5th Day of Summer, 518 AV
“Because I petching said so!”
The foggy darkness of night was cleaved in twain as the front doors of the establishment were kicked open. Shafts of scarring light spilled out along the quiet boardwalk along with a tumult of laughs, shouts, curses, toasts and jeers.
The soldier’s nose crinkled from his shadowy position across the street. He could smell the fetid crowd from here.
Then the window of light was eclipsed, a man bigger even than the frame of the entrance filling it as both hands wrapped themselves around another, smaller, wriggling soul. With that final cursed warning, he flung the squirming sod outside with as much ease as a child would a doll. It was a wet, heavy thunk as flesh met cobblestone and Elias thought he heard something crack along the way. The poor bastard, whoever he was, did not stir from where he had landed, and after a few chimes, Elias realized he would be making his bed there for the night.
The stryfer grinned in the darkness, pulling closer the cloak which wrapped his muscled form and kept the unknowable chill from his pale skin. This Nykan was everything he had heard and more.
Elias smile broadened in the shadows, but it is gone from his scarred face by the time he swept into the flickering street light, alchemical lanterns giving shape to his slithering gait as he crossed the street. With long, sure strides, he approached the Bullyard tavern, eyes shining in sweet anticipation.
Braga.
The man's name was Braga, and around these parts, folks referred to him as the ‘Animal.’
Elias remembered stories he’d read as a boy, that when the new arrival stepped into the rough tavern, the whole room went silent as the cutthroats and drunks within sized up the new meat. As he stood on the threshold of the Bullyard, he found an oddly immature part of him hoping for that reaction. The stryfer took a breath, felt his sword and daggers weighing comfortably in their sheaths, and opened the doors.
A gale of noise and stink smacked him across in his face like a flabby, hot fist. Burning tobacco, stale ale, foamy beer, fresh wounds, and salty sweat from a half-dozen species assailed his nostrils. Akalaks, humans, myrians, and 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 with his grand entrance. Sure, a few eyes here and there turned, but those that did turned back after a few moments with merely a shrug or a burp.
Elias deflated minutely.
The soldier 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 mystery and he heard a number of alien tongues that he swore he would never fully grasp even if given years to decode them, let alone the few passing moments he was actually granted. This place, being so close to the Pit, often attracted the rougher side of Ravok’s bloody talent, and that usually meant those brought here from far off lands in either chains of steel or their own ambition. Ravok’s arena was far from the grand coliseums of Nyka, but upon its sands men could make their fortunes fighting and killing, just as slaves could find their freedom or prisoners their salvation. When all was said and done however, the Bullyard was where those rowdy thugs and gladiators would wind up, if they were lucky enough to be allowed to leave their cages that was. Naturally, that meant there were more than a few interesting characters to behold within the tavern to say the least, but Elias’s eyes flickered and darted under the cloak's hood in search of one in particular.
There.
That same giant he had seen at the door who’d been handling some unfortunate drunk. Now he was slumped in the corner of the bar where apparently the good seats were being hoarded. What could only be considered a gaggle of questionable women had promptly draped themselves over the gladiator like a blanket of sin and cheap perfume, and by the smile on the man’s face, Elias could tell the giant would have had it no other way. That said, after every hearty bout of laughter, or tongue sucking exchange, his eyes invariably took in the entire tavern, from corner to corner, and made a note of everything they saw.
Like Elias, for example.
The huge man was epic in stature, making the other thugs and slayers in the room look like Elias did to them. Easily more than two feet taller than the Ravokian, Braga was already waiting at the bar when the stryfer took a stool opposite him. His eyes were cool, not friendly, but not necessarily threatening, which was difficult to decipher given the giant’s scarred countenance and naturally terrifying visage. His body was riddled with almost as many scars as Elias’s, and the mage had to wonder how many of those were actually wounds and not just trophies he had taken from his enemies like the stories said.
"You lost boy?" the big man said, his voice a deep brass rumbling that seemed to shake the bottles behind the counter.
"I’m exactly where I need to be."
"Is that so?"
"It is… been looking for you, Nykan."
Slowly, his blue gaze turned on the fighter and the bartender behind the counter who’d sauntered over to take the cloaked man’s order decided better of it and wisely found something else to occupy his time. The mage 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.
"Alota folks come looking for Braga. Alota folks are eager to praise his name and suckle on his cock just for a chance to be in the presence of greatness. That what you here for, boy? You come to suck my cock like all the others?"
"I’m a servant of the Ebonstryfe.” The swordsman uttered carefully, but the warrior sitting across from him didn’t even pretend to skip a beat.
“Ah, a pious motherfucker then. Good, you should be accustomed to falling to your knees.”
To say there was a tension in the air would have been laughably inadequate. Elias could feel the telltale twitching in his eye and the grinding of his teeth, but what was absent was the actual rage behind it all. In fact, it was the quite the opposite strangely enough. The boldness -no, the downright balls to which the arrogant petch displayed in his open antagonism told the stryfer that he had indeed found the right man for the job. For any soul to be so brazen in their dealings with one of Rhysol’s holy order had to mean the fool was either insane, or more than just a little confident in his abilities. Elias was here because of the latter.
"You’re a cocky cunt, Braga. I expect you to be able to back up that bravado during our training."
As he expected, that made the big man pause. He studied him with those foreign eyes, far above his own head and face impassive. They flickered down to the weapons adorning the Ravokian’s belt next.
"You’ll be compensated." 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, even Elias wasn’t sure how long he’d last. "In gold."
Braga began to chuckle. A throaty, ragged thing that drew far too much attention to the pair of them, but the scarred sod didn’t seem to notice. His attention as fixated entirely on Elias now. "This is rich. A high and mighty stryfer coming to me for lessons. Fighting lessons, I assume. You don’t look the type who’d be interested in my knitting skills… You really want to learn, then?"
"Yes."
"And you'll take your lumps without crying like a little bitch about it?"
"…I don’t cry."
"Oh, you look like a cryer to me. Maybe you should do a bit of weeping now and get it out of your system before we start. I hate when they cry.”
He understood what was happening of course. The petitioner’s training regime was basically to beat and abuse the new meat until they were mean and tough and riled up enough to fight back out of instinct. He doubted there was little worse this Nykan could do, yet still he found himself rising to the bait despite himself.
"You always jabber on this much before you get petched, Nykan, or are you just nervous?"
Braga took a few more moments, still smiling, but then finally nodded.
"You follow me downstairs, little stryfer, and I’ll show you a thing or two if you really want it. Don’t blame me if by the end you can’t make it back up those stairs though, ‘cuz I ain’t gonna be gentle. You’re in the wrong place for gentle. But if the tiny man thinks that because he wins a couple of fights down on the docks and the shoreline that he can run with the Animal himself, then sure. I’ll be your instructor for the day, Elias. "
The soldier’s mocking grin vanished.
"How did you-"
Braga's hand swooped lazily over the little stack of gold the swordsman man had laid out on the bar, and when his bear paw moved aside, it was gone. He grinned down at the frowning Caldera and winked.
"Word gets around, Elias. And usually it stops here for a drink."
Elias figured gasping would have been a bit too much, but still he felt his charade of surprise did its job well enough. It seemed his old pal Kale had also done his job in the end, spreading the word of the ‘ghost’s’ victories far and wide to the point that even one as prestigious and glorified as Braga had heard about him in the end. He’d have to thank the fat petch for actually keeping his word instead of just keeping the gold he’d been offered for the task.
Now thanks to the wretched old shoresman, Elias was in.
The foggy darkness of night was cleaved in twain as the front doors of the establishment were kicked open. Shafts of scarring light spilled out along the quiet boardwalk along with a tumult of laughs, shouts, curses, toasts and jeers.
The soldier’s nose crinkled from his shadowy position across the street. He could smell the fetid crowd from here.
Then the window of light was eclipsed, a man bigger even than the frame of the entrance filling it as both hands wrapped themselves around another, smaller, wriggling soul. With that final cursed warning, he flung the squirming sod outside with as much ease as a child would a doll. It was a wet, heavy thunk as flesh met cobblestone and Elias thought he heard something crack along the way. The poor bastard, whoever he was, did not stir from where he had landed, and after a few chimes, Elias realized he would be making his bed there for the night.
The stryfer grinned in the darkness, pulling closer the cloak which wrapped his muscled form and kept the unknowable chill from his pale skin. This Nykan was everything he had heard and more.
Elias smile broadened in the shadows, but it is gone from his scarred face by the time he swept into the flickering street light, alchemical lanterns giving shape to his slithering gait as he crossed the street. With long, sure strides, he approached the Bullyard tavern, eyes shining in sweet anticipation.
Braga.
The man's name was Braga, and around these parts, folks referred to him as the ‘Animal.’
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Elias remembered stories he’d read as a boy, that when the new arrival stepped into the rough tavern, the whole room went silent as the cutthroats and drunks within sized up the new meat. As he stood on the threshold of the Bullyard, he found an oddly immature part of him hoping for that reaction. The stryfer took a breath, felt his sword and daggers weighing comfortably in their sheaths, and opened the doors.
A gale of noise and stink smacked him across in his face like a flabby, hot fist. Burning tobacco, stale ale, foamy beer, fresh wounds, and salty sweat from a half-dozen species assailed his nostrils. Akalaks, humans, myrians, and 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 with his grand entrance. Sure, a few eyes here and there turned, but those that did turned back after a few moments with merely a shrug or a burp.
Elias deflated minutely.
The soldier 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 mystery and he heard a number of alien tongues that he swore he would never fully grasp even if given years to decode them, let alone the few passing moments he was actually granted. This place, being so close to the Pit, often attracted the rougher side of Ravok’s bloody talent, and that usually meant those brought here from far off lands in either chains of steel or their own ambition. Ravok’s arena was far from the grand coliseums of Nyka, but upon its sands men could make their fortunes fighting and killing, just as slaves could find their freedom or prisoners their salvation. When all was said and done however, the Bullyard was where those rowdy thugs and gladiators would wind up, if they were lucky enough to be allowed to leave their cages that was. Naturally, that meant there were more than a few interesting characters to behold within the tavern to say the least, but Elias’s eyes flickered and darted under the cloak's hood in search of one in particular.
There.
That same giant he had seen at the door who’d been handling some unfortunate drunk. Now he was slumped in the corner of the bar where apparently the good seats were being hoarded. What could only be considered a gaggle of questionable women had promptly draped themselves over the gladiator like a blanket of sin and cheap perfume, and by the smile on the man’s face, Elias could tell the giant would have had it no other way. That said, after every hearty bout of laughter, or tongue sucking exchange, his eyes invariably took in the entire tavern, from corner to corner, and made a note of everything they saw.
Like Elias, for example.
The huge man was epic in stature, making the other thugs and slayers in the room look like Elias did to them. Easily more than two feet taller than the Ravokian, Braga was already waiting at the bar when the stryfer took a stool opposite him. His eyes were cool, not friendly, but not necessarily threatening, which was difficult to decipher given the giant’s scarred countenance and naturally terrifying visage. His body was riddled with almost as many scars as Elias’s, and the mage had to wonder how many of those were actually wounds and not just trophies he had taken from his enemies like the stories said.
"You lost boy?" the big man said, his voice a deep brass rumbling that seemed to shake the bottles behind the counter.
"I’m exactly where I need to be."
"Is that so?"
"It is… been looking for you, Nykan."
Slowly, his blue gaze turned on the fighter and the bartender behind the counter who’d sauntered over to take the cloaked man’s order decided better of it and wisely found something else to occupy his time. The mage 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.
"Alota folks come looking for Braga. Alota folks are eager to praise his name and suckle on his cock just for a chance to be in the presence of greatness. That what you here for, boy? You come to suck my cock like all the others?"
"I’m a servant of the Ebonstryfe.” The swordsman uttered carefully, but the warrior sitting across from him didn’t even pretend to skip a beat.
“Ah, a pious motherfucker then. Good, you should be accustomed to falling to your knees.”
To say there was a tension in the air would have been laughably inadequate. Elias could feel the telltale twitching in his eye and the grinding of his teeth, but what was absent was the actual rage behind it all. In fact, it was the quite the opposite strangely enough. The boldness -no, the downright balls to which the arrogant petch displayed in his open antagonism told the stryfer that he had indeed found the right man for the job. For any soul to be so brazen in their dealings with one of Rhysol’s holy order had to mean the fool was either insane, or more than just a little confident in his abilities. Elias was here because of the latter.
"You’re a cocky cunt, Braga. I expect you to be able to back up that bravado during our training."
As he expected, that made the big man pause. He studied him with those foreign eyes, far above his own head and face impassive. They flickered down to the weapons adorning the Ravokian’s belt next.
"You’ll be compensated." 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, even Elias wasn’t sure how long he’d last. "In gold."
Braga began to chuckle. A throaty, ragged thing that drew far too much attention to the pair of them, but the scarred sod didn’t seem to notice. His attention as fixated entirely on Elias now. "This is rich. A high and mighty stryfer coming to me for lessons. Fighting lessons, I assume. You don’t look the type who’d be interested in my knitting skills… You really want to learn, then?"
"Yes."
"And you'll take your lumps without crying like a little bitch about it?"
"…I don’t cry."
"Oh, you look like a cryer to me. Maybe you should do a bit of weeping now and get it out of your system before we start. I hate when they cry.”
He understood what was happening of course. The petitioner’s training regime was basically to beat and abuse the new meat until they were mean and tough and riled up enough to fight back out of instinct. He doubted there was little worse this Nykan could do, yet still he found himself rising to the bait despite himself.
"You always jabber on this much before you get petched, Nykan, or are you just nervous?"
Braga took a few more moments, still smiling, but then finally nodded.
"You follow me downstairs, little stryfer, and I’ll show you a thing or two if you really want it. Don’t blame me if by the end you can’t make it back up those stairs though, ‘cuz I ain’t gonna be gentle. You’re in the wrong place for gentle. But if the tiny man thinks that because he wins a couple of fights down on the docks and the shoreline that he can run with the Animal himself, then sure. I’ll be your instructor for the day, Elias. "
The soldier’s mocking grin vanished.
"How did you-"
Braga's hand swooped lazily over the little stack of gold the swordsman man had laid out on the bar, and when his bear paw moved aside, it was gone. He grinned down at the frowning Caldera and winked.
"Word gets around, Elias. And usually it stops here for a drink."
Elias figured gasping would have been a bit too much, but still he felt his charade of surprise did its job well enough. It seemed his old pal Kale had also done his job in the end, spreading the word of the ‘ghost’s’ victories far and wide to the point that even one as prestigious and glorified as Braga had heard about him in the end. He’d have to thank the fat petch for actually keeping his word instead of just keeping the gold he’d been offered for the task.
Now thanks to the wretched old shoresman, Elias was in.
WC - 1740
