Completed Beaten to a Bloody Pulp

[Dale Hawthorn]

"Back alley fights... As soon as the sun went down a dozen of these popped up. The difference between these fights and Tall Johnny's cages were that there were less rules and no-one cleaned the blood up afterwards. I was fourteen when I had my first fight, it wouldn't be my last..."

7th of Winter, AV 490 - 22nd Bell - Sunset Quarter

The pain was invigorating. Short and sharp it was if lighting flashed before his eyes, leaving them wide open as his pupils dilated to such a degree that nearly all colour had been extinguished. It was as if for the first time he truly felt awake, as if for all the years he had lived the world had been numbed but now he could see, smell and almost taste everything around him. The dirty, jeering crowd around him could be discerned to the minutes of details; every wrinkle became a deep valley stretched across a worried brow, the whiff of sweat and anticipation became a stench that flooded his nostrils and the thought of violence seemed to form as a bloody, metallic tang on the tip of his tongue.

His opponent pulled back, his blow had been clunky and ill-conceived; a more experienced fighter could have easily exploited his unbalance stance or his slow reaction, even his striking blue eyes could have been used to Dale's advantage, they gleamed like exquisite sapphires with intent that a veteran could have read like a book but that was not going to happen. Not during this fight.

Both boys were about the same age, fourteen years or so and probably not even a season between them. They were surround by a sea faces, they belonged to men and women who resembled animals more than humans with their contorted, screwed up faces and their ragged jeers and taunts at the unbloodied fighters.

Dale raised his dirty, roughened fists doubtfully as his opponent mirrored him. Slowly Dale started to approach the man, uncertain of how to proceed with the fight, he wasn't a fist fighter and neither was his opponent. The first blow had been clunky and unatutral to the boy, only brought on by the screams of the crowd for blood but soon the adrenaline would set in and they would be at each other's throats soon enough. They started to circle each other warily; with each step they took they were making their way closer to each other as any attempt to move backwards was prevented by hitting a solid, sweaty wall of eager spectators.

Dale lunged forward suddenly, his right fist arced unevenly round aiming for the side of his opponents wide skull. It smacked bluntly, sending a wave of pain rippling across his hand as he tried to draw back from his opponent. Then another fist struck out, this time it sunk deep into his gut, like he had done time and time again as he scrapped with the sons of other whores. The boy swung wildly out at him, he hit him weakly in the chest, turning into of more a push than a punch if anything. He did manage to push Dale away from him as he stepped backwards, putting a couple of metres of bloody dirt between them.

But his opponent sensed weakness as Dale stumbled back unbalanced so he pressed forward, closing the gap quickly and attacking before Dale to raise his arms up to shield his face. The fist soared towards his jaw, his head whipped around as a combination of spit, phlegm and blood sprayed across the pit floor, sending a roar of excitement rippling around the spectator stands. But he wasn't done with Dale yet, as soon as his head turned back round all he saw was the callous skin of his opponent palm before it smashed into his nose, sending Dale stumbling backwards, only just managing to stop himself from falling down into the rough gravel that lined the alley floor.

.

[Waylan]

Waylan winced at the twinge in his back as he made a misstep on the gravel of the Quarter. The work at the docks had been extra hard on the sixteen year old youth, what with a Nykan ship arriving earlier than expected loaded down with foodstuffs and casks upon casks of ale. By this point, Syna had nearly dipped below the horizon, not that that stopped anyone. The captain cried from the goods to be unloaded and moved to the storage house he had rented and the stevedores obeyed. At least, the ones like Waylan with sense, who stuck around; the other, older laborers had already begun their night of drinking and whoring, leaving the dock understaffed upon its arrival. Waylan wondered, not for the first time, who truly had the sense of the situation. A release of breath, and the stresses of the day as well. Today was nothing more than a daily reminder to Waylan about the ways of the world. As hard as it is to say, he had lived a sheltered life up to this point. An orphan in the Quarters was anything but glamorous, but he survived it; he had been given the chance to live his childhood, if only for a brief time. But the child was gone, replaced with a young man whose body was made to work. He hadn't even reached the peak of his growth, yet he already stood just shy under six feet. A scrawny six, but six none the less. More than enough to do what needed to be done. More than enough to walk through the Quarters at this hour without overwhelming fear, too. Oh, Waylan didn't consider himself invincible simply for his size; he did recognize, though, that it was a deterrent against those looking for easy prey. Thankfully, it was enough, for Way was not one for conflict. When given the chance, he would avoid it. Alas, it was due to his inner pondering that, ironically, Waylan walked into one such situation in which he could not avoid it. A crowd had formed in the alley, encircling a pair of youth in the midst of a fist fight. From the look of the combatants, specifically their lack of evident bodily harm, Way guessed he had arrived for the start of it. Looking beyond the crowd (which was possible given his height advantage of most them, youth and adult alike), he spotted the entrance to the alley that would take him home, yet it was blocked off to him by bloodthirsty individuals, not to mention the fighters themselves. He could walk around, should walk around, but it would be a long detour, wasting even more precious minutes that could be better spent sleeping. But to continue rashly would interrupt the fight at hand and possibly even start another, with him becoming more than a spectator! Ahead of him, Way heard a series of thuds as one of the opponents struck the other, first in his head, then his gut. The stunned youth, responded by pushing his assailant backwards, followed by capitalizing with a brutal hay-maker to the jaw; Way felt his own face contort in pain. The crowd, though, reacted differently to the change of pace. With the shot to the jaw, they verbally exclaimed, making their joy known to the change of pace. With the shot to the nose that sent the boy stumbling back even more, the excitement only intensified. Way looked hard at the boy before him, with the blood dripping from his nose, and assured himself that this fight wouldn't last much longer, so he would only waste time by doubling back. Thus, convinced, he stepped into the outskirts of the spectators, watching with an interest that paled in comparison to those around him, simply waiting for the end to come.

[Dale Hawthorn]

He was in a bad way and must have looked it based of the jeers of the crowd. Blood leaked out from his nose, running down his dirty face before dripping onto the hard ground. His head throbbed agonizingly with each heartbeat, his vision blurred ever so slightly from the pain though the rush of the fight numbed it for now, and while he wasn't going to check right now but he was sure the last right hook dislodged one of his back teeth. His breath was heavy and laboured as he struggled to regain the air that had been knocked out of him.

"By the gods', I feel alive and now so does he" he thought as the crowd threw insults at him "He was so nervous they pushed his skinny arse out from that crowd, but now he is cocky but he has good reason to be". Dale was right as well, for every insult that had been directed at him a cheer had been directed at this thin ginger cock, even now he was smiling triumphantly as he began to move in closer to Dale, eager to play to the crowds demands for blood and have a few Mizas in his pouch.

The redhead approached again, this time with the crowd at his back, cheering him on. Dale knew he had to keep his guard up this time, one more heavy punch to the face and his reactions would be ruined and so would his chances of surviving. He saw the dark brown eyes of his opponent narrow as the boy's fist swung out to meet his jaw. Reacting as quickly as his aching head would allow him, he leant back, his opponents fist so close to his face he could see the cuts on the knuckles where they had smacked against his face moments earlier. His opponent no doubt expected his fist to connect to Dale's face, the crowd had made him cocky, so when he just missed his fist swung too far and too fast, causing the wanker to stumble over.

Dale promptly swung low, hitting him hard in the side of his torso repeatedly. Dale sought damage in anger, not precision in clarity. He heard him grunt loudly as he jerked over. Dale struck wildly at the side of his head with the base of his fist as he felt his opponent's hands try to push him away but he did not relent. Hitting him manically, he grab a clump of his hair and yanked him along, throwing him to the side of the alleyway. The boy thudded and bounced of the human wall before scrabbling with urgency to his feet like the floor beneath him was about to swallow him whole.

Both of them were bruised and dirty, with a trail of blood staring to trickled down the side of his opponents red, angry skin while the blood that covered Dale's nose has dried and cracked. They both breathed heavily, the look of desperation set deep in their eyes and they thought about their next move in the fight for their survival. It hadn't been said but a little part of both of them realized that there was a good chance that only one would be allowed to walk away. Allowing a moment to recuperate as Dale banked on the fragile tension strung between them holding while he jammed his dirty fingers into his mouth before wincing slightly as he revealed a yellow molar tooth to the crowd. "Bastard..." He muttered as sickeningly warm blood dribbled out from between his cracked lips before chucking the tooth into the gawping crowd.

In one moment they both charged, their bodies colliding as their arms rushed to grab each other's throats. With his heavier weight Dale came of best from this collision, he felt a sudden thud as he rammed the boy's body back into the sweaty human wall, his hands reached up to grab his face, slamming it backwards into the face of some ugly spectator in the crowd as he felt hands pummel against his own back, struggling to break free.

.

[Waylan]

It was times like these, with the tension of the fight pressing down all around him, that Waylan thought himself to be the most inhuman, the most vulnerable. He was a survivor, and a cautious one at that, so it was hard to fathom putting oneself in such as position as these two youth were in for sport. And it was nothing more than that, at least to the spectators at hand; no, to the fighters themselves, this was as serious as it could be. The only blood these men and women had on them was the two boy's, the only thing to lose being the coins they wagered on one or the other. Blood and coins that the boys will never get back, possibly ever see again. It was cruel, barbaric, and a waste. Yet Way couldn't take his eyes off it. His actions mimicking the crowd, if more subdued in volume and physical expression, Way watched with interest as the redhead stepped forward to finish the fight. His eyes widened when the other boy evaded the strike. He blinked at the boy's counter blows, winced when he tossed him by the hair into the human wall. Thankfully it hadn't been in Way's direction; he didn't want to put up with the bodies in front of him scrambling back into him. In fact, he even took a step back, so as to give the man ahead of him more space. By this point, as Way turned his attention back on the fight, the redhead was on his feet again while the other boy fumbled in his mouth. Way only shook his head, mostly out of pity as the boy pulled out one of his teeth, holding it aloft for the crowd to see; this boy, who was younger than even he, would bear scars from this fight for the rest of his life. Then with a chuck, he sent the tooth flying in Way's direction; it landed in front of him for a moment before one of the ruffians snatched it up as a souvenir for the show. Way only shook his head again. And then suddenly more was coming at Way, as the two men collided in the center of the makeshift pit. The redhead, overpowered, was shoved up against the wall of flesh directly in front of Way, his head even slammed into the face of a spectator. What little semblance of a legitimate bout was slowly eroding right before his eyes. One accidental blow to a third party would soon lead to another, until finally they would stop being accidents. And then, suddenly, this wasn't a sport anymore, but surviving at its finest. Waylan took another step back, bracing himself for the worst to come. If the fighters continued to push into the crowd, it was only so long until he himself was in the danger zone. And then? Well, the question of whose blood is whose will suddenly become much, much more difficult. End this quickly was Waylan's internal plea as he watched, waiting to see what action he would soon have to take.

[Dale Hawthorn]

Whoever Dale had smashed the boy's head in, they did not like it one bit. With a sharp push both boys were launched from the human wall onto the dirty ground beneath them, still clinging to each other's throats. Dale had the misfortune being the one to hit the ground first, he felt his head erupted with pain as the mixture of dirt and gravel made forceful contact with his skull while his opponent landed rather less painfully on top of him. A audible intake of breath was heared rippling through the crowd before being turned into cheers and groans depending on who they bet on as the stomping of feet and clapping of hands encouraged the kill to be made.

Cold hands wrapped themselves tighter around his neck, the thumbs pushing down on his throats as he struggled for air. He thrashed wildly on the ground, clawing at the boy's wrists as they pressed tighter and tighter. Slowly the edges of his vision started to blur, his heartbeat quicken, and his lungs seemed to burn. The noise of the roaring crowd was drowned out by sound of blood pounding in his ears.

Dale summoned up what little strength he had left in his bones and smashed the boy on the side of his head, crying out as he felt a couple of his fingers break against his thick skull. He felt the air rush into his body as the boy was flung off his Dale, he drunk the air in like it was the sweetest thing in the world, savouring each breath. He turned his head as his vision begun to return and the sounds of crowd became clear, his opponenet lay sprawled out the ground, perhaps Dale had more strength than he thought as the boy struggled to make sense of the situation he was in.

He struggled to drag himself over to body, slipping and tripping, much to the amusement of the crowd. He feel to his knees as he wrapped his own hands around the boy's neck, their roles reversed to tragic results as Dale slowly applied more and more pressure. Soon the boy's began to thrash about like Dale once had, his wild hands contorted in claws as the lash out wildly at Dale's face but with each haggard breath he struggled to breath he grew weaker and weaker. His nails managed to leave his Dale's face with cut and scratches but they also managed dig into his right ear, tearing out a large chunk of flesh as hot blood followed swiftly, pouring down the side of Dale's face but he almost didn't feel it now. Adrenaline and bloodlust had numbed his senses and clouded his judgement; he didn't register what he was doing as the gleam of life finally slipped from the boy's eyes.

As Dale's hands slackened the crowd let out a booming response, some people cursing the victor as they made their way home with their pockets lightened while others cheered and quickly grabbed hold of whoever they made bets with before they could slink away into the shadows. Dale himself did nothing, his eyes still staring into the dead boy's lifeless eyes as they stared back. Hot, fat tear began to run down his face as he looked down and his blood stained hands then back at the boy's wide open, accusing stare. "Wh... What was his name?" He asked, his voice no more than a pathetic, trembling whisper. He barely heard himself so it was no surprise when the bustling crowd ignored him, instead quickly dissipating. "What was his name?!" He repeated once more, this time almost shouting but still no-one paid him the slightest bit of attention.

Coppers bounced of the bloody ground towards him, payment of sorts for his efforts but the sound barely even registered to him. His blood and gold, it was the tragic equation that summed up Sunberth and would dictate Dale's entire life.

[Jashkataal]

“Heroes know that things must happen when it is time for them to happen. A quest may not simply be abandoned; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever; a happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.” ― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

 

Dale Hawthorn

Experience

• Endurance +1
• Observation +2
• Unarmed Combat +3

Lores

• Sunberth, a city of blood and gold.
• The throat, a vital spot.
• Death: the feel as the pulse stops.
• The look of a dead man's eyes.

Miscellaneous

• Dale is missing one molar and a chunk out of his right ear.

Good thread, gives me a nice feel for the nature of Sunberth. You give the setting life here. Well done.

 

Waylan

Please PM once your ledger is brought current and a Staff Member has gone over your character sheet, and I will be more than happy to post your grade.

If you have any concerns, please do not hesitate to send a PM. Please remember to delete your grade request. The pleasure has been mine.

Regards,
~Jashkataal