes glittered like diamonds in a cavern pool, never leaving the strutting, victorious human-

-who locked eyes with him. Blinked at the savage, almost naked creature at the edge of the cage, stripped down to his loincloth and slipping off his sandals, wearing nothing else but a lifetime's worth of scars and a vertiable art gallery of ink.

Razkar took his necklace off, feeling the low hum of the dead Night Lion moan just for him. He didn't need that rage in there; the point of this place was to win, not kill. Bodies, as Seb had explained to him, created problems. Some bastard limping around with a few extra bruises was much better.

"Hold..." He said, then pressed a clinking bag into Seb's hand, hidden under his cloak, leaning closer. "... one hundred. Put it on me. When I win, you can keep half."

Seb bowed his head a fraction so Freddy would not see his small, admiring smile. Ah, there was the Razkar he knew. Not the grunting savage who'd barely grasped Common, but the mercenary commander who probably spoke it just as well as Freddy, if not better. But more heartening than that?

When. Not if. Atta boy...

"No problem." He murmured back, grasping his somewhat-friend on the shoulder and showing a little teeth with his grin. "Seven fuckin' shades, y'hear me?"

Razkar winked. "I'll try for eight."

"So, what do we call you?" Freddy asked, face speaking volumes about being interrupted. He nodded towards the chalkboard, underlings with little white sticks eager for a new name. "Got a fight name?"

Razkar was already walking for the ragged door to the cage. "Myrian."

Freddy scowled at his back but his mind was already assaulting the barbarian's response, turning it over, using... using...

"Alright, then... Billy?! Here's what we'll do..."

Razkar stepped into the cage and everything outside of it vanished. It was just him, the space, the bars... and the sullen, stalking figure opposite him. A soft rain of sawdust was falling down around them, a blizzard of cedar-stinking tufts that a bunch of urchins hired by Freddy were tossing into the cage, covering the blood, giving the two fighters a comparatively solid surface bereft of blood.

Savage Henry (his real name was Cyril, but good luck finding that out) gave him the briefest of nods, jaw tight, not even breathing heavy any longer. All he got reply was the sight of Razkar's lips quickly moving, mouthing silent words as his gaze was raised upward...

"Blessed Myri, Goddess of War and Victory, Mother of my race, blood of my blood... let your eyes fall and fill with satisfaction on my deeds this night... know blood and honor will be shed and earned in your name..."

His head tilted back down... and fixed Savage Henry in a gaze so wide and intense and joyous it was so very, very close to sexual. Razkar smiled, showed him ranks of sharpened teeth.

"In thy name, Blessed Myri..."

"Ladies aaaaaaaand gentle-meeeeen!" A new voice rang out, deep and baritone and filling the cavern as easily as water would a jug. Even Razkar was snapped from his holy thoughts and glanced upward to see a tall man with multiple chins and a stomach you could have balanced pint glasses on. "Our neeeeeew challenger! Our neeeeeext fight! From the darkest depths, of far flung... FAL-YN-DAAAAAR!"

An impressed warbling filled the air and Razkar rolled his eyes, just wanting to get on with it. But the barbarians did so love the dress these things up; one just had to live with it. Instead he watched Savage Henry limber up, jerking his knees up to his chest, snapping his arms out to his sides.

"One of the children... of the Bloody Usuper herself..." Razkar flashed the man a glance. Rabble-rousing though it was, he made a note to make the man pay for that. "Feast your eyes... as he would feast on yours... on... THEEEEEEEE MYRIAAAAAAN!"

Razkar barely acknowledged the crowd. He stretched from side to side, feeling muscles corralled back into position and ligament stretch into obedience... ah... too long...

"Aaaaaaaaaand his competitor! A man needing NO introduction! Champion here for most of the season! A man sooooooo fierce, even Sunberth spat him out! Winner in twenty-six bouts... SAVAGE... HENRYYYYYYYY!"

The human, however, soaked it up as best he could. He raised a clenched fist up at the sky, nodding his appreciation as some parts of the ribald crowd chanted his name, giving Razkar a chance to glance to his side-

-seeing Manny make the bet at a long table strewn with gold coins and betting slips, guarded by a phalanx of thick-necked goons, monitored by a bookie who looked fit to have a heart attack, lips wrapped around a thick cigar.

Seb slapped the gold down and pointed to him. The bookie seemed to query his choice... but Seb shook his head. No, he knew who his favorite was, thank you very much. So the bookie shrugged, took the money, made out a slip, and wrote another dash mark under "The Myrian"...

Huh. Eight to one odds. We'll have to see about that.

"Gentlemen!" The announcer went on, and Razkar narrowed his eyes. Something... some djed, seemed to be making his voice louder, so all would hear his braying. Well, whatever. That was hardly his concern. "Remember: the only rule... is no killing. Other than that, heheheh..."

He leered at Razkar and the Myrian blinked.

"Welcome... to... THE KNUCKLLLLLLLLLLE CLUUUUB!" The crowd went wild yet again, like trained dogs or paid slaves, those fine ladies screaming and relishing in the expectant carnage as badly (or as good?) as the most sordid street walker among them. "Now GET STUCK IN!"

Razkar needed no encouragement.

Receipt-100GM

[Midna Coolwater]

57th Day of Fall, East Street Midna slipped finally into the street of monsters - of slithery bohemians, old men with their bones sticking out huddled around a fire, an invading sailor grabbed a girl by the waist and she bit her lip and looked away, someone renting the top floor of a bar played piano and the windows were broken and it was cold, and the doors were broken and there was no wood in the fire or money for wood, and they were cold, and the street was cold and stone with old buildings and new wood buildings - Midna entered Loveless and clutched herself on either arm, drew herself in deep deep as into herself as she could go, and looked at chalked blackboards, flames rolling in an old brass burner, six girls by the fire wearing... just enough... for Midna... thin shoes touched the stone floor, very hard stone floor on her worn-out Myrian feet... 'I...' she stuttered at the bar, not looking at pretty Zana who leaned over with a smile on her face and deep cleavage and a big smile, and Midna did not look at her - 'I'd like... the Wine, please...' She dropped eight silver mizas on the counter and leaned over the counter, looking away from everyone else drinking at the counter, stinking of cigar smoke and cum and someone elses perfume, and she looked at the girls waiting by the fire - she looked away whenever one of them made eye contact, she she could see out of the corner of her eyes they were still looking and smiling at her, but she didn't look. She didn't look at the Men to her left, on the counter, on the street of monsters, and she didn't look at Zana. She got her wine. 'Look at that wench,' said a man outside when she was walking to the brothel, a sailor with sailor tattoos, a Svefra who came regularly to East Street when he docked in, probably - a Man, a monster - 'Wench', he called her. She wanted to cut his throat (or hers), and she wanted to be angry, or disgusted, or angry, but she was not, and she could only think of alcohol, and girls by the fire, and other Men and Monsters at the counter. 'Look at that savage,' said a man to her left at the counter, who was drinking deeply. She looked down into her wine. She drank deeply and she could feel it burning in her stomach, doing horrible things. 'Boy! What I'd do to 'at savage,' he said. She gulped. 'She work 'ere, Zana? Maybe y'outta ask 'er for an interview, haw haw haww...' She drank deeply. He came up next to her, set his drink close to hers - she could feel his scaly arms pressed against her clothes. He leaned in close to her and he stunk of smoke. 'Y'ever think of...' 'Leave me alone,' she said. He pushed in closer to her (she kept her eyes on her drink). 'I was gunner say...' he said, scratching his bearded neck (his big white beard looked like a ruff and his sunken-in eyes and large, bulbous nose made him look like a crane), 'y' a gambling girl?' 'A... what?' she hesitated over finishing her drink. She did not want to finish her drink until he had left. 'Y' a gambling girl, I sez' 'N- I don't know what... that is.' He threw his head back and roared, his hoarse voice sounding like an old door, dust falling out of his old beard - 'Finish yer drink, girl. I'll take y' somewhere...' 'I-' 'Finish yer drink.' She finished her drink. the Knuckle Club They descended down into the crowded subterranean with the cthonic smells and horrible smells, everything smelled like Loveless but worse and more - and the damp and the heat, and the crowds of man-after-man... When they got under the cloud of smoke she looked up into the great sawdust cave and she looked at the great Monster in the cage- 'SAVAGE HEN-RY' came out the big voice - she looked at him, the monstrous human in the cage - 'savage...' and she looked at the old man, and she realised he had his hands on her. 'Don't fucking-' 'Gimme yer mizas,' he said. 'What?' 'C'mon! Yer gonner win it back double!' 'Oh... How much?' 'Fiffy.' 'Take twenty.' 'Guh. No fukken life in ye, deary. Alright...' She disappeared into the crowd of scars and bruised flesh and black and purple, and white or tan flesh in rolling waves, of stinking cigars, of money changing hands and loud arguments, of macho displays of power, of men reclaiming their phallus after a life of poverty... '20 on Savage 'enry,' said the old pervert handing over her money, 'and fiffy on 'im from me... heh heh...' Midna looked at Razkar, then - she kept her eyes fixed on him and did not look at the monster Henry ('what non-Myrian calls themselves a savage?' she thought), she looked at him and at the awful sawdust and the urchins throwing turf, and the bloody body being hauled off, and she looked away and at her feet, and at the boozy slop on the ground which stuck her feet, and she had poor balance because the wine was kicking in, and she did not know what would happen... 'Are they gonna... fight?' she asked someone next to her - Freddy, she thought she heard someone call him.

OOC- 20 gm, 8 sm

[Razkar]

Freddy was indeed his name but by the look on his face, he had no care to find out what Midna's was. His nose - well, snout, given his overwhelmingly rodent appearance - was perfect for looking down at people, and he treated the Myrian female to a nice view of his nostril hairs.

People seemed to love doing that here. Once she knew there was "savage" blood in her, it was like... poking a bear with its teeth and claws pulled. Ego-gratifying and always worth a laugh: scorning a Child of Myri, fallen far from her light.

"Fuck do you think, woman?" Freddy sneered, looking her up and down and noting with approval how her assimilation into Zeltivan culture had resulted in her occupying the very bottom rung of it. "Geraway from me. Watch from the bleachers. Yer making it look untidy 'round here..."

Razkar blinked and blinked again. No, he wasn't going insane. There was a woman out there, dark skin the color of his people. He'd recognize the face, the eyes anywhere; the structure of his race. But that was not why he was surprised.

Ever seen a tiger in a zoo? No, I don't mean those tigers, the ones that still have "the memory of the wild in them". I mean the ones that let the cages own them. That forgot what it was to be in the jungle, hunting, free, independent of man or his whim or his ridiculous morality and scheduling.

That was what Razkar saw. Something that had forgotten whom she was, and cast her lot with barbarians instead... but why? Why would-

Savage Henry bought him back to reality.

There was a blur to the Myrian's right and he jered his head around just in time to meet four knuckles crashing towards it. The world shattered around him and he stumbled back, reflexes taking over-

-kicking out blindly at the shimmering mass of tanned flesh in front of him, feeling his foot crunch into something painful (for both of them)-

-and he continued backpedaling, waiting for his vision to clear, hands coming up-

-but Savage Henry was in no mood to wait.

Good.

The red and black fled from his vision as he inhaled... and felt the gnosis on his back flare and snarl into life. Savage Henry, the brawler and boxer and night-after-night champion of this dank little cellar, snapped into sharp relief. His scraggly beard... his mismatched knuckles... jailhouse tattoos and canine eyes... his shoulder dropping as he started a-

Right cross.

-and Razkar swayed to his left, human's fist flying past the jaw it aimed at into empty air-

-hammering a short, vicious uppercut into Henry's ribcage from the side, then again, three times-

-hurling himself into the man a tick later before Henry could back away or throw up his hands to defend. Or, more accurately, hurling himself upward, from his crouched legs as they sprung straight-

-and he swung his right knee upward into the man's side-

Savage Henry screeched and staggered backwards as something cracked in his chest. His lungs suddenly became bruised bags of wind that ached and moaned and stabbed at his insides whenever he breathed. But he did not go down. Razkar approved. He backed away, arms up, but trembling just a little...

The Myrian cracked his jaw with one hand, testing the bruised patch of skin without taking his eyes off the human. His form was... sadly predictable. He was a boxer, not a brawler or universal fighter. His hands and fists were his main weapons: anything below the waist and he seemed clumsy, almost-

Careful. You don't know that yet. Don't judge him as a fool just because he looks one.

Razkar moved forward and the crowd bellowed its approval, cacaphony of voices to cowardly or moneyed to do violence themselves practically slavering over those that would. Society dames in flowing dresses that made them looked like upturned roses; their beaus with high collars, screaming for total strangers to batter each other senseless; the dregs and drunks and whores and trash and scum who were bedraggled in rags and despair, seeking what comfort they could in lives beginning and ending on the bottom of other shoes...

Razkar ignored them all. This is what matters, his mark whispered to him, and a feral grin twisted his lips, this is where your worth lies...

He threw a feint from each arm, both of them jerking out and stopping just before connection, forcing Henry to cover up, forearms high in front of his face-

-as the Myrian swung his upper body back, using the momentum to-

-pendulum his lower body forwards, swinging his right foot smack into Henry's crotch-

-and the human roared and nearly-doubled over, but Razkar had to admit, the bastard was tough. He didn't fall, didn't stagger... but he did drop his guard, lower his arms-

Razkar's arms moved in three blurs that dropped jaws around the iron cage. He'd been trained since birth to exploit an enemy's weaknesses to their very hilt the moment they were exposed. Augmented by his gnosis mark, he did just that, smashing two short, vicious jabs into Henry's face with his left, shaking his vision, blinding him-

-then burst forward, right arm swinging, but fist pulled inwards, nearly touching his shoulder-

-elbow slamming into Henry's jaw instead of his fist, knocking him down and away like he'd been struck with a sledgehammer.

And the crowd, like they say, went wild. Arms and hands packed with betting slips and spilled drinks were thrown into the air, howling echoed and bounced around the cavern and even the cigar-chomping lumps taking bets shook their fists with joy. All save the handful who'd put their mizas on Savage Henry, now hurling their bottles and glasses and everything else they could at the cage.

"Fukken bassard!" One of them screamed, shaking and slobbering in his outrage. "S'noda fukken fight! S'fukken brawl!"

Razkar couldn't agree more, circling Henry as he lurched drunkenly into one of the walls, trembling hands coming up in defense.But his eyes were lacking the feral bravado of before; the glowering, merciless confidence that he could smash into pulp all who stood before him.

Now he was on the back foot. The defensive. Fear, slight and wispy but unmistakable, began to seep into his gaze, like the blood drooling down his chin.

Razkar of the Shorn Skulls smiled wider and closed in to end it. Eventually.

[Midna Coolwater]

Midna glowered at the little rat beside her - some deep anger deep in her gut that hadn't been summoned up in years, some anger churning in her stomach with the acid and the wine - she lowered her eyebrows- Savage Henry struck the Myrian! Chaos erupted in the crowd! She was pushed forward by some beast or pack of beasts behind her, straining hard to stay even upright - the tide of beasts behind her shouting and hollering and being men, and she was getting covered in their spit and sweat and disgusting oders, and their beer and their anger and excitement - and their armpits - and she had never been among so many people, not even on the crew of Lasheela's ship, not even on the streets of the busy docks or the fishmarkets where she was far away from everyone and drawn into herself and looking at the floor - you could not ignore the monsters of the Knuckle Club for love or money. And that little rat had spoke to her that way - (The Other Myrian had been looking at her and seeing tigers wasting away in cages - and saw a Myrian who forgot herself in cages, who had become caged utterly, who had forgotten life without a cage - Midna said 'Vantha' first and 'Myrian' second - Midna prayed to Morwen first, and Priskill second, and Myria third - Midna had never even been in a scrap in her life - never been out of the cold and horrible snow - could hardly even speak Myrian, only a few words - Midna was a tiger born in captivity) 'Hey,' she said, snarling at him, teeth clenched in some dull and rumbling and alcoholic anger and she was shaking. 'Don't talk to me that way.'

[Razkar]

"The fuck did you say t'me, cunt?"

Freddy March had to take a lot of this throughout his life, and few people would dispute that. The bigger boys had beat him (and worse) in Sunberth. The gangers had extorted and beaten him. The Waveguard had done the same when he came to Zeltiva. In his own vainglroious mindset, he'd worked damn hard for the slice of the rotten pie he'd claimed, here.

And no savage bitch with a chip on her shoulder (well, larger than his) was going to talk down to him.

The human smiled, though few would recognize it as such. His lips stretched over yellow teeth and his eyes glittered with something on the bad side of amusement. He raised a black-nailed hand and snapped his fingers.

Like lumbering icebergs caught by a current, the two mountains of muscle on either side of him turned to the source of his ire.

"Hold this bitch steady, lads..."

++++++++++

The human was desperate, but his skill was not evaporating because of it. Too many times Razkar had faced enemies who simply fell apart when the tide turned against them. They swung wildly, without form or art, desperate to get away... and they paid for it.

But Henry (not so Savage, now) did not fall apart. He cracked, yes. He crumbled, surely. But he had not survived so many bouts by panicking at the first sign of injury, even with his head throbbing and ribs scraping against his organs, he kept his hands up-

-as Razkar darted forwards, two jabs leveled at his arms, seeking to batter them down-

-or not-

-because the human felt the ankle-deep sawdust shift under him, to his side, saw the Myrian slide to his left, twisting as he went, jumping up-

-swinging up his knee-

-smashing it into his undamaged sides, right under his ribs-

Another howl of agony and ecstasy, from the fighter and the crowd respectively, the former drowned by the latter and Razkar cared for neither. The fight was over when Henry went down and stayed down. Noises mattered little, and the crowd mattered even less.

The human swung wildly to his left, wincing as he did, trying to drive the Myrian away-

-but Razkar ducked under the swinging forearm, the human twisting around to face him as he crouched, bringing up his right knee to nail the Myrian there instead-

-his gnosis flared-

-he saw the knee coming up... gauged the distance in that frozen tick-

-and bought his right elbow smashing down on Henry's kneecap like the wrath of the gods-

Henry felt the spike of white-hot agony, and then nothing... which was exactly what he was afraid of. He knew that was his body numbing himself, because his knee was broken. He looked down as he hobbled away, eyes wide and disbelieving, seeing sawdust float around him as his leg flopped in the wrong direction from the knee down, and all he felt was a dull throbbing... a hint of the nightmare of agony he had to come.

Razkar watched him go down to one knee, his good knee, rubbing his sore elbow and coolly appraising the situation.

Movement and ability to defend or attack now minimal. Finish it quick and clean. He's already defeated, now he just needs to be uncons-

Then his gnosis growled in surprise and shock and his head jerked up, looking through the turgid crowd as if they were mist and fog, piercing their chaos until he saw-

-Freddy-

-the female-

-the two hulking thugs on either side of her-

Oh, no. No, no, no... that will not do.

Savage Henry's scream became a gurgle as strong hands gripped around his neck like a vice and lifted him up. There was anger in the Myrian now, fury and indignation and even with his vision floundering, Henry could make it out. Firm hands spun him around on his one remaining leg until he was facing the cage, the crowd and... was that Freddy March beyond-?

"rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The sound, primal and brutal and without pitch nor control, crashed over the crowd like a tsunami. Even over the roar of dozens, scores, a dozen score of humans within the Kuncukle Club, it silenced all but the most flagrant and sodden figures. The high and low society stilled and silently trembled, looking as the Myrian-

CLANG!

-slammed Henry face first into the iron cage, the shattering impact resounding like the call of some massive bell-

-and Freddy March's head jerked around, just as a pair of brass knuckles had been slipped onto his fingers.

"Fuck've they stopped... cheering... for...?"

Razkar wasn't looking at his enemy. Or the crowd. He was looking at him. Once he was he had the full attention of the Knuckle Club's owner, he pulled Henry's head back by the back of the neck-

"P... P... Please... I yuh... yield-"

CLANG!

-and slammed it forward again, something high-placed and probably important breaking under the impact of it-

-though his eyes never left's Freddy's. Black and raging pools bore into the human, and even his far-larger associates were shuffling now, nervous, some unknown and ferocious quantity taking a malevolent interest in them...

"Er..."

Razkar saw the human wavering, but decided to drive the point home. He smiled with his sharpened, wolf-like teeth, filed down to needle points seasons before, yet another weapon in the Myrian's arsenal. Watching Freddy carefully, he closed his mouth around the barely-conscious Henry's ear-

-winked-

-bit-

-pulled-

Some of the women fainted. Some of the drunks vomited. But, humans being humans, disgust was easily equaled if not exceeded by the sheer sick thrill of seeing the spray of blood arc across the well-lit ring. Crimson and scarlet shimmered beautifully for that one full tick, ropes of it, streamers of joy against black iron and pale sand... and then it fell... and with one final-

CLANG!

-Razkar sent Savage Henry to a blifful and bruised sleep. The bruised, battered, defeated and near-crippled human slid pathetically down the iron bars, groaning through swollen lips, and Razkar stayed put, mouth full.

He stared at Freddy. Freddy stared back. And then-

P-TOOF!

-something pink and red and purple and white was jettisoned and smacked to a stop maybe halfway the distance between the two of them. Freddy March looked down and felt eels and bugs gnaw at his stomach when he saw the ear land. Then looked back up slowly...

Razkar didn't raise a finger or shake his head, nor bellow some command. He simply looked at the female. Terrified and smoldering with anger, but so... unlike a Child of Myri. So subsumed under the mire of this fetid "civilization" they were always telling him about.

But she was still one of Myri's Chosen, and that was enough for Razkar.

He looked hard at her, then at Freddy March. Whom, as we've already discussed, had come from hard and merciless places; places where deciphering looks and tics was important as understanding words.

"Let her go..."

[Midna Coolwater]

The rat Freddy had not listened to her and did not do like she asked - the rat Freddy was not interested in listening to her - Midna Coolwater was not interested in the rat Freddy - she was burning up anger and wine in her stomach and she felt sick - she would throw up, later - she was so angry she'd throw up - 'I said,' she said - everything was nebulous, patterns of flowers smelling like evil or broken glass, savage mandalas ever-nearing - the sensation of vomit rising in the back of the throat - staring into patterns of blood stains, flames rolling in braziers, rising smoke very slow - 'she could not distinguish the supernorm, dragging her up the subnorm, letting her down'. Two large men grabbed her on either arm just as she was about to lunge straight for the rat Freddy, just as she was about to - what? - rip his throat - 'Don't talk to me that way' - bubbling acid and anger - anger stomach, furious - she looked at her fists, pulled back from ever-enclosing mandalas of unpleasant alabaster lanterns, tapestries of horrible alabaster, flowerless dead stone masonry, nebulous patterns of violent men, pulsing, gaseous men or beasts or monsters behind her - sucking the life out of her asshole while two burly toothless thugs held her in place - steady, firm, horrible - drunk - I've never even punched anyone before? Everything shattering, then - 'Let me...!' - a mass of dark flesh and muscle and blade and steel and ink and tooth and bone emerging from a horrible sound of shattering, everything around her growing very still but very wild, mandalas speeding up to total stillness - everything very still - utterly shattered - iron bars seeming to be coming down or clattering on their own - sawdust coming up in blizzard like avanthal - her father standing before her, staring at Freddy? - the Myrian - drunk - angry - everything very still - a sensation like loud music or mechanical sound stopping suddenly. 'go...' she said, and everything seemed suddenly very real again or very dead, or very bad. She looked at the two men who clutched her, and the everlasting stare between the rat Freddy and the Myrian - what even happened? why am I here? why did I come here? she thought, I'm so drunk, she thought. She was nebulous, like patterns of flowers of evil or savage mandalas - or very still and drunk - who was she kidding, though, she was drunk before she even got to Loveless ('but what does that matter to an old vantha?') She gulped, and tried to stand up straight, and resigned.