Almund is a thriving township with a dark side. With houses made from the wooden bodies of decommissioned ships, there are many opportunities here, coupled with many dangers.
Max dropped her hand down from her forehead to clasp Tilda's wrist. The bartender's brow rose in surprise and her eyes dipped down to eye the Rusalka's grasp as though she didn't believe it was really there. Several of her loyal regulars stopped to do the same, fists clenching and eyes narrowing. The tension in the room was palpable. "Just the one," Max explained as though she wasn't aware she was on the verge of being jumped. Understanding illuminated in place of concern in Tilda's gaze, and Max promptly released her grip. The bartender took the second cup in her hand and returned it beneath the bar counter. Max filled the one that remained with whiskey from the fresh bottle she purchased.
Every once in a while she couldn't help but glance about the room. It was stupid. Every time she did it she ended up taking a good sip of whiskey as righteous punishment. There was no reason the long-haired man with the ornate, feathery cloak should appear at the Buckle and Chain Tavern again. It had been a fling. An intriguing, satisfying fling but a short fling nonetheless. Like the others, she'd spent him and fully expected to never see him again. It was better that way. There was nothing worse than forcing weird small talk when one bumped into an old one night stand. Still, she caught herself accidentally hoping he'd walk back through the door anyways. She shook her head as though the simple gesture to will the thought of him away.
"Please, baby," a bearded fiend coaxed with a pout several seats down. He leaned toward a young prostitute with a childish pout. "Scram, Mark," the woman brushed him off, removing her red-tipped finger from a small makeup container to fix her smeared lipstick. "Last time you didn't pay. I'm done with bums." Max rolled her eyes and took another drink. The man sighed and took the whore's finger away from her lips to secure her attention. "I told you I was a trial away from my wages. I've got money, baby, please. Just a few bits out back, huh?" The man kissed the hand he was holding, only to find it waving him away thereafter. Max shook her head and Tilda even seemed to roll her eyes at the display.
"Oi! Max!" a familiar voice boomed before a Buckle and Chain regular, Paul, settled into a stool beside her at the bar. "Get a cup for me?" "Piss off, Paul," Max said with a half smile. "I'm too broke to share." "Ain't that the piss poor truth. Tilda! Sweetheart, I'll have an ale when you've the chance."
Boxcode Credit: Poppy
Last edited by Max on Sun Jan 07, 2018 8:09 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 472
Paul made a show of flicking a Nel in the air of Tilda to catch just as his ale arrived before him. The bartender, used to his theatrics by now, snatched the coin from the air with an amused smile before sauntering to the other side of the bar. Paul took a long drink, smacked his lips, and then noisily dropped the mug back onto the counter's surface. "So," he mused with a charming grin. "What did I miss? Let the Hounds test their knuckles on your face again?" "Shhh," she scolded him, glancing over her shoulder to see if his comment drew attention. "Relax." "Loudest mouth in Almund, I swear." "And the biggest dick." Paul waggled his eyebrows and took another drink. Max couldn't help but breathe a laugh before returning to nurse her whiskey.
Her mind wandered toward The Kennels at Paul's mention of her "test" given by Gibney. Despite the blows she'd taken to the head and the fact she'd kept her mouth shut, Dana still gave her the shit contracts every time she walked in. Scroll and small package deliveries. Standing next to a merchant in the marketplace. It had all been unimportant, tedious work. Clenching her fists when she heard the details of more prestigious jobs given to other Hounds was all she could do to keep quiet. Paul had reminded her she simply needed to pay her dues. While simple at face value, it was a strategy that required patience. That was a virtue Max simply didn't have.
"Seriously though," Paul broke in. "Anything new?" "Nah," Max admitted with a shrug. "Same old. You get a proper job yet?" Paul choked on his ale. "Soon." Soon? You said that last time we talked about it." "Gods, you sound like my old lady!" "You have one?" "No." "Get a job and maybe you will," she pointed out with a raised brow. Paul waved her off before he seemed to finally catch onto the antics of the man and the whore a couple seats over. Sure enough, the man was still pleading with the whore to forgive his past behavior and serve him. "This been going on for a bit now?" Paul gestured toward the other pair with his thumb. The expression on his face was disgusted disbelief. "Oh yeah," Max quietly groaned. The Buckle and Chain was never known for being a tame place. Getting proper peace and quiet in such an establishment was a fantasy, but usually the drunken antics she was subjected to were less bothersome than this. Paul shook his head and spun back to face forward in his stool.
As far she she could tell, they were about to get into the same pattern. It usually started with drinks at the bar. Then, once some other familiar faces rolled in, they'd break into gambling of some sort. Naturally she chose to participate in games of chance now that she knew she could manipulate the outcomes for her benefit. It was an easy way to earn some extra Nel on the side at the very least. Part of her was beginning to fear Paul was catching on to her though.
It didn't take long for a few more of those familiar faces to show. As always, a trio of brothers entered and made haste to occupy their usual table closer toward the quiet section. Paul noticed their arrival the trill the door opened. He turned toward Max and gestured toward the group with hopeful eyes. Max held up five fingers. Her friend shrugged but made no protest of her delay. With drink in hand he exchanged his stool at the bar for a seat at the card table, leaving the Rusalka to get to finishing the drink still left in her cup.
"Please, Veronica," the pathetic man down the bar implored the whore yet again. "I need you now, baby." "Mark, stop!" "I know you don't really mean it. I know you miss me. One more chance!" "Mark! I said stop!" "Holy shit," Max finally snapped with hands on her temples. The arguing pair turned their attention away from one another, both jaws open with surprise. Max turned her own head to face their gazes. "She doesn't want your crusty ass. Shut the fuck up! Gods dammit." Some of the other patrons began to snicker. Someone had finally said what most of them were apparently thinking. Mark, on the other hand, was not laughing. "What did you just say to me?" he boomed, clutching Veronica's wrist a bit tighter than before. The prostitute looked up at him with wide eyes. Max just took a long drink of whiskey. That only made Mark more irate. "I'm talking to you, bitch!" A mild hush fell upon the tavern crowd.
"I wouldn't advise that, mate," Paul whistled from the back of the tavern. "You're hurting me!" Veronica whimpered after a vain attempt to tug her wrist free from her ex-client's grasp. "Quiet!" Mark snipped at her before turning to look back toward Max again. "I said, 'I'm talking to you, bitch!'" "Call me bitch one more time," Max challenged evenly, eyes glaring ahead at the wall of liquor behind the bar. Mark yanked Veronica off her stool and dragged her behind him as he strode toward Maxine. The mixed blood remained a statue even as he approached. When he was practically at the edge of her stool, he hocked a loogie onto the side of her boots and leaned in toward the side of her face. "Bitch."
Max finished the whiskey in her glass and immediately turned to smash it into Mark's face. The man turned with a shriek, glass shards in his face, and stumbled backward. The mixed blood kept coming. She hopped off her stool and let loose a rain of fists upon the man without any particular combination pattern. Her assault was one fueled by ego and emotion rather than strategy, and everyone else in the room seemed to sense it. Mark was the kind of guy that really felt good to beat half to death. She'd forced the man's head down upon her knee on the road to that end when she was blindsided. Out of virtually no where a pair of hands caught her by the shirt, lifted her off her feet, and slammed her down upon the surface of another nearby table.
You mean to tell me this piece of shit has friends?
Max bounced off the table top and landed unceremoniously upon the ale-ridden floor. She coughed and wheezed with wide eyes, the shock evident on her face as she tried to recover the sudden loss of air in her lungs. She quickly worked to roll onto her back. A fat, bald face loomed over her with a look that was far from friendly. Max's face scrunched and she sent a punishing heel upwards, catching the man in the nose and knocking him backward. She found her feet in time to watch half the bar break into chaos. Even Paul card table had promptly emptied the moment she'd made her move. Mark had scrambled on hands and knees, clutching his face while he hid beneath the bar counter like the cockroach he was. Veronica was long gone now that she was free of his control it seemed. The urge to cross the fray to knock out every one of Mark's teeth was hard to deny. Lucky for him, there still laid his bald friend in her way.
The haymaker came wide and heavily broadcasted, leaving Max plenty of time to bob and weave under it. She threw a hook into the man's ribs and followed up with another to his solar plexus. The second hit had led the man to involuntarily began to double, and she capitalized on the moment of vulnerability with a set of hammer fists to the base of his skull. He dropped down to all fours. From that position, all she needed was to send a shin into his exposed side to leave him temporarily floored. Her eyes then turned to find Mark.
Someone rushed to check on the bald guy with furious expression. Max was so consumed with punishing Mark that she never saw him coming. She didn't even know she got hit until she was down on the floor again, cringing at the insane headache that seemed to come from no where. Her attacker never gave her a moment to recover from the blow. Before she knew it she was flipped onto her back with a clean-cut kid her age mounted on top of her.
His first punch turned the side of her head, and so did the quick follow-up. She couldn't remember getting hit that hard before. Even her head bounced back off the floor with each hit. The Rusalka panicked and raised her hands to form a guard. The boy merely grasped a hold of one of her arms and wrenched it away, opening her up to his rain of fury. The world started to numb but pain never left her conscious mind. Things started to blur. Was she really about to get knocked out in a fight she started?
Paul's frame exploded across her visual field as his body crashed into her attacker's. The boy was knocked sidelong off her and the trio of brother were on him like lichen to stone. Paul's face faded into focus as he knelt down beside her. She blinked rapidly up at him trying to rightly distinguish the shapes she was seeing.
"Gods, Max," he tsked at her, glancing away briefly to eye some of Tilda's allies forcibly bring the brawl to a close. "You look like shite." "Probably still prettier than you," Max mumbled through her already aching jaw, cringing immediately afterward. Paul laughed aloud and mussed with her hair. The trio of brothers were forced away from the boy, who now laid moaning in a spattering of his own blood on the floor. "Help me get her up, will you?" Paul gestured for one of the brothers to venture over. Max tried to voice her opposition to help, but none of the men were having any of it. Paul and one of the brothers slung her between their shoulders and made for the door. Max's feet moved along for the most part, but sometimes it seemed she'd forgotten to take a step in tune with her friends. She could taste blood in her mouth and bruising on her face. Blood dripped from her mouth into the dirt beneath them as they moved outside.
"Where are we going?" Maxine inquired just below regular speaking volume. She would be surprised if anyone could've actually heard her right. "We're taking you directly to the healers," Paul explained what should've been the obvious. Max went quiet for a few trills before something occurred to her. Her head turned to peer over her shoulder back toward the Buckle and Chain Tavern. "Shit. I left my bottle..." "You got your ass handed to you and that's what you're worried about?" "Broke. Remember?" Max turned back to blink her eyes at the road ahead. The brother helping hold her steady shook his head. Max spat blood down into the ground. Paul paused their pace to get a good look at her. "What?" "You, Maxine, are one crazy bitch. Fearless, but still crazy. Lucky for you, I still love you for it. Now shut up until we get to the healers, would you? You're getting blood on my shoes."
This is a well-written solo—you have so much patience to write a nice long one with excellent NPCs, dialogue, and some great combat. While it's fun to come out on top, I appreciate that Max had a shitty evening. Everyone needs those, even our characters, if only to better appreciate it when things go our way. Har.
Max
Points
XP:
10 | These points cannot be used for magic.
Fame:
-5 A nice big bar fight
Loot
N/A
Injuries + Overstepping
Bruises and minor cuts to the face. Temporary swelling. 3-5 trials for everything to heal.
Knowledge
Skill Knowledge:
Intimidation: Fighting Words
Unarmed Combat: Using Objects in Your Environment
Unarmed Combat: No Pattern is Hard to Predict
Unarmed Combat: Knee to Face
Unarmed Combat: Never Stay on Your Belly
Unarmed Combat: Bob and Weave
Other Knowledge:
N/A
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