Closed [The War Storm Pavilion] Embrace Violence

[Quzon]

84th Day of Winter, 516 A.V.
Noon/12th Bell

If there was one truth in life that Quzon knew, it was that his life was ending one chime at a time. He did his best to live each moment like a warrior. With no fear, no real distractions from what he wanted to do; whether his goal be moral or immoral. To let everything that didn't matter be cut away like a rotting limb so that be he live a victorious life. Just like he was taught in the Taloban Army: 'you must know, not fear, but know that someday you will die.' That was the thought he remembered shortly after waking up from his dreaming that day. It was what caused him to head down to the War Storm Pavilion to training, so that on the day he did die, he would go out in battle standing proudly on his feet.

Today, Quzon stood tall in a stance that did not belong to a wrestler. No. Today he practiced the techniques he was taught throughout his life by his family and even in the military. He held each of his hands out in front of his face parallel the width of his shoulders, with the underside of each fist facing towards his opponent; who happened to be his armored wooden training dummy. The position of his hands offered him the quick execution of several strikes with his entire arm.

He leaned in slightly, lifting his elbow in a crescent motion to strike the side of the dummies head with his elbow. He made sure to keep his feet at a shoulder length apart, never separating them too far just in case he wanted to enter a wrestling stance. He kept most of his weight on his hind leg as the rest of his body remained at a forty-five degree angle like his back foot. With most of his weight on his back foot, he quickly stuck forward with his knee. Bashing his knee against the tattered breast plate the dummy wore to make it seem more human.

Quzon stood there, a lone soul in only a loincloth, slowly shadow sparing with it, not striking fast, but working on setting the motions into his muscle memory. Taking a step back to kick out with his back leg, sending roundhouse kick into what would be the dummies ribcage. He then pulled his leg back into its proper place, then kicked out again with the same back leg. Once he was finished with a set of twenty kicks, he switched to do the same thing with his other foot by shifting into a southpaw stance.

[Konrad Venger]

If there was one truth that Konrad - or "Hansel", as Endrykas knew him - had embraced through is life, it was that people spouted some right wank if left too long with bugger all else to do. Such it was at the Pridesun Pavilion, where Sedon and the other hunters and trappers had all started swapping stories over the prizes won the night and morning beforehand. Fur was peeled away, meat jointed and sliced, but over it all, there had been stories. The kind of tavern table, bar room, camp fire jabbering that seemed to overcome men across the multiverse.

Konrad took about a quarter-bell of it, then left. Without saying why.

He strode through the ragged streets and impromptu lanes, all of them soon to be naught but grass and dirt again once the city moved on. He wound and sidled past carts and horses and goats and sheep and men. Mostly people moved for him; the benefit of looking like an Akila Hound's favorite chew toy.

Some nodded his way. Some that had come to know him. No smiles or greetings, but a nod. An upward tilt of the jaw. Once or twice, he even returned the gesture.

The Sunberth man sighed as he marched on, face half-hidden by his wide-brimmed hat. Things had changed so much. He knew they were soon to change again. Pridesun, that whore-spawned bag of bastard, wouldn't be satisfied with just some mouthy Sapphire Clan bitch torched. Hells, she hadn't even died, apparently. Just lost everything she'd owned, and Jonas had been... put out, by that failure. So it was only a matter of time before he asked more of Konrad, blackmailed and cajoled him into another ruinous crime.

Konrad had little issue with murder, for hire or otherwise. But he didn't like some ego-crazed "prophet" deciding whom for him. Not in this place, with the Web telling all who might want to ask what had happened.

So the scarred man was in an ill mood as he wound his way through the streets, until a dull, wet thudding hammered through his thoughts and he saw-

That petching savage again.

He didn't know Quzon. Not his name nor his story. But he'd seen him dance, and saw his ink, and knew he was (or counted himself) as one of that cunny Myri's sons. Without bidding or effort, hate tightened his fate and folding his hands to fists. Memories old and dusty yet fresh and deafening crashed into his eyes. That same ink. Stretched over an ugly face and towering over him, belt and bat or bloody knuckles rising over and over and over.

Back when he was helpless and small. Back when he couldn't end the bastard. Back before he could stop him... doing what he did.

So he watched, and he remembered, and he stewed in bitterness and bile so black that people swayed away from the strange man standing still in the street as if he radiated heat in the middle of an ice flow. Finally he snapped out of it. The big man built like two of him (if not as tall) had noticed him, and Konrad could move on... or not.

Instead, the taller, thinner man stepped closer to the Myrian, and took off is hat. He tossed it to one side and looked Quzon in the eyes as his hand dropped... undid his harness... and let his sword and kukri follow the hat.

Then he cracked his knuckles and smiled, stepping closer to the Akalak-built human with dark intent in his eyes. He waited for the man to ready himself. Goign straight at him would perhaps provoke the wrong reaction. Stupid sod might think he was being robbed, or some crazy walahk was trying to kill him.

He's a walahk, too.

He waited. He let the man study him, just like he'd been studying. Then when the man had settled into the stance he wanted, Konrad would-

-swing forward with a right boot aimed between the man's legs, pelvis jerking and swinging to amplify the blow-

-right hook straight on the heels of the down-and-dirty surprise attack, swinging for Quzon's temple the moment his foot snapped back onto the ground-

-left jabbing lower, straighter, going for a kidney but shyke, that size difference mattered. Instead he'd probably bruise his knuckles on rib bones as big as a bull's, then snap back his fists into something approaching a defensive posture.

Konrad wasn't one for the martial arts, at least not how he'd always heard of them. But he know a shykeload about being a sneaky cunning and battering the petch out of folks using anything he had to hand. He wasn't even expecting the tro of blows to do any real damage: he just wanted to see how Quson reacted.

No rush, he thought as he snapped back his stinging left hand. Let's see where this goes.

[Quzon]

Quzon wasn't entirely sure how to explain it, the feeling that washed over him in the split second following when his eyes locked with the others. Confusion, initially, as there had not been a single time that he could recall in all of the time since his military days when he felt as if he were in utter danger by a single person. He'd seen many people in his life who were disfigured, maimed, or altered by battle. So the scar wasn't what unsettled him. No, It was the hidden intent behind the mans eyes that caused a sliver of true fear to touch his heart. And so fear triggered an inherent quality within him. At the first sign of fright, he turned into a cornered animal ready to lash out at anything.

Oh, the pleasant urging of the sweet whisper rung through the back of his mind. 'burn him'. It echoed across his soul in attempt to cause him to turn djed into res. And res into lava. Quzon always assumed people wanted to fight for no reason alone other than to prove themselves better. As a half breed in Taloba, was the butt of many jokes as a child that led to others enjoying the satisfaction of having proof of their superiority.

Quzon felt the satisfaction of knowing he went down fighting... A blaze of glory.

He started moving, before he'd recognized it, as he entered the same fighting stance he was in previously. Letting his balled fist raise in preparation to block or strike out.

That was the sign that Quzon had given Konrad before the stranger started to disarm himself. It took him a moment to remember that he'd actually seen the man before, along time ago during the start of the season. In truth, he was really to busy at the time celebrating to remember the face of any other person he spoke to that day. The mans strange scar was the only thing that triggered his memory of the time.

The temptations of the sweet whispers were silenced by a single small gesture that Konrad made. The smile he made while cracking his knuckles. It served to bolster his pride as a warrior. Because he never backed down from a fist fight. And that outweighed all delusions.

Time always managed to feel like it had slowed to a crawl within the moments before a fight. His emerald green eyes staring through the gap between his closed fists, looking right at the strange mans chest, keeping an eye on the way he breathed, the intentions of the man's body language, the way he stood while fighting. “Was it a wrestling stance?... No.” He briefly thought to himself before trying to gauge the distance it take to strike, or be struck by, his target.

***

With his eyes trained on to Konrad's chest. The kick lost most of its shock and awe since he saw it coming. Quzon knew he wasn't the best or fastest fighter in the world, but he did know that he had strength through his natural physique and through training it.

That was why he used brute force to block the kick. Swinging his right arm in a downward, counter-clockwise motion so that his forearm would bash against the mans calf to Perry the kick aside.

The left jab was treated with the same lack of finesse. Quzon flexed his right bicep to tighten his his arm, then pulled it in front of the blow. Blocking his face from getting hit, but still felt the force of bare knuckle slamming against his arm. Both of his arms were too busy to block the last blow. He could feel his midsection force his body to lean slightly forward around the fist on impact.

He took no time to gather himself, only responded by using his low bow to barreling forward. Letting his heels dig into the ground as he traversed the very close distance between them. He ducked his shoulder low, aiming to try and force it into Konrad's torso as his arms swung around in attempt to grab the back of the mans thighs to aid him in possibly forcing the man to the ground.

[Konrad Venger]

Man that big got no business moving that fast.

Konrad had just about enough time for that thought to rattle jaggedly around his skull before the Myrian left him no time for anything else. Three times he'd lashed out, and every time thick slabs of muscle had blocked him. The man moved smoothly, effortlessly, like he'd seen the future and knew exactly where Konrad would be coming from. Waiting him out, absorbing his initial fury before-

The Sunberthian grunted as a shoulder like a boulder crashed into his chest, a massive hand seeming to squeeze the air out of his lungs. He'd seen the low charge coming, but Quzon could put weight behind his speed. He was driven back, feet scraping across the grass before his body started to react.

Hardly an original counter attack. Konrad had been there before, in brawls and bars and alleys. Man couldn't or didn't go for fisticuffs, so instead he sought to bring you down. Half a tick after Quzon wrapped his arms around him, Konrad's right arm shot up, high into the air-

-before dropping back down, bending as it went, slamming his elbow into the middle of a broad, muscled back. Once, twice, following it up with a knee that-

-never came.

With a curse that was both blasphemous and physically unlikely, Konrad felt his feet yanked from under him, and went down with a couple hundred pounds of psyched-up Myrian on top of him. Ground game, now, was it? Fine. Again he pounded his elbow into the man's back, and his left arm squirmed and wriggled, trying to get the Myrian in a headlock while his hips bucked and he tried to twist his legs over the other man's.

Tried to roll them over, reverse their position, put himself on top instead of the Myrian. For the moment, though, he focused on hammering with his elbow and keeping that bastard's head down. Because he knew if he let him up, and brought his fists to bear, with Konrad pinned under him, he was in trouble.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Quzon]

Quzon fought from moment to moment with no plan for the future. His usual breathing was disturbed by the fact he had been wincing in pain from the repetitions of a sharp elbow stabbing into his back. And just as it had happened, it disappeared, and what was left was painful grunt when their bodies toppled to the grass. As he laid sprawled out on top of the man, Quzon's mind drifted to the hazed over-given memories of when he was trapped underneath a grassbear. He couldn't remember the moment exactly, but he could remember the immobilizing pressure against his body. That instinct was what led him to focus on keeping himself from being turned over. The Myrian placed his hand against the ground as a brace to counter act Konrads effort to reverse their positions.

He also placed his knees onto the ground where they rested, lifting them slightly to give himself some amount of torque, swiveling at his hip to let his free arm swing along the line of momentum to smash his fist into Konrad's oblique muscle with solid hook... And another, and another. Hitting Konrad the exact same amount of times as the elbows that he'd taken.

Throughout the process, his head was pressed against Konrad's side when it was guided into the headlock. Quzon was fine with things staying on the ground, so didn't resist it that as much as the transition attempt.

The pale colored fist that hammered against Konrad's side moved to try and slide underneath the other mans waist, followed by his other hand as he pressed off of the ground with his knees. Trying to manhandle Konrad into a midsection bodylock.

It was painfully obvious that the Myrian was literally in the process of trying to pick Konrad up to undoubtedly slam him back onto the ground if nothing was done to stop it. Falling back to his default strategy of using his strength to solve all of his problems.

[Konrad Venger]

He didn't know what to do next, because nothing seemed to be working. His elbow hammered down, over and over, and it felt like slamming it into a piece of iron, not the back of a man. All the while he was biting back a yelp as a fist like a shovel bashed his ribs over and over, threatening to double him over but he couldn't even do that, not with Quzon's body jammed up against his own.

Brawny arms encircled his waist, and he could feel that bodybuilder's frame shifting and bracing under him. Gods, he was meant to be the one in control, but by the feel of it, the petching Myrian was the one with all the hands left to play. Konrad let loose an impotent snarl into the humid air and twisted hard and to his side-

-no breaking that bodylock, but it gave him the angel and room to snap his arm from around Quzon's neck from the back and twist it around his throat instead-

-other arm coming in from the side and behind to pin that rock of a skull in position with his forearm, as the arm around his throat flex, tightened-

Old trick Konrad had learned. You could use your forearm like a blunt object, just press it into the throat until the bastard's lights went out, but that could take a while, and be easily dislodged. Better idea? Slip his throat into the hollow of your arm, where it bent in the middle, and flex. Your biceps swelled, upper arm and forearm pressed towards each other... and the bastard's throat was in the way.

Konrad braced himself for the hammer-blow he knew was coming: him being the hammer, and the ground being the anvil. But he knew if he held on long enough, kept his arm tight and squeezing, soon Quzon's vision would blacken, shower with sparks and stars as he cut off his air... and that was all he had.

No getting out that grip. No going anywhere. So grin, bear it, and take your lumps.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Quzon]

Despite his savage visage, Quzon had had a long time to learn how to be patient. If not from his time learning discipline in the Taloban army, or during his time in Sultros where he learned that Izurdin; the literal god of strength and the epitome of power, also lorded over the domain of patience. That was why Quzon knew that he should have been wholly aware of the threat that the choke hold posed him; that he should have considered the wisdom in using his hands to pry the arm away from his throat.

He should have, yes, and if he was much given over to fright, he might have been afraid. As it was, he was simply beyond worry. The Myrian was fully committed to his next act. And committed to what he believed would allow him to escape the choke.

Now standing poised and ready with both of his bare feet placed firmly against the grass, he shifted the body-lock lower so that his biceps held a vice grip around Konrad's hips. As Quzon's breathing grew shallow, he tried to remain calm as he went through a, slowly hazing, mental check list.

"Control the hips." The words echoed through his mind, resisting as hard as he could from blacking out. "Brace the shoulder." Quickly following the thought by bashing his shoulder further into Konrad's midsection; practically carrying the man up in the air on it while the scarred man still held his neck.

Both of Quzon hands clasped tightly together behind Konrad's back as he held him in a tight bear hug.

-After taking one step forward, he used that motion to smash his hips in tight against where he held Konrad's waist. Then suddenly went into a deep squat, using the downward motion to build more momentum. He arched his back, then forced his torso to fall backwards while keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground during the squat.

It was a simple take down that Quzon only knew as a belly-to-belly suplex throw.

He used all of his strength to throw Konrad's body up and over his head. Every action used in attempt to slam Konrad, nape of the neck and shoulder first, onto the ground in hope that the force would harm Konrad enough to break the hold.

[Konrad Venger]

This is gonna fuc-

Konrad didn't even get the time to finish that one. Well, he could have, but when he touched down again (and wasn't that the most tasteful phrasing in history?), he was in no state for conscious thought. Everything north of his shoulder blades became a juddery, jangling, jittery mess for a handful of ticks. The world was one massive wave of pain that swamped every instinct and sense he seemed to have, and he was staked down in the path of it.

Apropos, considering the big bastard pinning him down.

His arm was shaken loose along with everything else, the Myrian's head popping loose and out of place tucked into Konrad's side. He could feel it working, feel Quzon weakening... just not enough. The bastard threw him up and down like he was a bag of trash, and Konrad was left coughing up at the sky with the man's head nearly in his lap-

No conscious thought. But that wasn't what won the gutter fights in Sunberth. Not when they got this desperate.

Seizing perhaps the last chance he'd get, Konrad roared out, getting the air and oxygen back into his lungs, glaring through eyes still exploding with black stars and opal quasars. The arms at his side swung inwards, hands cupped-

-slamming them both over Quzon's ears with enough force to rupture one. Well, at full strength, probably, but not at this stage. But Konrad just wanted pain, at that point; the distraction, enough of one that Quzon's iron grip would finally slacken.

And if that wouldn't do it, Konrad right arm would draw back and fire off a short, sharp, three-knuckle punch to the bastard's temple, instead. Between that and the blow to his ears, that would send shocks of pain and dislocation trembling down that brawny body and allow Konrad to kick out with his knees, roll the Myrian off and him out from under, get at least some distance before the monster came charging in at him again.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Quzon]

There was a hard visceral thud as Quzon felt his ear scream in pain. If Quzon had time to think it, he would have laughed at the irony of a screaming ear that deafened itself. However, he was simply too distracted by the bright lights that glittered through his vision with every slam of that fist against his head. His equilibrium was slightly off, but he let go of Konrad to roll off of the man to avoid any more punches to the head.

If Quzon were a stronger man, less intelligent man, he'd have blocked each blow with a head butt, but at the moment, he resigned himself to a tactical retreat. Rolling to the left and onto his knees to avoiding that right three-knuckled punch which would have surly put a strain on his waking concept of reality... or in less fancy wording befitting his poor common vocabulary, knocked him the petch out.

Quzon quickly shuffled to his feet, trying to be the first one standing upright so that he could kick the prone man, like how someone would kick a ball across a field. -But the Myrian aimed to drive his foot into the Konrad's side, and if not the side then Quzon just wanted to smash his leg heavily into whatever body part the man might chose to block with if he didn't get out of the way.

[Konrad Venger]

There was no time to plan or strategize; barely any time to think before the brute was on him again. Whatever damage he'd done to the Myrian, it didn't seem to last long. He shrugged it off in the time it took the sellsword to roll away and get up to one knee. When Konrad jerked his head up at the shadow falling over him, he already knew who it was-

-just like he knew he couldn't do much to stop the kicking swinging towards him-

So don't.

Konrad didn't try to block the foot and shin hurtling towards him with his forearms; instead, he just braced himself for the impact... and readied his hands. A hammer blow crashed into his torso as he knelt, and he felt ribs grind together and one of them creak and crack in agony.

He grunted. He gasped. He swallowed. It was just pain. The inheritance of his life. Every season of every year brought fresh forms of it, and a kick from some scabby savage from the jungle couldn't compare to what he'd already survived. Besides, this pain was no surprise: it was part of his plan.

The tick Quzon's foot hit him, his arms snapped shut around his shin, holding him there on one leg-

-not giving him time to punch or kick with his other foot before the hand on the inside of his legs slammed up-

-between his legs. Konrad didn't know what Quzon thought this fight was, but he sure as shyke didn't go in for all that "nobility of single combat" bollocks he'd heard so much about outside of Sunberth.

Shyke just gets you killed.

Konrad gave Quzon barely a tick or two to absorb and truly comprehend the agony of having five callused knuckles backed by an arm of sinewy muscle crash into your scrotal sack, before he used the rest of his leverage. Still clutching Quzon's leg with his other hand, Konrad heaved himself up from one knee to both feet, roaring as he did so, using his full height advantage to unbalance and then throw the cock-bruised Myrian backward.

Once he was up on his feet, and Quzon was either on his back or staggering away from him, Konrad would decide what to do next... and try to ignore the pain that came with every breath, Quzon's boot to his side doing more damage than he'd ever admit.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.