Closed You Go To What You Know (Raenetyr)

[Nathaniel Ankah]

10th Day of Summer, 514AV
6th Bell
Sunset Quarter

Like all routines, it took him a while to get into it, but eventually, it became as natural as the first morning shit. The first days were the worst. His limbs were unused to such deliberate stress, tortures of his flesh designed to put stress on them and, by that stress, make them stronger. But Nate had persevered, through the sweat and the aches, stealing those few hours in the morning before the merciless heat made all physical exertion something you got paid for.

As usual, his training companion woke him with the dawn and a face of joyful slobber. Whatever dreams he'd had vanished in a tide of drool of insistent tongue, until his blind limbs forced Jorka off his lap and back onto the floor.

A flat, heavy tail smacked the carpet, an expectant beat he could not ignore. Nate wiped his face and found his faithful friend sitting at attention, tongue lolling. He smiled and nodded.

"Alright... point taken..."

The remnants of the night's meal - meat scraps and stew - were poured into her bowl and Jorka immersed herself in her reward, heavy jowls slapping the edges of the bowl as she devoured every morsel. Nate rose from his bed and stretched his arms skyward, higher, pushing... rolling his neck until stubborn vertabrae popped into place.

He rose higher, on his toes, wobbling as his bulky frame found less footing... lowered his arms until they were horizontal and swung them in circles... reversed the circles... brought them to a halt when his arms were loose, muscles freed from the contraction of sleep.

Water only. No food until it's done.

Fresh air hit him like... well, like it wasn't so fresh. Sunberth had a shortage of that. He filled his lungs and tasted the unfathomable stench of vomit, blood, droppings of all kind, rotten food and mold from dozens of buildings. But the salt from the docks, the sweet tang of dew... it was enough to raise a brief smile on his face...

It felt good to be in this frame again. Even as he walked down the stairs to the backyard, his shoulders bobbed and he shook his arms, loosening muscles as if preparing to step into the ring. His training post was waiting for him, but before he got to that...

Nate fell forward, straight as a board-

-until his arms jerked out and slapped palms-down onto the cobbles, bending down low until his stomach touched them. He held it... then pushed himself up... down... up...

Sets of ten, for the moment. The first ones were always easiest, body acclimatizing fast to the strain. Once the push ups were done he rolled onto his back and started crunches, jerking his knees up to his stomach, leaning forward at the same time. Back... forth... back... forth...

Then push ups again, but this time with each "up", he lunged a foot forward until his knee was touching his chest, alternating each leg with each push up. Eight... nine... ten...

Crunches. Ten. Pushups. Ten. Now with his hands flat but touching, under his sternum rather than shoulder-width, more strain, more pressure on his chest-

Feel it, don't you? But every day, you get a little better. Every day, a little more is accomplished.

After half a bell his arms were shaking and sweat ran down them and the striated muscle made stark on his barely-clothed form. Big and bulky as he was, only dock work and the odd brawl had been his exercise. But this? This was calculated to brutalize his form, and even as the pain became more than he could bear, he embraced it.

Through pain we become strong.

Nate didn't remember where he'd heard that, but it'd make some fierce ink.

After he'd reached triple digits, he rolled panting onto his back and breathed the fire from his lungs. He poured water into his mouth, over his face, letting it half-choke him as it ran into his mouth. It was tepid but welcome, and after a few minutes... he packed his abdominal muscles so he was sitting up... and staring at the training post.

Right. Round two.

Twin trails of white cloth waved at him from the "arms" of the dummy, like the remains of a moth-eaten scarf. Nate pulled himself to his feet with some effort and walked over, taking each one... and noting with satisfaction they were ready. Every morning, once he was finished, he left them hanging to dry out. By the time he was done, they were wringing with sweat and sometimes blood. He could buy new ones, of course, but... why throw away something serviceable?

He bound his knuckles slowly, carefully... almost with reverence. Nate didn't have much appreciation for the "rules" of combat - mainly because such shyke got you killed in The Berth - but here? He could afford it some slight ceremony, if only because it helped him focus.

This is your enemy. He will hit you. He will hurt you. You must defeat him, not just with brute strength. Speed, skill, cunning... all these will give you victory.

Nate raised his hands in a guard and moved in cautiously, as if expecting the dead wood to explode at him with oak fists. When he got close enough his left flicked out, twice, a pair of quick jabs that smacked hard on the wooden head-

Jarring his knuckles. Flat, base pain in his hands that he beat down-

-eclipsing it with a greater one, two right hooks, low in the midsection, followed by a jerking knee-

Still unsteady when you do that. Have to work on it.

He grunted as the pain trembled through his leg. He'd have to get some padding at some point, but the shock was slowly working its way into his body's memory. With enough practice, and pain, Nate knew his body would see past it.

So he did it again, from the right this time, following it with another quick left, a hook, then he jerked forward-

-vision shattering as he slammed his forehead into the head of the post. Backed up swiftly, because he knew any enemy worth his salt would capitalize on those ticks of confusion after a headbutt, the way your vision floundered. His guard came up and he waited, getting his breathing back to normal.

Defend. Breathe. Brace for retaliation. Weather it... and then-

Nate barked out into the air and lunged forward in a whirl of sweat, hands hooking left and right, keeping his invisible foe's guard up, then punching low, ribcage and kidney shots-

-another knee from the left-

-an elbow from his right a tick later-

-jolt of the impact sending barbs of pain digging into him, not letting go, arm nearly going numb but he ground his teeth and plowed on.

You wait for the moment. For when they get tired. For when they pause for breath. Run out of steam. Expose some chink in their armor. And when that moment comes - and you may only get one - you hammer it hard.

Another knee, straight into the gut, two more following to double over his "opponent", more hooks to the face. Even in the midst of his training, Nate grumbled inwardly. Something more pliable would be better: he could work on his grapples, ground attacks, submissions (and gods, he knew little enough of those). But for now, this was what he had and he finished-

-with a solid uppercut that began from a crouch and moved with his whole upper body and slammed his knuckles into the dummy's "jaw" in a blur of muscle and knuckles-

-knocking the head clean off the training post.

There was a frozen tick as Nate watched the head sail up... then hit the cobbles hard until it bounced to a stop with a comical tok-tok-toktoktok. He shook his head in self-disgust, scattering a rain of sweat down at his feet. Last season he'd cracked the "neck" of the dummy in a stupid rage, and every few days he had to make spot repairs... and every few days, he was hammering new wood into old wood, new nails next to old ones...

Bugger. Just need to get a new one.

"Need" was the right word, too. He was training, after all, not just exercising. Training denoted a goal, something you trained for... and Nate certainly wasn't punishing himself every morning just for his health. He'd come to his decision not long after Kay had died, and after his last scraped-by victory at Al's, he knew that relying on his current physique and skills... wasn't wise.

You only just beat Davey. You waited him out and he got sloppy. But that won't always be the case, and you won't get lucky twice.

Jorka rolled over on her side and watched her master drink deep and grateful from a pitcher of water before blithely pouring the rest over his head. Humans were so odd like that. Why didn't they just pant? Then he walked over to the queer patch of paper on the wall, marked with crosses and days under them. Master seemed to study it, scratching off another day... before nodding with some satisfaction.

"Bout time, girl," Nate said eventually, turning to the dog with her head cocked curiously. "Time to go by Tall Johnny's... see if we've still got it."

Jorka snorted and settled back onto the stone. She loved Master, would die for him as well as any of her kind... but he could keep that "we".

[Nathaniel Ankah]

Johnny's Casino was it's usual raucous, rambunctious haven for gamblers and thrill-seekers. If you took Al's and scaled it up tenfold, Nate thought you might get something close. A full half of the great hall inside was packed with gambling tables. An endless cacophony of clattering dice, cards slapping onto felt and wood, chips tossed and slid over the same, punters calling out bets, victories, insults, croupiers trying to maintain order... it stunk of money, and Johnny took a cut from every bet.

But it wasn't those particular games of chance that Nate sought the man out for.

"Johnny? Mister Johnny?"

The owner and operator of the legendary dive turned at the closest thing he had to an official title... and had to look up a little. A tall, broad man with weathered features and steady green eyes stood before him. He cocked a quizzical eyebrow and crossed his arms, every inch of him knowing and seen-it-all.

"Ah... looking for work, friend?"

"Blue Boys out front look like they're doing enough for you."

"That they are, but that isn't all I have to offer..."

Nate let his eyes wander for a second as a well-stacked example of that sentence sashayed by them both. Tight, taut, supple and fully aware of it, the serving girl sized up Nate with a single calculating look... then moved on, leaving naught but the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"... I don't think I can compete with that."

"I'd be inclined to agree."

"I was talking about there."

He thumbed towards the other half of Johnny's enterprise: the sunken pit lined with pews and chairs, already crowded with gesticulating, cursing, bellowing fight fans. Down below a trio of gladiators were slogging it out: a couple of local boys, by the look of it, and a lithe Vantha that moved like a Dhani. Out of instinct Nate studied them all.

The brutes, heavy and solid, lots of power in those thick arms... but always just a little too slow to land a full punch on the bobbing, sliding Vantha. Nate knew how it worked: take out the weakest first, then deal with the whole "Last Man Standing" issue. But the Vantha wasn't following the program-

-and proved it by launching a spinning heel kick at a lunging opponent-

-cracking impact of bone on bone utterly lost as the watchers roared their approval. The big man went down, but he would get back up... minus the use of his jaw.

"Ah." Johnny said simply, tone neutral and unsurprised. "Looking to prove your manhood, hmm?"

"And enlarge my purse."

Another contemplative "hmmm" from Johnny, this one giving him some time to think. Nate knew better than to speak further: Johnny's angle was always entertainment and profit, and once the pitch had been made, he just had to decide if it would serve those two goals. Nate mused that he wasn't too different from Al in that respect, though both would be mortally offended to hear it.

A lot more polish and cunning, perhaps, but the same kind of mind.

"Alright," Johnny said finally, with a little shrug, "You sign up with Nico, up on the betting table. He'll tell you when and who. You don't walk out of there, well..."

Another shrug. Nate just nodded. He wasn't expecting any favors from the man, after all, and made his way over to the man holding court over stacks of IOUs and betting slips, bottom half of his face covered in a bewildering tapestry of ink. Sharp eyes like the worn edges of copper coins flicked up at him... then down to the purse Nate slapped down in front of him.

"Fifty gold. On me, when I fight."

Nico was about to ask if the new face had ever been in a pit before, but knew better. Instead he took the purse and stowed it in the heavy iron box under the betting table, scratched down a few figures in his book... and tore off a corner for Nate.

"After this one. Best get ready, doesn't look like-"

The crowd went Jamoura-shyke, leaping to their feet in joy or despair. Nate looked down and saw the impossible: the Vantha on his feet, sweating and bloodied by victorious, the two bruisers groaning piles of meat before him, arms and legs bent at painful, crippling angles.

"Ah. Sooner than expected."

[Raenetyr Verogane]

The uproarious din inside the casino was almost deafening, a cacophony of revelry that reverberated across the entirety of the great hall. The shouts and jeers of the building's inhabitants mingled with the clamor at the tables. A song had started up from some of the drunken merrymakers at the bar, and the off-kilter tune rose up above the general commotion. The men there were more than willing to spend their smaller earnings on ale and some good company for the night, and besides, walking home with too much in your purse was a surefire way to get followed by the thugs that skulked outside of Tall Johnny's establishment. But inside it was relatively safe, and that was one of the main reasons that the gambling house had so many patrons. That, and the array of hedonistic pleasures offered by the establishment. Customers drank themselves senseless, gamblers won and lost fortunes at the capricious hand of fate, players bet their own family members on the roll of the dice, and clients who had paid enough found themselves leading one of the curvaceous servers to a private room. Yet nearly all of the patrons, no matter what they were there for, would turn and look towards the sunken arena when the roar of the bloodthirsty mob drowned out their own entertainment.

On that particular day, the crowd absolutely thundered as the Vantha managed to do the unthinkable; win. Many of the onlookers yelled until they were hoarse, their strained voices screaming out in surprised joy. Many more of those who had bet on the fight were shouting in dismay, or simply shaking their heads in disgust. Nico's table was quickly swarmed with people brandishing their betting slips, as proof that they had gambled on the right fighter. The rest of the crowd returned to the gambling half of the great hall, murderous looks of disgust on their faces as the intermission sounded. Some went in the hopes of softening the dent that the loss had taken on their purses; others simply went to drink themselves silly. But a few went looking for a fight.

Brawls started to break out as the angry patrons looked for an outlet for their vexation and found it in their companions. Several gamblers quickly joined the fray when their cards table was flipped over, drawing the attention of many of the other customers. One man, a swarthy and brutish fellow known generally as Ugly Bert, did not look where he was going as he returned to his own table, and ran into someone. Bert, already agitated by the growing chaos in the casino, cursed as ale spilled onto his tunic. He shoved furiously against whoever was blocking his path, and his meaty biceps strained as he felt the mass in front of him give way. Before Bert could even realize the gravity of his mistake, his push was almost instantly returned with a force that was akin to being struck by a battering ram. Ugly Bert went staggering backwards with such impetus that his head smashed a chair into splinters as he collided with it. The people seated at the nearby tables all turned in shock, several of them jumping in sudden fright at the resounding crash. Multiple pairs of eyes turned first to Bert's sprawled and unconscious form, before they then fixating upon the poor man's aggressor. Once they saw who it was, however, they quickly averted their gaze, many gaining a sudden interest in the bottom of their tankards instead of the person that stood above the rest of the crowd by almost a full head.

Raenetyr Verogane snarled under his breath as he stepped over the fool who had strode clumsily into him. The day had not gone well thus far for the large and grizzled fellow, who drank what ale hadn't been spilled before slamming his tankard on the nearest table. He had lost twenty gold-rimmed mizas, betting against that damn Vantha, who strutted around like a bloody peacock down in the pit. And now, in addition, he had lost at least three mouthfuls of good mead to the short sod who was spread-eagled before him. He grunted, his face returning to its usual impassiveness as Johnny's security managed to regain control over the fighting. He saw a seat open at one of the tables but immediately thought better of it; he wasn't in the mood for playing today, and had forgotten his loaded dice anyway.

He frowned sourly as he considered his options. Officially, he was here on business; his newest target was some gang member that frequented this place and had a penchant for rape. A hobby like that was grievous, and it would catch up to you even in a place like Sunberth eventually. The price on the bastard's head was a tempting hundred gold-rimmed Mizas, but the man hadn't surfaced even after several days of hunting. The large bounty hunter was beginning to believe that his prey was floating facedown in the harbor, or had already sank to the sea-floor by now. As such, he wasn't really in the mood to waste his time interrogating inebriated regulars on a trail that had grown cold. He could go get drunk, he supposed, though he already spent most of his nights drinking himself into a stupor in his own home. His vision was swimming anyway, and he realized that he was already a bit more than sober as it was. His thoughts began to turn to that of his small and slightly dingy home in the Sunset Quarter, the thought of sleeping off his intoxication growing on him. No, he realized in a sudden burst of clarity. He would go confront that liar Nico for the cheating son of a whore that he was. The man had promised him that the two brawlers would be able to make mincemeat of the night's competition, he remembered, and the thought was enough to galvanize him into action.

Raenetyr jostled his way through the sea of clamoring customers, many of whom waved their little fragments of paper wildly and shouted to gain the attention of the bet-placers. He slammed one hand down upon the rough oak of the betting table, and restrained the urge to grab the scruffy employee and drag him out into the filthy street. Nico looked up, and seemed to blanch a little as his gaze traveled up the man that towered over his seat, although Raenetyr might have only imagined it as his face hardened into an expressionless stare.

"You lost me twenty fucking mizas, you inbred sack of shit."

"L-listen, uh... Verogane, right? Anything can happen in the arena. No one's a sure winner, and the Vantha was a bit of an... unexpected factor. But I assure you that this establishment is straight. What happens once we stage the fight is out of our hands."

Raenetyr snorted, and spat onto the table. Nico looked down distastefully at the gobbet of saliva, which had almost landed on the numbers ledger and tutted under his breath. The bounty hunter, thoroughly disgusted with the myriad of disappointments he had suffered today, turned to leave, when his gaze wandered over Johnny's lowered stadium. The intermission was going to end at any minute, and many of the spectators had returned to their seats with brimming tankards and full platters. A new challenger had already been placed in the ring, and Raenetyr's eyes focused on the fresh combatant.

The man was surprisingly large, compared to the men that had ushered him in. Few humans grew to six feet due to malnutrition or genetics, yet Raenetyr felt that this man had to be at least a couple inches taller than himself. He wasn't clad in the gargantuan muscles that most men of his stature sported either, muscles that often made fighters arrogant or, worse, too slow to deal with more agile opponents. He was a fighter, or looked the part at least. Raenetyr hesitated, and then shrugged in resignation. Did he really expect a stroke of luck? Of course not, but what were a few more minas lost anyway?

"Put another twenty down for me. On the big one."

Nico, still rubbing out the larger man's spittle with his sleeve, looked up in surprise at the bounty hunter's sudden change of heart.

"You even have twenty gold rimmed mizas left, Verogane?"

"Fuck off, ink-jocky. Take them or leave them."

Raenetyr took a small pouch from his belt and emptied twenty of his hard-earned mizas into it. He made as if to drop the coinpurse, but upturned it at the last second, a smirk coming to his face as the bookkeeper cursed and scrambled to catch the glinting currency that clattered onto his table. He then turned, his betting slip clutched firmly, and hoped that the fight would end better than he expected it to.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

You couldn't teach speed. Muscle, control, coordination, pacing, breathing, endurance, form and katas, you could learn it all given time and application. But speed? You were born with it, or you weren't. Nate was fast, and he knew it. But the Vantha?

He was fucking greasy.

The announcer's baritone boomed down at them like the voice of the gods and by the time the last syllable had echoed in Nate's ears, the little bastard was all over him. Arms moving in blurs, naked to his waist, all the fury of three men packed into five-and-a-half feet. Nate felt the stinging, precise blows pound into his ribs, then his forearms as his guard came down-

-then his face. Three punches, so fast they were like one slow one, and he swung blindly, wildly-

-hitting nothing but air, Vantha already dancing away like he was on the stage. Nate shook the shadows from his eyes and the cocky shit was saluting his audience, tempo and pitch roaring for him with every swing of his clenched fist.

Nate ground his teeth. Being outclassed was one thing, but the sound of the leering, cackling gaggle of dregs laughing at him, pointing, jeering, like he was some tame bear a performer was tickling for their entertainment... that got under his skin.

Calm. Control. To be the eye, and not the storm, and in doing so conquer both. You learned that, too, but Nate thought it was overrated. He was wrong.

His roar drowned out their mockery for a tick and the Vantha's head snapped round, almond eyes cool despite the lumbering, bellowing brawler charging towards him. Nate swung and the Vantha leaned back like his body was made of rubber, Nate following with a kick between his legs-

-the little man just... spun. He kicked off from the sandy floor and spun perpendicular in mid-air, avoiding the kick that ended up hitting nothing, touching down with grace, but not straightening, going down-

-still spinning, one leg lashing out-

-knocking away Nate's other leg and planting him hard on his back.

"Fucking little shi-"

He swallowed that last word along with a tooth and half a cup of blood. The Vantha's other foot went from bent to straight in a split-blink, but in that time it whipped across the space between them and struck Nate's mouth with brutal precision. But not his jaw. Even as he reeled and spat blood and rolled back, getting some space between them, anything to get back to his feet... Nate knew why.

He could have taken you out. One kick to the jaw, lights out, over and done with. But he wanted to hurt you. Bruise you. Batter you. Give the crowd a show...

The big human spat more bloody and got to his unsteady feet. It was a factor, but... it didn't matter. Nico's little chit gave him four-to-one odds, which told him the Vantha was good. Usually Johnny's "champions" didn't last longer than a season, maybe two... and then the odds on challengers to them were in double digits. The Vantha had to have broken a fair few heads to get that close.

You need this. Can't beg your way to Zeltiva, and that posh Uni won't teach you for free. Stay up. Wait him out.

Which sounded wonderful when you have your trainer lay it out to you (yeah, good luck finding any corner men in that shithole), or yell it at the fighter from the stands while you were safe up there, boozed up and with a purse riding on him. But when you were down there, and lightning with fists and attitude was coming at you-

-leaping to the side, kicking off the wall, foot spinning around hard-

-Nate barely blocking it, impact sending him staggering as he just barely blocked a blow that could have sent him flying-

-and the Vantha hammered his kidneys with a trio of blows a tick after he landed, Nate jabbing out at him just to get a second, a moment, a tick to fill his lungs-

-the Vantha dropped low, fist ruffling his hair but missing his skull-

-slamming an elbow strike into Nate's liver.

Something hot and liquid exploded in Nate's stomach. He let the impact carry him far across the ring, the crowd becoming one single blur of blackened teeth and probing fingers and frothing mugs and humiliation and Cheva's Fucking Cunt, he could barely feel his legs, but he couldn't let them fall.

Don't fall. Not yet. Not here.

No-one left to pick you up.

That single, vicious, ruthless thought nearly broke him. Kay was gone. The only one who cared for him, just a pile of ash floating in the Harbor somewhere... or probably far beyond it. Nate bent over double on the other side of the makeshift arena, hand clutching his liver like it would burst from his skin if he didn't.

His vision swam, but the blurry outline of the Vantha was approaching. Whirling. Showing off. Letting the crowd know exactly what he thought of him. Turning his back to-

Mistake, shortarse.

No roar, this time. Just a tick for the Vantha to see the stunned reactions of the people in front of him, barely enough time to turn, see the shadow fall over him-

-and two hundred pounds of pissed-off Ankah struck him square around the waist, meaty arms gripping him tight and bearing him down to the ground. Scrambling, scratching limbs, but here, up close, Nate had the advantage. Sheer size and smell-range brutality... he did that very well.

One hand grabbed the back of the Vantha's head, a handful of thick, glossy hair, held it steady as he rose the other like a thunder god's hammer-

-and the Vantha did the impossible. Again. The fucker.

Head still in place he jerked his shoulder down, freeing his arm and ratcheting up his elbow, smashing it into Nate's arm just behind his elbow, shattering his grip on his hair, his balance-

-then squirmed the other way on the ground, pulling his head down-

-Nate howling as his fist slammed into sand instead, bending down as he went with the blow-

-and the Vantha's other elbow smacked into his temple.

He could feel him squirming, wriggling, trying to get out from under him. Couldn't let that happen. Half-blind with swirling shadows and exploding stars crowding his eyes, he felt for the lithe shoulders, fast-moving but there, moving up to the throat-

Something fast, hard and forehead-shaped broke his nose like an egg.

Oh, the crowd and the shadow dancers loved that. The former were cheering and applauding like they were at a bullfight; the latter and called in reinforcements and now a whole chorus line were can-canning across Nate's eyes and he could only just make reality out through the gaps.

The Vantha, jumping back to his feet, ruffled but barely breathing hard. Soaking in the applause at his daring escape. Nate managed to... no, he couldn't manage. He couldn't get to his feet. One knee would have to do. He sent orders to his limbs, cajoled, threatened, bribed, but nothing worked. His torso was a mess of bruises, the organs under his ribcage were pulped, his nose and temple were bleeding bruises... and the Vantha was looking to finish him.

The pintsized monster threw kick after kick into the air, the final one snapping for Nate's face, and he threw up his forearm-

-blocked it-

-but instead of that foot smashing into his face, his own forearm did, Nate no longer having the strength to keep it solid. Nate toppled... but he did not fall. There was a flash of white... the Vantha smiling... waiting...

He wants you to see it.

Nate blinked. Some screed of sense was left in him. Some mote of strategy. He listened, breathing slow and shallow...

He wants you to see the final blow. Wants you to know you can't stop it. You embarassed him: this was meant to be a curbstomp against some lumbering oaf, and you bought him down and nearly beat him. He has to crush you now, not just in their eyes, but in your own.

He'll let you see it.

So let him deliver it.

He breath came in and out like the air was jagged saws across his throat... but he breathed. His skin was a riot of pain and exhaustion... but he could still feel. His muscles were tired and his shoulders slumped... but he still... maybe, just maybe...

Nate raised his eyes, tried to stand... wobbled...

C'mon, keep watching, mate.

Then fell to his knees, palms down in the sand, breathing heavier than he actually felt. Face hidden as he bent over, his eyes were... almost clear. He had to sell this. The Vantha was fast, smart, well-trained, and tougher than he looked. But Nate had a shot, and the little man had a weak point. The weak point, in fact.

Wincing and hoping he wasn't playing it up too much, Nate managed to halfway straighten up, muscles tensing. The Vantha smirked at him, triumph and sparkling sadism in his eyes... Nate saw his legs tense, hips start to swivel, left foot dig in deeper as the right-

Right swinging kick. Probably to your jaw. Lights out.

Nate panted, eyes empty, beaten and vanquished. The kick wound up, Vantha spinning round, right leg going from grounded to horizontal, aiming to knock out this barbarian bastard in front of all his friends-

Fuck.

Why was he smiling-

-just before his foot connected?

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Raenetyr Verogane made his way down into the stands, which were already nearing full capacity. He moved into one of the aisles, ignoring the curses that came from the next row up as their vision was temporarily blocked by the tall figure. His chosen seat was close enough to the action that he could see what was going on, while far away enough that he had a vantage point. Because he needed one; watching the fight wasn't all that he would be doing.

He was not the kind of bounty hunter that traveled through the wilds, examining rocks and grass for signs of recent activity as they hunted. That was an unforgiving life, fraught with peril and the prospect of watching entire seasons go by without seeing another sentient being. No, he was the kind of man that had learned to hunt through the jostling masses of civilization, to find one head among many. Most people, even those with a price on their head, would rather not take the risks that came with running off into the wilderness, and Raenetyr knew it. His form of tracking was a much more personal one; it often involved breaking and entering his quarry's home (not a problem in Sunberth) and/or finding the target's usual locations. Everyone had a habit, a routine that they liked to follow, and that was often all that Raenetyr needed. In his line of work, questioning was involved as well; but there weren't many who found it easy to lie to a man that towered over them. It helped, to be sure, but even without the height difference he had a face that subdued many and a build that warned the rest.

One of the first lessons Raenetyr had learned, back when he was a young lad, was that people often felt safer in crowds. They thought they were so smart, hiding in plain sight, enjoying the anonymity of the masses. But all it took was patience, a sharp eye, and a good idea of what the game looked like. That was what Raenetyr was going off of, and why he was situated a bit farther from the fight than he would have liked. He leaned back slowly, stretching his shoulders as he adjusted himself on the rough wooden bench. He untied his scabbard from his belt, and placed his great blade, a menacingly ugly hand-and-a-half sword, next to him. It would be much easier to reach for there, while he was sat down. The manacles that were strapped to the back of his girdle, hidden by his cloak, clanked softly as if whispering of an omen for things to come.

Raenetyr waved over a flagon of ale as the fight began, and took a deep draft of the strong brew as the announcer started the fight with his rumbling voice. Right from the get-go, the Vantha seemed to be pulling an edge. Raenetyr suppressed a wince, although only half of his attention was devoted to the melee. He glanced around the stadium, dark eyes flitting from one spectator to the next. He had gotten a good description of the man he was hunting, and had even been given a detailed caricature of the man's cousin. His employers really wanted this bastard dead. He grimaced slightly at the thought of the slavers who had contracted him with the job. Apparently the Row had gotten tired of having their best stock stolen in the night, only to turn up facedown on their doorsteps the morning after. It was a... well, a pretty fucked up situation. No point fooling yourself on that, he thought. No one cared when it was just the visiting Svefra or the occasional stranger that was getting fucked and then silenced with a dagger to the throat. People just saw the bodies and shook their heads. In the wrong place at the wrong time. But now it was about lost profits rather than morality, and so the bounty had gone up almost immediately, in typical Sunberthian style. Speaking of which, the price they had set was substantial, or at least it was enough to ease Raenetyr's qualms about working with the slavers.

His focus was jarred back to the present when he felt rather than heard the crowd's reaction. Many of the spectators jumped up and out of their seats, cheering and jeering raucously. The large man closed his eyes briefly as he saw the fighter that he had betted on take a hearty mouthful of his northern opponent's heel. The warrior he had chosen was fast, faster than the two brawlers that had gone up before him. But he still wasn't up to snuff against the Vantha's sheer agility. He wasn't even in the same bracket, Raenetyr thought grimly, as the crowd's favorite levered an elbow into his larger foe's back. Another twenty fucking mizas was draining out onto the sand in fat red droplets.

And then it turned out that the man who was beaten, wasn't. It was amusing, how fickle the crowds could be. Those who didn't have money staked on the fight, anyway. The giant managed to catch the Vantha as he was showboating, and Raenetyr's heavy brows shot up in surprise. Crafty bastard, or at least smart enough to know that a bloody warcry would give him away, which meant that he was craftier than the two before him had been.

Raenetyr's hopes quickly flickered as the lithe northman managed to slide away,wriggling like a greased eel. Raenetyr heard the crack of bone as the squirmy little fuck's head connected solidly with his man's nose. Raenetyr rolled his eyes to the heavens and offered up a few choice curses to Ovek. His gaze began to drift over the line of shadow dancers, his eyes feasting on the sight. Well, at least it wasn't a total waste to have come here. Raenetyr got up as his champion struggled and failed to even stand. He could not watch as one more disappointment unfolded for him. He took hold of his sword by the strap of the scabbard and turned to exit the row. He had decided that he would get piss-drunk after all. At least that would be a failure that he would see coming.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

They knew it was over. How could it not be?

Big Man was down. Bloodied. Senseless. The Vantha, their fair weather champion, was all but untouched and still as springy as ever. The veteran clientele were relishing the moment, the anticipation, suckling on the tentative ticks before that final blow. Maybe they'd get lucky and hear the sharp, wet crack of a neck broken. They'd seen it before, and why not now? Big Man was just that, but had not the skill or the speed. The Vantha had both.

Clearly, few of them had been in the arena. Pure skill was a fine thing, and would carry a body far. But relying on that alone was... well, not a Sunberthian idea.

Deception and sheer brutality, however?

Nate moved with every ounce of strength and stubborn will he had left. His torso was a mess and his face purpling with blooming bruises, but his arms and shoulders... they were still good. He'd need them now-

-as he straightened up sharply, going from bent over to ramrod in a tick, left arm flapping up-

-grunting with pain as the Vantha's foot thudded hard against his ribs under his armpit instead of his head-

Now!

His left arm smacked down hard against his side, pinning the Vantha's leg against him; trapping the stunned acrobatic fighter on one leg. The look on his face spread to the scores watching. Nate could hear it in the tone and pitch of them, the uncertainty, the growing realization they'd been deceived.

He wished he had the time to savor it, but that was no time for hesitation.

His right hand shot out, rough, calluses fingers snapping closed around the Vantha's crotch like a vice. He felt the mess of fleshy danglies there; the shudder of terror as the Vantha knew-

Nate squeezed. Hard. Then he twisted. Harder.

Every man watching groaned. Some ladies grew faint; many more laughed. The Vantha just screamed. Not a shout or a bellow or a yell: a high, shrill lament for his ruined sausage and eggs, one of the three burst and pumping some fluid, the others paralyzingly him with pain-

You're nearly spent. Finish it!

Nate gritted his teeth, biceps bulging. He twisted his body around and lifted as best he could. Weakened as he was, the weight that had allowed the Vantha to move so seamlessly now doomed him, the hulking Berth Boy swinging him around like a sack on the Docks-

-before slamming him hard onto the sand; twisting and wrenching still; left leg still trapped at his side. The Vantha... insensible. Gasping. Tears streaming down his face... but Nate knew from two decades vicious brawling that while brutal, what he'd done was not final. But what he did next...

He hooked his left arm under the Vantha's knee, still clutched fast next to him, and half-rolled across the body next to him, letting to of his mutilated crotch to grab his foreleg. And then he wrenched-

-hard, to the side; feeling a beat of resistance before ligaments and tendons and bone.

Ah. There was that crack.

The Vantha's eyes snapped open wide as hen's eggs and his shriek took on a new shade of agony. Fresh paroxysms of pain flooded his mind from his shattered kneecap, all thought of fighting replaced by sheer animal instinct to-

Nate didn't let him dwell on it. He rolled back, the opposite way from his lower half, elbow leading the way, knowing just how much harder and nastie it could be-

-slamming it into that sculpted, strong jaw. Then again, pulping his nose. Again. Again.

The struggles ceased. Handsome and proud likeness torn asunder by Nate's barbaric ministrations. Panting, choking, Nate still felt a heartbeat, somewhere in that thin but toned chest... the rote suck and bubbling wheeze of unconscious breathing.

The crowd lost it. All control. All reserve. Ticket stubs rendered useless flew like wingless doves. A volley of wooden mugs rained down at the victor, screams and accusations following swiftly. Nate rose anyway, taking his time, seeing faces shining with new pride and admiration at their champion.

He spat a contemptuous gob of blood and pile and saliva. Fuck 'em. All of 'em. Fickle, soulless creatures. His eyes were only for Nico, standing behind his table, gaping like a fish plucked from the river... and his shaky finger, still soaked with fluids unknowable, rose slowly... and marked him.

Time to settle up.

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Raenetyr paused as he ascended the steps of the pit.The crowd had gone silent. Why had they done that? A couple years ago, though it felt like a lifetime past, he would have thought it was because the Vantha had accidentally killed his opponent. But over two years in the Berth had taught him that there was nothing surprising about murder, and it was rarely on accident. The large man turned in time to see the giant's hand shoot out like the counterweight of a seige engine, swinging low and fast. He knew what would happen, the inevitable. What else would happen?

He grimaced as he heard the northerner's scream. It wasn't the first time he had seen something like this, but that didn't make it any worse. The crowd felt it too, the uncomfortable feeling in a man's gut that comes when he imagines how indescribably agonizing such a brutalization would feel. Raenetyr wished he could say that he had never brought such pain on another human being, but he had made the decision to stop lying to himself long ago. And it wasn't over yet. The Vantha couldn't make a comeback, might not even live through the night if the medicinal practitioners of the casino weren't up to snuff (or hadn't been paid enough). But Raenetyr saw that his own last-minute champion was failing fast, and he thought that the man knew it too. If he passed out before he could finish the ruined northerner, it would still count as a loss.

The splintered kneecap was a formality, something that had to be done to make the fight final. The crowd loved it, of course, rose from their seats, their loyalties having changed the moment the Vantha was... well, the moment he was neutered. Fuck, that was brutal. But there were no outpourings of sympathy from the bounty hunter; in fact, a ghost of a smile crept to his face. To say he liked an underdog... well, some would believe it, although in most cases it was his prey that were against hard odds. To say that he relished the coins that had suddenly materialized into his near future... yes, that was more like it.

That man was good. Really good. He'd have to get his name, he supposed. Men like that, if they continued their careers in the ring, became prominent people, or as prominent as you could get in a society that didn't even have a government. Sure, he'd flare out like a bad match, but it could be a fun few seasons. Raenetyr's thought process wandered as he struggled through the throngs of standing people, all braying and cheering at the top of their voices. Perhaps his bounty was thinking the same thing, looking to score some money on the back of an up and coming prizefighter before he came out of the shadows. Men rarely reached high status in the ring without some gang backing them, making sure they didn't get stabbed in some back-alley for winning when they should have lost. Winning when they should have...

Raenetyr was at Nico's booth now, and grunted as the tattooed man begrudgingly handed him a sack of minas that was twice as large as the one he had offered. It made him break even, or maybe even put him ahead a few. But his heart wasn't in it, his mind racing ferociously. He didn't even react as Nico took the slip from his hands and scrawled a few figures in his ledger before gesturing him to get out of the way. He slowly turned, and looked out over the crowd, his towering stature allowing him to see over the sea of sweating bodies that swarmed to the betting table. He was pushed by someone, and several others cursed; he was taking up quite a bit of space near the counters. People wanted him to move, wanted their money and fast.

Raenetyr was pushed again, and this time he pushed back, not even looking at who his aggressor was. The man fell to the floor with a dull crack, and a small gap opened in the patchy and rank-smelling quilt of drunk Sunberthians. He used the space to look out, his dark eyes darting frantically, searching for the giant who had won the brawl. He won when he should have lost. The thought echoed in his mind as he caught a glimpse of the bruised and bloodied figure. His stare flickered across the immediate area like a flood lamp. There. They stood too far back to be noticed by the casual eye. But they were untrained in the art of stalking, or they didn't realize they in turn were being watched. They were all bunched together, and their gaze was only fixed on one thing, or rather one person. The looks on their faces said it all. Some people bet their life savings on the arena, offering it all in a game of chance. They rarely liked it when they lost. And was that... Oh, for Fuck's sake. That's him. Right there, between the bastard with the big nose and the greasy one with the broken teeth. Raenetyr began shoving his way through the near immovable mass of people, a single shark swimming against the tide of struggling fish. Dira's cold hips, this was taking off faster than he would've fucking liked.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

"Sure yer not gonna count it?"

"Would you screw me over?" Nico's face twisted into a sneer before Nate added, "And risk me going to Johnny about how his place cheats the punters?"

That wiped it off good and proper. Johnny relied on the Casino's reputation for honest dealings... even if the reputation was somewhat more accurate than the reality. But of word got around from a fighter in his arena that he'd been cheated out of his rightful winnings by some scheming cunt at the gaming table, well, good luck getting events, Johnny.

More importantly for Nico, Johnny would find out who said cunt was and make his displeasure known over a period of days and a variety of sharp and blunt instruments.

So he just scowled and pushed the fat bag of miza's over to Nate, who pocketed it swiftly. Gods... he was a rich man now, by Sunberthian standards. Two hundred gold rims? That was food and drink and whores and herb for a whole season or more-

No. It's passage to Zeltiva and money for food and lodging for half a year, if you're not a twat with it.

The big man pursed his lips and nodded to himself, holding fast to that thought. As he limped through the crowd he cast off or ignored the back slaps, proffered tankards, questing hands of whores, always keeping his own firmly on his purse.

And the other around the brass knuckles in his pocket. He knew how dangerous it was to just have gold on you in Sunberth. People could smell it, feel it, taste it through the air and the clothes you wore. He needed to get home and soak his wounds, then he'd worry about his bright future.

"Ayyyy, nicely done, Big 'un!"

Nate managed a weary wave as he left Johnny's, and even that was a heroic exertion. His face felt swollen, more bruise than bone and blood... every step rattled shards of pain around his liver and kidneys, along with the promise of bloody piss... Gods, his nose... he'd have to reset that-

"Good night, wasn't it?"

Nate looked up, more bored than annoyed, too exhausted to even scowl-

He froze. Three men, looking at him not with congratulation but cold, simmering anger. He couldn't smell booze on them, but given the shape of his nose, petch it, who knew? Big Nose and Greasy Hair flanked a thin man with a ragged goatee, eyes alive with injured pride... one hand tapping the point of a dirk against the palm of the other.

"Like I said... good night for you, wasn't it?"

"... aye. It was."

"We bet on the Vantha. Made a packet off the first two fights. Woulda' made a fortune off the last, but now?" He patted himself down dramatically, his two lackeys breaking off and standing at Nate's sides, waiting expectantly. "Empty. I'd say you owe us, m-"

Fuck this.

Before Goatee had even finished, Nate twisted to his left and jerked his brass-ringed hand out with it, launching it in a short, sharp jab at Bit Nose's face. Utterly unprepared, the thug had just enough time to let his jaw drop before-

-a bit nose got even bigger, spread across his face and knocking him down like a sack of-

Then the cudgel hit him, low, kidney. Nate cried out and his body collapsed under him, betraying him after so long a night. Two bells before, he might have shrugged it off, at least enough to put a boot in Goatee's balls and then deal with the clubbed behind him. But the Vantha had drummed him, for sure, and he was too slow, too weak-

-to stop the hilt of the dirk crashing down onto the top of his head and shattering his vision like a mirror hit by a mace. Nate slumped, hand still gripping his purse; shaking even as he did, determined to at least make the fuckers cut his hand off to get it and then spend a tedious night prying his fingers off.

"Cocky fucking prick," he heard a disgusted voice spit from far away, right before it got dark, "Fuck making it quick, then. I know: let's see how you like what you have that Northern shyke, eh? Let's see those britches..."

Nate flailed and screamed and roared and snapped, but it all translated to but groaning and pitiful scratchings when his body got the messages. Too much. Too tired. But it was all he knew to do: couldn't run, couldn't talk them out of what they'd already decided... that left his fists. This time, they weren't enough.

Fucking... Sunberth...

Gambling Winnings+200gm

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Raenetyr Verogane felt like he was swimming in mud, wading step by step through the mire of shuffling people who crowded in on the table and bogged him down in the process. Of course, time was not on his side, as it rarely ever was, and he cursed his situation profusely. Why couldn't the giant have stopped to count his money, or even to get a drink? Anything would have been better than seeing the broad-backed champion stumble out the bar, only to be hounded by the trio of bastards that followed him.

Raenetyr spat, rather than whispered, a few choice words to the God of Fate, Lhex, as he finally made it out of the throng of people. He barged through the front doors and was greeted by a cool breeze, which ran its fingers across his grizzled face as it flitted past. The distinct noise of steel on sheathe could be heard as the bounty hunter freed his blade. His 3-ball bolas dangled from his belt, and he pulled the trapping weapon out as he frantically searched the streets. He heard a cry and started hurrying towards the source; the only thing that stopped him from sprinting was his caution. They might be more alert than he had thought, and the greatest worry of any bounty hunter was of walking into a trap.

Raenetyr glanced into an alley and saw a small group of men, whaling upon a figure that lay helpless on the ground. The person on the ground was quite large, and that was all Raenetyr needed to know. He stepped forward, the three thugs deaf to his footsteps, more than silenced by the rasping cries of the unfortunate fighter. The bounty hunter whirled back his bolas, which thrummed as it spun over his head. Another hundred gold mizas for the rapist, with a possible bonus if he lived a day or two, long enough that the slavers could teach him a lesson. And he might even get something for the greasy haired bastard, who was his brother. Yeah, they'd pay to see him suffer too. Would they kill him first, and make the molester watch?

His whirling thoughts got the better of him, and the bolas flew wide, hit one of the walls enclosing the narrow backstreet with a crack. Fuck, he'd need to work on his aim. The dredges of Sunberth glanced in that direction, their muscles tensing and their beating ceased. It gave Raenetyr the time he needed to close with the man closest to him, Big Nose, who spun around as he heard the encroaching footsteps. Raenetyr's greatsword hissed as it came down, but the man's turn caused the blow to glance off his chest. The blow carried all of the large man's strength, and it still cracked Big Nose's leather tunic and sent him sprawling as it deflected down into the muck underfoot.The two brothers had seen him by now, roared as they ran towards him. There was not much room to maneuver, giving the rapist and kin an advantage. But they were street rats, for fuck's sake! If they had realized that they faced a man who once wore the armor of the Syliran Order, they might have reconsidered their options.

Raenetyr knocked away the crude club that came at him, his sword held in one hand now. It meant that his strikes would carry less power than when he used a two-handed grip, but the hand-and-a-half sword was designed to be effective in either stance, and besides, this was a brawl. It was brutal street-fighting, and Raenetyr had adapted his style over the years until it had changed into something ruthless, as if a savage form of its older self. That was why he deflected the club with one hand; because his other hand, clenched into a fist, crunched into his target's face. Bloody mist sprayed across the wall, and the sound of dislodged teeth hitting wood was a dull rattle amid the din of battle.The dirk that had come so close to becoming buried in Raenetyr's side fell into the muck and was quickly stepped over.

But 'Brother,' already in a frenzy that many found in these street murders, had already swung his cudgel again. Raenetyr was barely able to bring his blade up in time, and the blackjack thumped his shoulder. The bounty hunter cursed as his sword was jarred from his hands. Brother raised his truncheon again, victory gleaming in his cruel eyes. But he did not realize how fast his opponent was; why would he have thought so? The man was several inches over six feet tall, and most fighters of that stature relied solely on their strength. But Brother was wrong, and his eyes widened as his foe let out a growling bellow and charged him. His club found nothing as the large man flew under his attack, and he felt the air punched out of him as he was bullrushed. He quickly lost his footing, and stars flew into his vision as he felt his back connect with something solid as he was plowed against the wall.

Raenetyr heard the rotten wood groan as it withstood the impact of both him and his rival. His arms strained as they pressed Brother against the ramshackle structure. He reared his head back and set his jaw; didn't want to bite his own tongue off when he connected. His forehead crunched into his adversary's skull, and he saw droplets of sweat fly from his long hair and fleck Brother's face before his eyes squeezed shut in pain. He bared his teeth and struck again, and again, the jarring impacts ringing in his aching head as he tried to bend the squirming brawler into submission. A hot warmth was spattering onto his cheeks and nose, and he could not tell if the blood was his own or not. Break him. He could barely process anything except the singular phrase that rang in his head with each stab of agony. Break him. It felt as if it took up the entirety of his being. Break him. The words throbbed in the deepest recesses of his brain, blocking out any hope of hearing the man he had come after in the first place, whose goatee stained with his own blood, his dirk clenched in his shaking palm.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

He should have been dead. No, that would have been merciful: he should have been in excruciating agony while that entitled little sadist and his cronies held him down and gelded him. Nate knew time could drag in such tumultuous moments, stretch into infinity almost... but not like this.

And never with such noise.

Bleary eyes swollen from the fight before finally blinked away the red-tinged pain and saw... a big man. A very big man, almost the same size as him, crashing and clanging with the men who'd been menacing him. A sword as long as a man flashed like grounded lightning and Big Nose went back screeching, tunic ripped through and chest laid open with a shallow slash. Goatee and Brother fell on this fresh foe like wild dogs, but... he was not such easy meat.

It all unfolded before Nate's eyes, the span of ticks stretching to bells. And as he blinked, and panted, and mastered the pain that brought him down to the cobbles... he felt the surprise like a whole new volley of blows.

He saved you, he thought as the towering man ran Brother into the wall and crushed his face under his broad, scarred forehead. In this fucking city...

Nate had been raised in Sunberth: the notion that it was out of sheer goodness and nobility was alien to him. No, there had to be some reason, some ulterior motive, and it could have been as simple as wanting that hefty purse he carried for himself. But in the moment, as Goatee stalked past him, dirk in one hand, bloody nose in the other, Nate was in no position to be choosy.

And one good turn deserved another.

"Carve out your fuckin' eyARRRRGH-!"

Goatee didn't have a problem with shanking someone in the back: safest place to put a blade, in his opinion. Moreover, anyone fucking with his blood had to either be a god or a madman, and Raen doing just that was enough for him to stave off the throbbing pain in his nose and look for a nice spot to stick-

-the kukri into the back of his knee, and twist it-

Nate grinned ferally as the jumped-up sack of dog shit howled into the night like a fowling cow. Goatee had ignored the groaning fighter, making the same mistake the Vantha had not a quarter-bell ago. As he lurched past, Nate had unsheathed his weapon, reversed the grip, drew back his arm under himself and when he was close enough...

Everyone thought the kukri as designed just for slashing. But if you knew how to hold it, the curved blade could stab just as good. Now it did: clean through flesh and ligament and tendon, scraping bone and when he twisted it-

-Goatee tottered to the cobbles with a clanging crash of metal and scraping leather. Nate was crawling on top of him seconds later, weight crushing him down, keeping his dirk-laden hand pinned under him-

-other hand letting go of the kukri and grabbing the back of his head by the hair, jerking it back-

THUNK!

There was that familiar wet, hollow thump, like a melon being rapped by a walking stick, as Goatee's skull smashed into the cobbles. He squealed again, blinded by the blood flowing from his brow now, still squirming-

-so Nate did it again... and again...

Only then did the twitching stop. Nate lay there atop the man, panting and coughing like a man post coitus, almost oblivious to Big Nose rising from the ground, doing much the same only with streams of scarlet oozing through his ruined doublet. A simple but sharp hatchet was produced from his belt and he had furious eyes only for Raen's back... and lunged-

Nate gasped all the air he could into his battered lungs-

"Behind you!"