Completed [The Spinning Coin] Fuel, Fire, Desire

[Razkar]

27th Day of Summer
The Spinning Coin
23rd Bell

Fuck're you doing back here?

Those were the words that Razkar expected from Gene Duval when he walked to the bar for the second time that day. However, as I'm sure you've noticed, there's no quotation marks around the sentence. The bearded bartender/businessman/bouncer/retired brawler just looked up from the barrel he was smashing open and regarded the Myrian once again.

The human blinked. Razkar had since noticed that the man was not afraid of him, which either spoke of a restrained personality or far more experience than his nondescript form belied. Either way, Duval straightened up and silently poured the Myrian a tankard of "the usual".

Which was the cheapest piss-water that dive served and called "ale" with a (barely) straight face. Razkar nodded all the same, slapping a gold miza on the grimy bar and taking a seat, a sip... and a longing look across the crowd.

Gene followed it, already knowing what he would be focusing on.

The same thing almost everyone else was.

Two hulking, sweating, grasping figures behind a wire mesh. They parted from every painful embrace and then clashed together with fist or knee or foot. Blood was splattered and smeared over the sawdust-strewn arena they warred in. Welts and bruises and oozing cuts littered both bodies.

But still they fought. Tiring, open-mouthed with exhaustion and hands trembling... but to no thought of giving up.

This wasn't a sparring arena. It was a cage match, and those two humans were probably fighting for money that would pay for food and shelter. Weathered, hardened examples of humanity, Razkar surveyed them like a botanist... like a warrior.

Like he was up next.

Gene cleared his throat and Razkar turned to look at him. The human nodded at the arena, shooting his eyebrows up at the same time, a curiously universal gesture that seemed to say "interested?".

The Myrian nodded, just like he knew he would and Duval leaned back a little, ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Razkar's own lips curled slightly, imagining the thoughts going through the human's head. Oh, a Myrian in the ring? A real-life savage? What a show! What a performance!

What a pile of potential profit.

"Wait 'til after." The human said after a moment, keg done with and hands wiped on a rag that was actually dirtier than his flanges. "Next fighter's in the back. You're up against him."

Razkar didn't think to ask whom he was replacing, probably because he didn't care. If the other fighter wanted to take that up with him, he was welcome to... after the fight. He had but two questions, though.

"To death?"

A veil fell over the human's face, old and practiced. He shook his head, but his eyes were neutral... indifferent. A silent and immobile shrug, but one that suggested the possibility was always there... but plate-armored kill-joys would ask questions afterwards. And who needed the hassle? So...

"I make bet?"

"Yeah. When yer both in there."

The owner of the Spinning Coin left the Myrian there, knowing where to find him when the time came. Razkar put his back to it and scanned the crowd, most of them now clustered around the arena like fungus, shouting and waving and haranguing the fighters. He smiled softly, wondering how the pickpockets were doing... or were they plying their trade at the tables? The gamblers were still at a few of them, desperate men looking haggard from a day or two without sleep, still chasing the winning streak they knew - just knew - was waiting around the corner...

Then the crowds parted. Well, not quite parted. A human-shaped hole was ripped in it, jostling limbs and muttered curses directed at-

-a familiar and still-puffy face.

Razkar smiled softly, a strange-looking gesture with his sharpened teeth and inked face, but his eyes showed the sincerity of it. The figure stopped a foot or two from him and his tankard raised an inch in greeting.

"Kreg Mess-ar." He said slowly, unsure if his pronunciation was off. "Human who like fight and smile when hit... not bit surprise, I think, that you would be here..."

A wet, ugly sound like a steak being slammed into a chopping board. A head snapped back in the ring and the crowd roared like a trained beast.

Blood splattered into the whores beyond the wire, and the punters loved it.

[Kreig Messer]

"Oh shyke, would you just calm down now dear gent, I didn't mean to bump into you and for honesty's sake who drank a tankard while walking? I am not paying for a replacement drink and that's that, now would you please shut the petch up and enjoy the fight?" Kreig had to admit he enjoyed The Spinning Coin's atmosphere, it reminded him of Tall Johnny's back at Sunberth. A little piece of home under a in a city that pretty much would have chocked the average Sunberthian with all their laws.

His forhead still wrapped in bandages and his movement had a limp to its walk but overall he was quite alright overall 'Just hope Natasha doesn't find me here' Indeed, he feared that if he was seen here by her, or any other knight for that matter who knew of him, he'd be doing chores, lots of chores or perhaps labor. But there was only so many hours one could stay in bed and quite frankly he could no longer sleep and so he asked permission from the gruesome threesome if he could stay out a few bells later and surprisingly they agreed, though he didn't tell them were he was going to spend those few hours granted to him.

It was now the 23rd bell and at most they expect him back at least by the first bell of the new day 'enough for at least a couple of fights' He thought as he drank from his own tankard of ale, the second he was having for the evening and in small amounts so as to savor the taste. It was then he saw Razkar and with a jovial grin he raised his tankard in response to his own greeting before making his way over.

"Kreig Mess-ar" Came the odd, but nonetheless correct and near fluent , pronunciation of his name. The smile on his face was out of place with those sharp teeth and tattoo's on his face "Human who like fight and smile when hit... not bit surprise, I think, that you would be here..."

Kreig couldn't help but chuckle and pointed at his wrapped forehead "If I had my way I'd be in there and showing them how to fight, I've seen bloodier matches back in my hometown of Sunberth"


"And its obviously a no brainer that your here dear Razkar, where else would fight loving fools be other than the drab fighters pit?" He couldn't help chuckle some more "...So I gather your here for a fight then my Sharp=toothed friend?"
x

[Razkar]

Try as he might, and Goddess knew he had ample reason to, but Razkar found it impossible to be annoyed by Kreig. The human found amusement and sought conflict everywhere. Even that little altercation with the suddenly-sodden thug was just another pleasant diversion; an exercise in rhetoric... though Razkar noticed the vague gleam of disappointment in the human's eyes when it ended without violence.

"Not sure about 'fool'." The Myrian said, but his own note of warning soon subsumed into a smile and a wondering shake of his head. "But happy you notice teeth. One thing I not use in our fight, hmm? Too pretty to make ugly..."

Ah, and didn't that smirk just reek of the dung it was chewing?

Kreig was likely working on a stinging rejoinder then the crowd erupted once again. Myrian and human glanced from each other to the cage, seeing the bulkier human stagger and clutch his face, red ribbon of flesh flapping from his cheek. Something wet and yellow dripped down onto the sawdust and his opponent circled him warily, pouring sweat and blood in equal measure.

Razkar's eyes flashed back to Kreig; the human was enraptured. He sipped at his brew and leaned back against the bar, fingers on his free hand drumming an impatient tattoo on the handle of his gladius.

"What do you see?" He said, and when Kreig turned t him with a frown, he gestured t the struggling humans with his tankard. "Style. Or thing like style. What do you see?"

[Kreig Messer]

Kreig wanted to chuckle about the pretty teeth, ready to give his ‘opinion’ about the pretty teeth “Well I thought there was a rea-“ of course it was cut short when the crowd went wild, causing the duo to look at the fighters in the cage, one grasping his face with a strip of flesh ready to fly off and the other fighter looked as just as bloody but it was definite he had the other hand.

He had to admit, he found the blood shed beautiful, it got his blood boiling just seeing those graceless tits throw about punches a 10 year old could shrug off….well, a sunberthian or a myrian ten year old at least. He raise his tankard and took a long, deep, swig before returning his sights to the fight. ‘Enraptured’ as he were despite the Myrian’s impatience.

“I don’t see any semblance of skill my pretty-teethed friend…. Honestly these two are just scrappers, although the runt seemed to be closer to even assume he has skill” He noted, indeed the larger of the fighters just had his size while the smaller just seemed incredibly determined and at least his punches seemed sharp “Really, all I could see is passion and determination. They want something beyond their reach even if it’s just a scrap” He took another swig only to realize he drunk it ‘There goes bit by bit’ he sighed internally as he just dropped the tankard to the ground and stared at the Myrian.

“And a good fight wouldn’t be half as good or remotely interesting if it didn’t have such passionate souls….don’t you think?"

x

[Razkar]

“I don’t see any semblance of skill, my pretty-teethed friend. Honestly, these two are just scrappers... although the runt seemed to be closer to even assume he has skill.”

Razkar nodded judiciously, as if agreeing with part of the statement. The larger human certainly was coming off the worse, for the moment. More blood marred him, more bruises were blooming and his breathing was more ragged. But the Myrian's eyes narrowed as he saw something flaring and refusing to be doused in those older eyes

Kreig was kind enough to give it a name.

“Really, all I could see is passion and determination. They want something beyond their reach even if it’s just a scrap.”

"Looks like that with old human." Razkar rumbled, nodding as the aging fighter swung a lazy haymaker that was a feint, covering the knee he hammered into his ducking enemy's face. "Not much training I see. But what they do... what we do... not learned. Just do.."

“And a good fight wouldn’t be half as good or remotely interesting if it didn’t have such passionate souls…. don’t you think?"

Razkar nodded again, sipping more patiently at his brew than the human was, Kreig taking great gulping quaffs from his stein and gesturing frantically for a fresh one. The Myrian just smiled, almost indulgently. He reminded him of himself, when he was younger.

Some part of him groaned in agony, but internally. Goddess, did he really think of himself as that old? Twenty-seven summers and now an Elder, at least in his own mind.

"I think, yes. But I think that have to know how to use body. Arms and legs. Head and hands. Just passion is not enough. Passion has no brain. Has no cunning."

The crowd roared and the older fighter roared with them as he hammered a combo into the younger man, finally blocking him into a corner. His broad chest soaked up a trio f body blows before he started raining knees and elbows over and over-

"But sometimes..." Razkar said, and a hint of sadness crept into his voice, then a smile covered it, feral and almost fanged. "... victory is not for you."

-the younger man exploded upwards, back of his head slamming into the older man's jaw, sending him reeling back-

-as two vicious kicks cracked into his ribs, punches into his jaw and cheek, an elbow into his temple-

-and like some grand, gnarled and ancient tree that had weathered its last storm, the old human fell and Razkar felt the tiniest tremble from his fall.

"As Myri Wills..."

Kreig turned as the guttural words oozed from the Myrian's mouth, some incantation or sacrament by the sound of it. Razkar's eyes were fixed on the old, bloodied and unconscious human.

Only a tremor. That was all. A lifetime of fighting, a whole bout of blood and machinations and desperation, and what was the result? What did he leave to the world? A tremor that would be forgotten in moments if it was even noticed at all. Already those clamoring loudest for him were dispersing, turning their backs and spitting at his prone form.

Their roars gave him power, worth, even wealth... and now they abandoned him.

A lesson there perhaps, for the warrior eternal.

Razkar hook the thoughts from his mind. Gene obviously hadn't watered down this barrel of hooch too much. Speaking of whom, the man himself was nodding from outside the cage, pointing across the sea of punters to Razkar.

Just as the strutting winner raised his arm to the sky in victory... and his opponent was dragged out by his heels.

"I think it is my turn." Razkar said simply, controlling his excitement with some effort, though his gnosis was throbbing angrily on the back like a beast raging at its cage by the prospect of release. "Maybe I show what I mean..."

And with that the Myrian turned his back on the human and walked towards the cage. He had yet to know whom he was fighting, but he knew Gene had someone lined up... and when he saw the taciturn bartender, his eyes widened a fraction and he felt a quiver of unease.

Gene Duval was smiling. This would not bode well.

[Kreig Messer]

"I think, yes. But I think that have to know how to use body. Arms and legs. Head and hands. Just passion is not enough. Passion has no brain. Has no cunning." Kreig couldn't deny he has a point, passion was not enough a good percentage of the time

'Maybe so my friend, maybe so' He thought silently ' But at least you could respect them.... or at least their emotions' When you pour your emotions into something, you are pouring your soul.... the two men fighting were doing just that, whether for just fighting or a cause, you had to show respect else your giving them the biggest insult 'That's the unspoken code' He shook his head as he gave a light grin.

He noticed the Myrian was pondering as he drank his ale bit by bit, while Kreig raised his own cup wildly in order for a waitress to come refill his or at least bring a new one..



"But sometimes..." Kreig turned to listen his words "... victory is not for you." And goodness how that rang true. victory was like a leaf; if you couldn't grasp well enough it will simply slip away. As a waitress came over and poured him a new drink, nodding thankfully of her promptness, he always had a respect for tavern wenches.

He noticed the wild grin, well he had to be blind as a bat not to. But he did notice the breif sadness 'you wear your emotions as I wear mine...well if you had sleeves you would'

Then he heard those gutteral words, speaking like were words of respect or perhaps a prayer... He couldn't help but mutter his own.

"Dira watch over these souls, for this night they may await your guidance..." Despite perhaps most of the fights being till the other surrenders or knocked out, the chance of death was never low.


And so the older fighter collapsed as the younger delivered vicious blows and Kreig suddenly found himself glad he uttered the words.... for each could possibly bring death.


Now it was Razkar's turn and the excitement emitted was barely constrained, Kreig could barely contain his own as he knew he would be treated to a magnificent display. He chuckled at the Myrian's words as he seemed to be trying to teach a listen about life

'I just can't wait pretty teeth'
x

[Razkar]

"Lords and ladies, settle the petch down!"

Gene Duval's voice boomed across the Spinning Coin, carrying as far as the door and cutting through the crowd's murmurings before killing the noise before another word could be spoken. Standing in the middle of the wire-mesh ring, he turned in a slow circle, crooked teeth gleaming under the torchlight, making sure he had everyone's attention.

"Our main fight tonight! Something a little different, I'm sure you'll agree..."

There was a low rumbling of obedient laughter as the crowd noticed the stoic Myrian in one corner. He glanced out at them and caught a frenzy of faces. Old drunks and tired-eyed whores; young dandies and ladies looking to be bad; sneering sellswords and failed squires; hard-edged laborers and a plethora of other humans that collected like barnacles on the underside of Syliras.

The Myrian ignored them. His own lips moved, but without words, and he shed himself of metal.

Myri, look upon your son this night...

"From the deep jungles of the west... home to cannibals... warriors... and monsters...!" The crowd cheered of mock-screamed with each word, goading Duval on, and even though he smiled, the human's eyes stayed cold. He had their attention. Good. "Our first fighter... Raz-Kar!"

They cheered him, and part of the Myrian wondered why the fuck they would bother. They didn't know, owe or care for him. They were shadows of what he was; seeking joy from battle without participating in it. Cowards. Barbarians.

Know that he will pit strength, skill and will against a worthy enemy...

"And our second fighter..." Razkar's ears pricked up as his harness was handed off to one of Duval's many flunkies, the Myrian stripped down to just his loincloth and tattoo-covered flesh. "... from the city to the south... home of warriors even greater than the Myrians..."

Razkar rolled his eyes at the obvious provocation. He didn't need to argue his prowess, or that of his people; history had done that for him, and they'd won the debate long ago. But his eyes moved to the curtained entrance to the cage, leading to the back of the Coin, never leaving it as he flexed his wrists and ankles and shoulders...

"I give you... Turak of Riverfall!"

Know that he will use the giftsWHAT?!

The stoic and stony mask crumbled as Razkar's jaw dropped, eyes wide as he saw a familiar seven-foot wall of purple muscle swagger out into the cage, long, muscle-packed arms held high and teeth shining against his colored skin. Ever the attention-seeker, Turak was clearly in his element, stripped down to his breeches and drinking in the cheers of total strangers.

Razkar unconsciously scanned the crowd for another Akalak, one he knew had to be there, Turak's cousin, Eranis... but no... nothing. The two males locked eyes and Turak just grinned wider, almost a mimicry of that unhinged human Kreig who seemed to thrive on fighting.

"Well, the Fates bless and blow me, Myrian!" He chuckled, cracking his knuckles and then his shoulders. "Always wanted a rematch with you. And now we get the chance to settle this... properly."

Razkar's surprise faced like the sting of a blow as the situation went from shock to reality. Turak and Eranis had been fellow passengers on the Cuttlefish, the ship that took them all from Riverfall to Syliras. Eranis, the smaller Akalak (for the given value of "small" to an Akalak), was more accomplished with blades, Razkar had learned that much, and painfully.

But Turak... he was a physical powerhouse. Huge but fast, tough and intelligent, worst of all. No mindless, lumbering brute or brawler, but a warrior... and Razkar realized he'd never fought him bare-handed. This would be an education for them both.

... and will gift you with a worthy victory.

The Myrian smiled as the cage clanged, wire door slamming shut, Duval locking it behind him and catching Razkar's eyes.

"Still want to make a bet?"

"What are odds?"

"For you?" Duval ran his eyes over the strutting Akalak with a clinical expression and grimaced briefly, pulling a word notepad from his pocket and a nub of a pencil. "Call it six to one."

The Myrian glances back at Turak and saw that the big Akalak had heard the same thing. So much unknown... so much to be risked...

His gnosis burned, warning, reassurance and challenge all in one.

Razkar shed his purse last of all, and tossed it to Duval, who caught it deftly.

"Thirty gold on me!"

A moment later a second purse flew at the human, this one a little heavier.

"And fifty on me!" Turak said with another grin. "Always makes it a lil' more interesting, doesn't it?"

Razkar finished his offerings to his Goddess-Queen, knowing that she would be watching over this cesspool tonight, far above the stink and filth and smiling as she saw a true contest in the making. For what else was he but a vessel for the Goddess of Victory, and to be a victor...

You need to fight.

"Yes. A little."

Razkar swept back his right foot, bending his knees a touch and put up his hands, half-clenched into fists. Already data and sights and possibilities were flickering through his brain, pulse speeding up as his gnosis began to burn. He'd never fought in a cage before... but the training craters dug into the ground at Anthonius Fighter's Pit weren't much larger than the cage. Now he thought of it, neither were the open quadrants of the Training Yards back ho-

Focus!

Razkar smiled... felt the touch of his goddess in the delicious sting at his back... saw the Akalak raise his fists in a boxer's stance, but more fluid, looser, like a brawler... and the two flew at one another to the cheers of the crowd.

[Kreig Messer]

Gene Duval was quite the entertainer, and needless to say businessman, as he gave each fighter an introduction. Kreig found himself Applauding for each fighter, but more so for Razkar as he actually knew the gent and his monstrous fighting skills.


Though he noted that Razkar's face feel into shock and surprise for some reason, a reason that had to do with his Akalak opponent 'Raz knows the Akalak maybe?' or perhaps the Akalak was of some repute. Whatever the reason it was enough to cause a gobsmacked look of surprise to jump its way on to the Myrian's face before it faltered. Kreig had used that as indicator, if Raz's look of surprise was because he knew the Myrian then the Akalak must be quite dangerous. It would be no surprise as Myrians and Akalaks were both rivals due to their warrior culture, both being patroned (or matroned in the Myrian's case) by gods whose domain overlaps with the other. Wysar oversaw discipline, integrity and conviction and was the father of the Akalak race. The Myrian's followed their name-sake warrior mother; Myri, Goddess of War, Battle and Victory.


Kreig wondered what the two deities think of this rivalry, and he can only guess they welcomed this rivalry between the two. Kreig knew just by looking that the fight was going to be fierce, that something while not necessarily a once in life time event, was going to be something spoken for ages to come.

He took a swig of his ale, Gene Duval seemed to be resting at his corner as his cronies were taking bets. He knew he'd have placed a wager himself, he knew whatever he waged on Raz might return to him with a dramatic increase 'But if the fuddy duddies at the castle knew I placed a wager, I'd be...' He shuddered at the thought and took another swig.


No, this time he needed to watch carefully, to watch every blow thrown and every emotion felt. He wanted this imprinted in his mind and be able to recall it anytime he wished..... He just wanted to watch.
x

[Razkar]

Razkar knew it would be tough; but it's easy to know something.

Experiencing it is a whole other deal.

No time to plot or formulate, analyze his enemy. Then again, he'd had the whole season to do that, the two of them sparring aboard the Cuttlefish during their long, boring voyage. Even darting across the cafe floor, scattering puffs of sawdust everywhere, Turak shook the floor under Razkar's feet, three hundred pounds of well-trained Akalak lunging forward, fists up.

Canny. Cagey. He's not going to blunder in like a fool.

Razkar let off a right jab, high, keeping the Akalak's guard up-

-left foot kicking up towards Turak's stomach-

-but then whirled away before either blow could hit. The Akalak would see them as feints, left forearm thrown up to keep Razkar at bay, body twisting to avoid the foot, right hand lashing out in a cross-

-hitting nothing but air as the Myrian slid and danced away from his reach. The crowd snarled and howled its disapproval.

"We came for a fight, not a petching dance-"

Then Razkar kept the momentum of his spinning body going, bending at the knee-

-right leg lashing out to smash into the back of Turak's knee, staggering the mountainous Akalak, but he was already moving-

Follow it up and move!

-turning to face the Myrian, fists moving back-

-as Razkar's own left snapped out, fingers out but bent slightly-

-and Turak reared back, choking and snarling as the Myrian's blurring hand speared into his throat, breath stopping no matter how much he coughed, balance going to hell-

-but not before he managed a wild, desperate haymaker-

-and boy, when you're an Akalak, that's one hell of a reach.

"That's more fuckin' like it!"

Razkar nearly went airborne. He knew some kind of retaliation was coming, but Goddess, how long could one arm be?! He was already leaning back by the time his blow connected but that barely helped him; thundering blow to his temple becoming a glancing blow to his face.

From a fist nearly the size of it.

He danced across the cage floor, or so it looked. His feet seemed to be trying real hard to stay to the ground, fighting a battle with gravity. The crowd became a blur of eyes and teeth and shaking fists and facial hair and words upon words upon-

-Razkar grunted as he finally hit the edge of the cage, wire mesh stopping him like a stiff neck. The whirling stopped and he stood there, almost crouched over, panting and keeping his eyes on-

-the Akalak that was righting himself even as he watched, massaging his wounded throat and limping ever-so-slightly... but other than that...

Oh, this is not good.

[Kreig Messer]

It was finally under way, the tension as thick to be cut with a damn axe. It was that tension that marked the beginning of a good battle. Within that cage was two beasts of different blood and breed, but their purpose ever the same. Kreig wished he was in there, a death wish? Perhaps so, but by the gods it would have been a glorious.

After that brief and intense moment, Razkar had made his move. Kreig’s grin grew ever so wide as he stared intently. Razkar a threw a quick and powerful punch…but pulled back as a kick was aimed…no, no gloriously not, it never arrive and it never meant ‘You pulled a similar stunt’ Kreig chuckled as he set his drink down. This was not time nor the place to allow intoxication from to roam, it was his bloodlust that had that right.

The Akalak saw through those feints as he raised a fist acting as a barrier to keep Razkar from closing the distance. Preparing his own punch as he twisted around, that attack came and missed as Raz jumped back.

“ You Brutes, we want a fight!

‘Damnable fools, can’t they the artistry behind these attacks’ Kreig leant against a table, his hands curled into fists. Eyes nearly bulging from their sockets as the mad grin seem about to break. Raz never stopped moving after the Akalak’s missed counter, moving into to strike at the knee. The gaint stumble but otherwise still stood and was moving, a fist was ready to be thrown.

Kreig noted Razkar’s left arm extending in a quick snapping motion as his fingers struck the giant’s neck. The Akalak almost bloody fell, balance lost but ‘ HAH, Raz is going to feel that one come tomorrow’ The Akalak’s long and beefy arm reached out in a desperate swing, knocking Raz a good ways to the cage, he managed to avoid it partially, but for a moment Kreig thought the Myrian would prefer to be knocked out as the fist the size of his skull glanced his face. His balance blown to shyke as he danced his way to cage fence.

The Akalak, other than having a sore throat at the moment was otherwise quite okay and Kreig couldn’t help but bellow in laughter “RAZ, I DIDN”T THINK YOU’D BE YOUR OWN EXAMPLE” Kreig roared, unable to contain himself.

x