63rd of Summer, 518 AV, 16th Bell, 42nd Chime.
A brawl broke out, and for once Kreig wasn’t the cause.
No, truly, for once he wasn’t the cause.
It all started all normal like as these tend to be, Kreig himself was at his usual spot at the bar with a mug of ale, ears stretching about to listen to discussing their days, their complaints, and their drunken banter. The usual assortment of laborers, shop-keepers and thugs spread about the place at their tables resting their weary selves from the trials of the day with food and drink.
All in all it was a typical day at the Pig’s Foot, but of course, typical days usually had the misfortune to disrupted. A card game at the table with low stakes, yet with the air of seriousness one could have misconstrue it with a life or death situation soon erupted into disagreement, one accusing the other of cheating while the accused fervently denies cheating.
Truth or false, the result was the same as the first punch was thrown.
Like oil to flame it soon spread rapid, either it was the drunken air or the opportunity to vent frustration. For Kreig these brawls, while fun and he tended to enjoy them immensely, failed to challenge him in ways that mattered anymore and he hadn’t partaken in enough drink to want to join in.
The brawler, dressed in a gray shirt and dark brown trousers, a pair of gloves covering his scarred hands, tilted his brimmed hat back slightly as he watched the proceedings. The fights were amusing, but part of Kreig couldn’t really call them fights in spite of the corner of his lip tugging upward lightly. Undoubtedly some showed a degree of knowledge and skill on fighting, but Kreig felt that if he put those people in Tall Johnny’s caged pit they’d be less than amateur entertainment.
“Oy, Kreig!” Came a voice sounding slurred and aggravated, turning his head to note a familiar face of a drunkard… well, familiar enough to tug at the memories but only just so. The drunk figure approached with an angry swagger as if about to tear Kreig a knew one “I ain’t forgettin’ the beatin’ ya gave me las’ you son of a wh- “ Whatever he was about say last ended abruptly as Kreig’s foot raised quick and hard as it struck between the man’s legs, hitting where no doubt many a disease clung and knocking the will to fight out of him.
As he fell to his knees, Kreig bent his knee and pulled the foot back, before launching it forward so that the sole of his boot smashed into his forehead and shoved the bastard on his back. Kreig could only sight as he grabbed his tankard of ale and chugged it all down as he got up, cracked the joints in his neck and looked forward at the sea of violence.
“Gods above, now I’m jus’ petchin’ irritated” He let out quietly as he stepped forward “Guess I might be lettin’ off some steam” And with that, the Son of Sunberth jumped into the fray.
.
x
A brawl broke out, and for once Kreig wasn’t the cause.
No, truly, for once he wasn’t the cause.
It all started all normal like as these tend to be, Kreig himself was at his usual spot at the bar with a mug of ale, ears stretching about to listen to discussing their days, their complaints, and their drunken banter. The usual assortment of laborers, shop-keepers and thugs spread about the place at their tables resting their weary selves from the trials of the day with food and drink.
All in all it was a typical day at the Pig’s Foot, but of course, typical days usually had the misfortune to disrupted. A card game at the table with low stakes, yet with the air of seriousness one could have misconstrue it with a life or death situation soon erupted into disagreement, one accusing the other of cheating while the accused fervently denies cheating.
Truth or false, the result was the same as the first punch was thrown.
Like oil to flame it soon spread rapid, either it was the drunken air or the opportunity to vent frustration. For Kreig these brawls, while fun and he tended to enjoy them immensely, failed to challenge him in ways that mattered anymore and he hadn’t partaken in enough drink to want to join in.
The brawler, dressed in a gray shirt and dark brown trousers, a pair of gloves covering his scarred hands, tilted his brimmed hat back slightly as he watched the proceedings. The fights were amusing, but part of Kreig couldn’t really call them fights in spite of the corner of his lip tugging upward lightly. Undoubtedly some showed a degree of knowledge and skill on fighting, but Kreig felt that if he put those people in Tall Johnny’s caged pit they’d be less than amateur entertainment.
“Oy, Kreig!” Came a voice sounding slurred and aggravated, turning his head to note a familiar face of a drunkard… well, familiar enough to tug at the memories but only just so. The drunk figure approached with an angry swagger as if about to tear Kreig a knew one “I ain’t forgettin’ the beatin’ ya gave me las’ you son of a wh- “ Whatever he was about say last ended abruptly as Kreig’s foot raised quick and hard as it struck between the man’s legs, hitting where no doubt many a disease clung and knocking the will to fight out of him.
As he fell to his knees, Kreig bent his knee and pulled the foot back, before launching it forward so that the sole of his boot smashed into his forehead and shoved the bastard on his back. Kreig could only sight as he grabbed his tankard of ale and chugged it all down as he got up, cracked the joints in his neck and looked forward at the sea of violence.
“Gods above, now I’m jus’ petchin’ irritated” He let out quietly as he stepped forward “Guess I might be lettin’ off some steam” And with that, the Son of Sunberth jumped into the fray.
.
x