Brawl in the Tavern (Finished)

[Garett]

Date: 48th Day of Fall, 510 A.V.

In a small out-of-the-way tavern, a lone figure sat at a table. He hadn't been at that particular tavern in a while, ever since... Well, it didn't matter now, seeing as they had cheap food that didn't taste like things that you take out of the garbage. He knew what that tasted like very well, and didn't care for it one bit. Normally, he didn't go to such taverns, and stayed in the back alleys eating whatever people threw away. Or at least what was left of it by the time other people got there. But finally, after much effort, he had acquired a hoard of Mizas. Although none of them were gold (gold Mizas were very likely to attract attention) he had amassed an amount large enough to buy him many feasts. Not that he was going to buy feasts, of course. He was more practical than that. Most of it he had hidden in a safe place that no one knew about, but he had kept a few coins with him. It never hurt to have a little money on you, but never to much. To much would attract thieves like a fly to honey, and Garett certainly didn't want that.

Garett never had enjoyed being the center of attention, preferring to stay back and watch the drunkards brawl over who was the stronger. This wasn't to say that he couldn't fight, though. He had been in a few fights in his time, and although he had not always won, the injuries the other people had gotten had made them wary of fighting him again. The last time he had come to this tavern, a fight had broken out, and he had almost killed a person. It was mostly a fluke, but it was still him who did the deed. Garett still wasn't sure what had happened to that person, but he honestly didn't care. He hadn't cared about anyone since... Well, he had never cared about anyone. They just weren't worth his time.

"...Hey! I'm talking to you!" A burly man heavily shoved Garett on the shoulder, and Garett turned around slowly.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Garett asked the man with a look that could sour milk. He didn't like when other people talked to him, much less shoved him. But if he wanted to get into a fight, he wouldn't have been having a meal.

"Yeah, there is!" The man said boisterously, "I think it was you who nearly killed my friend Frekie! Yeah, it was you!" The man looked angry now, but Garett retained his cool composure.

"Ah, so that was his name. By the way you talk about him, I assume he's still alive. A pity. The would would be a bit better off without another scumbag like him around to sully it."

"That's it, you're dead punk!" The man threw a punch at Garett, who held up his plate as a defense. The plate must have been made of stronger stuff than Garett had expected, or the burly man was just weak. No matter. Garett ducked under his table, seeing that other people were beginning to get up and attack each other. Garett sighed. Why did this happen almost every time he went out?

[Geras]

Geras walked into the tavern, wasting no time in purchasing his drinks. The bartender relatively knew him by now, so he didn't have to worry about mustering up courage to speak. He ordered two mugs of beer and slammed the miza on the table. He then occupied a stool and lifted the beer to his lips. Moments away from his drink, he heard someone say,"...Hey! I'm talking to you!". A clear sign that bar-wide brawl was about to start.

He turned to see a rather large man shoving another patron. The other man was slightly smaller than his challenger (yet taller than Geras) and dressed in dark. He seemed fairly confident as he was shoved, keeping his cool during the brief conversation that followed. Not long after came the "you're dead", followed by the punch, which the man surprisingly blocked, with a dinner plate no less, and then finally, the brawl.

Chaos quickly ensued and all the irritated patrons proceeded to battle, for either profit, revenge, or stress release. Geras brawled for the final reason. He stood up, chugged his beer, and then threw his mug aside, walking into the fray. It didn't take long for a muscular, disgruntled man to come up to him. "Oi, you," he shouted, pointing a finger at him. "who do ya think you are, walkin' 'round with all that armor? Somebody's gotta put you in your place!" This was a terrible fight-starter comment in Geras' opinion, considering how a chain shirt could barely even be considered armor at all.

"Is that a challenge?" He responded. "Alright, then don't disappoint me!"

[Markus Boadicea]

Markus sat quietly in a dark corner. Quite contented with the lack of service and company. He wasn't particularly hungry and certainly didn't want to socialize with this pack of dogs. The sounds of the Idiotic and the intoxicated buzzed throughout the tavern. Somewhere in that noisy sea of criminals a woman shrieked. Markus wasn't sure whether she was in pleasure or pain. To be honest, he didn't care. So Markus turned his attention away from the whirlwind of activity of the tavern's other occupants.
He noticed that his pocket was still heavy with the coin that he had managed to persuade a few travelers to give him a couple days back. Markus had spent most of it here, in this pathetic, little excuse of a city.
'I cannot wait until I run out or get it stolen by some despicable urchin. Just so I can leave this place... Urrgh, everything in this freaking place smells like beer and fornication'

Suddenly a loud metallic bang rushed through the tavern which was almost imminently followed by an uproar of activity.
' Damnit, can't this bloody town go for one day without a riot?'

Markus sighed heavily and rose to his feet. From the corner of his eye he spotted some erratic movement. As he turned he came face to face with some enraged drunkard sprinting across the room towards him with a dinner knife held over his head. Markus didn't hesitate, he suspected on of these idiots might try and pull a fast one on him, being a stranger and all. Imminently Markus pulled his right arm back while using the fingers on said arm to retrieve the dagger concealed within the sleeve of his coat and then he braced himself for the next move.

[Garett]

As far as drunken brawls go, this one got out of hand very quickly. Most of the chairs were smashed into pieces, usually over someone's head. Someone landed next to the table, which was miraculously still intact, under which Garett was hiding. Garett shoved the man away, just in time to block an incoming chair leg. The man slumped, blood dripping from a wound on his head. He might have been dead, he might not, but Garett didn't really care. Suddenly, a hand grabbed Garett by the shoulder and pulled him out into the brawl. The hand belonged to the same person who had started the fight.

"You can't hide from me, you little git!" The man yelled at Garett, but then let out a scream of pain as Garett cut his hand off.

"You really shouldn't grab," Garett said with a voice just audible above the roar of the fight, "I hear it's considered impolite." The man screamed again, and threw a punch at Garett. Garett positioned his knife to where the man planned to strike, and let the man's own momentum drive the knife into his hand.

"Argh!" The man screamed, trying to pull the knife out of his hand, only to realize that he didn't have a hand to pull it out with.

"Allow me to assist you with that," Garett said, grabbing the knife and yanking it out. The man was on the ground, almost whimpering with pain, but just barely keeping his mouth closed. "This is why you don't mess with me," Garett said with a cold voice, "Because the person who will get messed with, in the end, is you." Then he kicked the man in the ribs, and walked towards the exit.
Before Garett could get to the door, however, someone punched him in the side of the face. "You'll pay for that..." Garett said menacingly, and slugged the person back in the face. The person fell onto someone else, and they both fell to the floor, where they were trampled by the mad fighting. 'Serves him right,' Garett thought, already knowing that there would be a bruise on his face the next day.

The way to the door was already blocked by more brawlers, causing Garett to sigh. It seemed to Garett that when he was around, fights started quickly and ended slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone trying to slam a bottle over his head. Garett sidestepped, causing the man to overshoot, and then slammed his knee into the man's face. The man's head went up, and then he fell over. But almost as soon as that one was down, another person came up to meet Garett. It was going to be a long night...

[Geras]

Geras wasn't a man for tactics, nor did he bruise easily, so he merely punched repeatedly until his foe fell, unless they drew a weapon. That was the fun of a brawl when compared to an actual battle. There was all the danger of death, but no need for thinking. The happy-go-lucky Geras found himself smiling whenever he fought, which occasionally yielded a response from his opponents. This, unfortunately, was the case here.

The brawler landed a fist straight into the center of Geras' face. "Ow," He said with a chuckle as blood trickled from his nose. "I think my nose is broken. Won't let you get away from me now!" His tone made it sound like he was joking with a friend, and his wide smile never faded, even for a moment. He then uppercutted the man's jaw, knocking him back into a wall. His opponent composed himself and looked back at him, his confident bully air mostly gone.

"You're insane! Good thing I know how to deal with a psycho," the patron said, drawing a dagger that was strapped to his belt.

I am NOT a psycho! thought Geras, who decided to draw the large claymore strapped to his back. "Do ya' really think that little thing can stand up to my blade?" The man rushed at him in an attempt to stab. As he charged, Geras swung his four-and-a-half foot blade in a wide circle, slamming it into the man's skull as he came in range. It seemed, though, that Geras forgot there's not much free room during a tavern brawl, and that he had interrupted several small fights, and slashed many brawlers in the foolish attack. Now Geras stood there with half the tavern against him, and yet his smile still stood. "Bring it on, I've fought more bandits at once than this," he said. He had battled several bandits at once, but he lied when he said he'd fought more than this. He just hoped luck would bail him out of the bad situation, like it always did.

[Markus Boadicea]

Markus held his stance as the drink maddened man recklessly ran towards him knocking over tables and chairs as he went. By this time Markus had coxed the dagger out of it's compartment and had positioned it appropriately. Now Markus could focus on his footing. The mad man is almost upon him, about 3 meters or so. Finally the man executed his attack; after leaping over a table the man brought his knife down toward Markus' shoulder.
Markus strode straight into the drunkards attack and brought his dagger forward with every bit of force he had in his arm. As Markus anticipated the man's blade missed entirely and instead is forearm made contact with Markus's shoulder. His left arm went around to the mans back pushing the man into him, hence closing the trap. A feeling of satisfaction washed over Markus as he felt the warm liquid dripped off his right hand. Markus actually almost smiled. Glancing down, he could see that his dagger had been driven into the man's gut. Markus heard a gasp of pain or perhaps of surprise and a metallic cling as the man's knife fell from his grasp. Markus' left had stopped the man from pulling away as the man struggled. The amusement this caused Markus may have actually caused a smile to break across his face.
For a few seconds Markus relished his victory, the only thing that sullied the moment was the man's horrid odor, obviously this man slept in a pig sty. Markus detected a few more pained grunts and gasped escape from the man's throat. The shock was fading, his struggles were getting more violent. Markus knew he had to end this man quickly before this got messy. Markus bent his neck so that his head was directly next to that of his dieing opponent.
Markus didn't really expect and answer so he was slightly surprised when the drunk man managed to choke out his final words.
"Go... to hell..."

Markus pulled his blade out of his adversary, the man responded with a gasp and Markus whispered into the man's ear.
"... After you."

Markus plunged his dagger into the man's stomach again and again and again with startling speed. The only sound the man managed to make was a single long gasp before he went silent. Markus removed his blade and stepped back from his opponent as he fell to the floor. The man's stomach and lower portion of the chest were covered in numerous bloodied holes from his dagger. The man's face was covered in grime and dirt, but that was alright, he didn't want to identify him. Markus looked around slowly, everyone was still attacking each other. At the very heart of the brawl was a single man fighting off numerous bar rats with a sword. Markus looked down at his dagger which was drenched with the filthy man's blood and shook his hand in front of him in order to remove some of the blood. After a few seconds Markus realized it was pointless and instead turned his gaze back to the fight. The exit appeared to be obstructed by that swordsman and his various opponents. Markus also noted that he was likely to get pulled into a fight if he stayed here. Seeing no way past Markus returned his blood covered dagger to it's hiding place in his coat sleeve. Carefully he navigated the fighting trying to stay close to the wall until he was right next to a small group of bandits, three maybe four, who were attacking the swordsman's flank. Markus quickly examined the fight, at least seven, including the swordsman and more were coming from further with the tavern. Unfortunately for them they were blocking the exit. Markus positioned himself, placing his right hand on the hilt of the sword which rested on his waist. Markus drew his weapon making sure that the weapon struck as many bandits as possible. There were howls of pain everywhere as several injured bandits turned to fight the new swordsman.
'I guess there is no going around it...'

Markus readied himself as the enraged group of delinquents advanced on him.
'...I will have to kill them all.'

[Garett]

After finishing with his latest opponent, Garett stepped back into the shadows for a second to observe the fight and try to find the best way out. The closest way to the exit was blocked by some moron with a sword and a ridiculous orange cape...

Who brings a sword to a barfight? Garett thought, but pushed those thoughts away as another person came up to him, screaming and holding a broken chair leg above his head. Garett sidestepped the awkward downward attack, grabbed the makeshift weapon, yanked it from the man's hand, then slammed it over the man's head. The man fell to the ground, and didn't get up. This was probably the most violent bar fight he had ever been in, and that was saying something. It didn't look like he was the only one holding his own, though.

It appeared that the best three people that were fighting were himself, another person with a sword, and surprisingly, the moron with the cape. Seriously, what's with bringing swords to a barfight? Garett thought, annoyed. It was a major breach in what little etiquette barfighting had; the only weapons you could use were fists, whatever you could find around you, and occasionally daggers. Before Garett could contemplate it further, another man charged at him, this one with a dagger. The man made a horizontal swing with the dagger, but Garett was ready for him. Garett ducked, and then swung his leg around towards the man, tripping him. Garett then took his dagger and ripped open the man's stomach, deciding that if everyone else was going all out, he would as well.

More and more bodies were piling up, most of them looking quite dead with major cuts. A lot of them were from Garett, but there were also quite a few from the other two fighters. Garett was getting tired, but this was no time to stop fighting. He punched a man in the face, right before driving a dagger into his heart. Suddenly, Garett fell over, tripped by a stray foot. Before he could get back up, someone else kicked him. He rolled to the side, and thankfully got under a table. But, just his luck, something made the table collapse. Thankfully, he was able to stand up, but not before getting punched in the stomach. He was definitely going to hurt in the morning...

[Niera]

With a sigh Niera sat at a table quietly in the corner, she watched the commotion from the beggining. The one who started the whole thing off was a man who had killed some guy called Frekie, she heard the comment he made under his breath thinking he was an idiot if he thought he could say that and avoid trouble. Niera wore her dark black tunic with black trousers and quietly drank while some fools around her were getting in a ruckus, she could hear every word being said thanks to her senses and see every movement. Her golden eyes peered out from the corner watching to see who was the stronger of the lot, when she looked around she saw three figures fighting vigilantly for thier lives, bodies of men piling upon each other. The three men who were fighting were impressive, one in plate, one weaing a strange claok and the other with a sword. The noise was far to loud, in order to stay hidden Niera hid herself within the shadows. She didn't want to get involved with this.

Suddenly Niera saw a man fall over infront of her, he looked in trouble. One of the men tried broke the table lef off of the table she was sitting at which spilt her drink. With a sigh Niera got up and punched the man in the temple knocking him to the floor unconcious, then calmly walked toward the other men who were too busy hitting and punching away at the man on the floor to notice her. Walking up behind them she sighed and banged thier heads together to make them dazed. The men wobbled for a second, the dagger now on the floor. With a smirk she walked infront of them and elbowed both of the men in the face and watched them topple on the floor behind her.

With an predatory glare she looked down at Garett unimpressed. Her golden eyes staring into his eyes like an adult who is ashamed in thier child. Saying nothing Niera picked up the dagger from the floor and put it in her belt. Then picking up her mug she took it behind the counter, the patrons were all fighting or dead on the floor. Niera helped herself to the ale, found another table and sat down. A man who was looking for a fight looked at her in anger, it was obvious that it was this man's friends she had just taken down. Giving the man a glance of warning the man looked at her with a frightened look, her aura that of a hungry predator waiting to kill. The man decided he would try and pick on somebody else and leave her alone, quietly Niera carried on drinking while the ruckus around her carried on.

[Markus Boadicea]

Blood splattered Markus' face as he cut down another man.
'..Three... that’s all of them.'

Markus turned back to the first swordsman having disposed of those annoyances. Although, Markus did briefly ponder why none of those drunk fools had drawn swords. Did they really underestimate him that much? Evidentially Markus didn't have time to conclude that thought. For as soon as he turned he was confronted with a dagger-wielding drunkard who viciously swiped at Markus' face. Markus' quickly ducked, barely managing to avoid a devastating wound to his throat, however the dagger did manage to make contact with him, creating a shallow cut on his cheek. Ignoring the sharp stinging pain in his cheek, Markus pulled his sword back and drove the blade straight through the man's kneecap then quickly withdrew his weapon. A howl of agony rippled across the room as the man collapsed before Markus. Markus rose from his crouching position, and looked down on the man who was thrashing on the ground, trying to nurse his wounded leg.
'I should kill you... but it is far crueler to let you suffer through life with your affliction.'

Half a dozen more men were rapidly advancing on him, screaming and waving their various melee weapons. Grasping his sword tightly, Markus cut down two more men; their blood coloured Markus' long sword a crimson hue. These doomed men scrambled backwards pulling their associates (and anyone else who was behind them at the time) to the floor. Markus noted that their screams were no longer ones of feisty valour, rather of bewildered fear. Markus strode over to the struggling pile of intoxicated men, being careful to step over the dead or unconscious bodies underfoot. Markus stood before his downed enemies who were still struggling to push off their half dead comrades in order to save themselves Markus took advantage of this opportunity brought his weapon above his head. Their screams and pleading became shrill as Markus brought his weapon down repeatedly in a flurry of savage downward blows until Markus was satisfied that all of his opponents were either dead or dying. In was only after Markus had systematically slaughtered every one of those dogs did Markus realise that he was drenched in blood.
Markus looked around the ruined tavern. Most of the taverns occupants were downed, injured or dead. The majority of few men left were completely blood drunk, if they weren't wildly bashing each other they were looting the bodies of the people they were joking and laughing with just earlier. The other swordsman was still alive as well, at the moment he was striking enemies at all sides and remarkably he was holding his own. Markus cautiously approached the other swordsman.

[Geras]

"Damn it, Damn it, DAMN IT!" Geras shouted repeatedly as he cut down the enemies around him. "This is all wrong! I thought brawlers were supposed to beat each other senseless, not try to murder the first person they see!" At last the smile was gone, and his face held a more irritated look. This was a tavern brawl, not a massacre. Few patrons remained standing by now, but most of them continued coming after him. He was starting to regret bringing his claymore.

Geras had amassed several cuts and bruises on himself, and a throwing knife or two in his arm, yet he kept swinging. This stopped being fun quite a while ago. At last, the foes began to retreat, and soon he was able to exit his partial berserker rage and calm down. He took a moment to survey the damage. Bodies everywhere and looters galore, with only a few drunkards brawling anymore. The man who was involved in starting the brawl was now on the ground after taking a beating. He seemed like a brainy type anyway. There were two others standing who remained calm, another swordsman and a woman. I guess i'm lucky only cannon fodder came after me this time, he thought, putting away his sword. He pulled the knives out of his arm tossing them aside and looked at himself. He was covered in blood and wounds, sword and armor stained and chain shirt torn. He groaned and walked over to one of the looters. "How much ya got," he asked, throwing the man to the wall.

"Take it all, just don't kill me!" he whimpered, tossing Geras a small leather sack and running away.

Geras looked to the bar and saw his second mug was still there. "It's a miracle," He yelled triumphantly, his smile returning. He sat on the bar and picked up the mug, taking gulps sparingly instead of chugging like usual. He looked around and one thought came to mind. Where did the bar keeper go during all of this?