The Drunken Fish
Rhuryc ducked. A bottle flew over his head and shattered against the wall, glass and liquid raining down in an improvised explosive. Delightful. Someone yelled, someone else socked him, then another jumped in just for the entertainment. Meanwhile, the lone Syliran rose and resumed his poise on the counter and exchanged a glance with the tender. Neither seemed to care. A young man, armed, prepared, while the fight held no interest for him, that did not mean his guard was down. Rhuryc was paranoid, if anything, and as such he made an effort of keeping his attention on the ever evolving brawl. Some poor fellow took a bottle to the temple and now a dwarf had joined in, swinging wildly about with a chair leg. Now that was entertaining.
The layout of the Fish loaned itself to such engagements. Over three stories in height, those that bothered to room there were well away from the shenanigans and the noise, while those that just wanted to drink were happily poised on the balcony that made up the second floor. The rest of the drunken louts who favored the establishment held their own at the bottom, whisking their way between the small army of barmaids and additional tables and chairs, all set for ready replacement. The counter was safe enough. On most days, anyway. Not this one.
He saw it coming. The bottle. With a grunt, Rhuryc shoved his legs into the bottom of the counter and leaned back, watching as glass hit wood and took out his mug. Mistake. He grabbed at the brawler's head, fingers wrapping about a thick head of brunette and shoved the man's forehead down atop the broken glass. He screamed. Red mixed with brown in a thick, repulsive mixture of blood and alcohol. A few men turned to watch the Syliran. Rhuryc stood and shoved the man away, his gaze shifting about the now half-engaged tavern in its entirety. He stood out. Enough to catch more attention than he deserved. A foreigner. And now? Well. Technically, he was the first one to draw blood.
"Problem?" Rhuryc said, his voice cutting through the excess noise without hesitation.
They came at him all at once. Before he had so much as an opportunity to draw his blade two of them slammed into his sides while the third brought up the rear. There was a crack when his back hit wood. He felt glass cut through the back of his coat and dig into his flesh, ripping the cloth and leather that once concealed it. Bastards. His upper body disabled, he raised a foot and shoved his heel into one man's knee. There was a grunt and Rhuryc twisted his arm away, reached over, and grabbed the side of the opposing fellow's face. He pulled.
A fist found his sternum. Ugh. Rhuryc pushed forward and retaliated with a kick to the third man's groin. As he went down, the first came up. There was a flash. Light glinted off metal. Son of a bitch. Rhuryc juked. He lowered his body and shoved his arm down, catching the wrist that held the dagger before the blade entered his throat. No time. He threw his shoulder forward and sent his torso flying, toppling over the man and placing the drunk between himself and the other two. He never liked fighting groups. A loud, echoing ring resounding against the tavern walls and suddenly Rhuryc was armed, sword in hand. He left his damn shield under the counter. Balls.
