1st of Ymiden 719, 12th break
"You're drunk, get out Harold." The blackguard muttered, giving Woe a shrug.
"But! 'e threw the first punch! No insightment! We were jusht talkin' and sudden as that 'e punched me right between the rib cage!"
Blackguard grumbled some dark mutterings, and then turned toward the crowd, raising a brow. "That true?"
Everyone shot in with their assurance that it was indeed Woe who'd incited the incident. "Then what? He gave you a welt across your ugly mug with that flogging stick?"
"'E did mor'n da'! 'E 'urt me pride 'e did!" Fleaface shouted for all the occupants around the street square to hear, from the bottom floors to the upper. "I warn't be able to work!"
The latter claim elicted some peals of laughter and chuckling from the onlookers. Fleaface not having performed a single task of honest work in months. Fleaface didn't find it funny. "Oy! Dis face is how I makes my livin'! Can't have this angry little welt of a scar ruining my poor pretty face!"
"Fine." The Blackguard stood by stoic as a statue. He crossed his arms as he looked from Woe to Fleaface. "How ought we to settle this matter?"
"Put 'im in irons!" Fleaface shouted. "Or ter be no justice in this town, no justice at all for us wee folk! Sufferin' the not so gentle ministrations and encroachments of dese Immigrant fuckers!"
Woe wasn't easy to anger, in fact he had surprised himself with how he snapped out at the drunkard. Yet now he felt something he hadn't since his last time in Rynmere. He wanted to see this man die. Pin him to the ground, and ruin his heart until the life and light fled from his eyes. It was an unsettling feeling, and to one who was normally stoic himself, it took him aback by his own lack of restraint.
"That's not how we do things here, Fleaface, and you know it. You've barely a mark on your face, seem to be in good enough health. Name the price of this wrong, and this - man - will pay for it."
"No." Woe said, grinding his teeth. "I will not contribute one tin nel to this braggart."
"Are you refusing the price of your transgression?"
"Not at all." Woe uttered through his teeth. He took in a deep sigh, and then came to a sense of relaxation and calm. He then said, quite cool in tone. "I will have the matter settled in Right by Combat."
Woe thought he had the old bastard here. Who in their right mind would stand in defense of such a useless old fool? Yet a smile did crack the old fox's features, as he began snickering in fits of uncontrolled laughter. "Oy! The Dandy wants to face my little nephew Timmy! Oho! Timmy'll setcher rights, 'e will."
Woe frowned, so he did have someone who would stand in his defense? The Rynmeran still was given to wonder what quality of buffoon would. Then, out from a nearby tavern, ducked a giant of a man. He was seven feet tall, and full of fat and muscle, as broad of the shoulder as many men were tall.
Woe's eyes glazed over. Of course it would.
As he fixed this giant in his stare, he drew Fleaface in with the ability granted him by Lethroda, Webspinning. Whatever came of this fight, he would find the old bastard, and give him his due comeuppance. But for now, Right by Combat by this oaf.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The square was emptied for the two, and the Blackguard who'd arrived after the trouble began was officiating the match. People all around, under awnings in the side of the streets, began placing bets. Street merchants set up concessions, selling this and that while urchins plied their trickery on the many who had gathered there.
All the while, Fleaface drooled in anticipation of what he presumed would be an easy slaughter. The Blackguard laid out the terms of the fight beforehand. They were not to use any weapons but their fists. No holds barred, no strikes off limits.
Woe sized up his opponent, clearing his eyes to be sure that he wasn't seeing things, and that the lad was indeed as large as he appeared on first emerging. Woe could smell his rattling breath and body odor from where he stood, and didn't relish the idea of tumbling around in the dirt with him. He considered his options here.
He could run the fight with a hit and run strategy, attacking soft tissues, or joints, or running the man ragged until he tired. Woe himself wasn't the fleetest of foot. But he ventured to guess that he was faster on his feet than the big fat oafish Timmy.
They stood there for but a few moments more. The Blackguard signaled for them to shake hands.
They both came forward. As they locked their arms, and shook, Woe said to the oaf, "No hits below the belt? Nothing to the face?" Having said that, the Oaf thought for a long moment. No recognition dawned on his face, yet he nodded. His willingness to go along with those rules didn't put Woe at ease.
It was possible that he was hamstringing himself by calling off dirty fighting techniques. But he already had his strategy set into mind. He was confident that it could work. And besides, Woe had no shortage of experience fighting against big men. From Fridgar in the Rynmere jails, to Argider and a few other Lotharro in the Ring of Lashes in Augiery. If any novice fighter could defeat this lump of human meat, it could be Woe.
Then they withdrew their hands. As they did so, Woe felt a strange electricity about the hand that had shaken the oaf's. And a sudden compulsion not to fight dirty, unless the accord was discarded. He dismissed it as nerves.
Then the Blackguard shouted, "Fight!"
And Timmy came lumbering forward. His meaty, trunk-like arms outstretched to crush Woe. The Rynmeran ducked under his grapple, then smashed the arch of his foot against the ground with his fist. Before the oaf could react by ducking down, Woe was dashing away to make ground.
Boos erupted from the crowd as Woe evaded the big man's arms. Then he turned around again, shifting from foot to foot, so as not to telegraph one way or another. Woe waited until Timmy came for him again, trying to determine how much pain his previous strike had had. Yet it seemed the pain hadn't traveled to Timmy's yet.
Woe continued this strategy for a while, stepping into range and then out, testing Timmy's adaptation. Timmy huffed as the fight dragged on from trills to bits. Woe took what shots he had available. Targeting joints on the oaf's lower body.
At the final bit of the fight, Woe was beginning to get confident for having managed to avoid his grapples the entire fight.
Fleaface was getting red in the face, his spittle flying as he shouted instructions to Timmy. Timmy had exhausted much of what little energy he possessed. Finally, Woe decided to put this matter to bed. He shot under his guard once more, and landed a series of pummeling strikes against the big man's solar plexus. At first, it appeared to have little effect. Woe's strikes were rather weak.
Then, as moments gave way to trills, the big man began to retch and then vomit all over Woe. Taken off guard by this assault against his senses, Woe was rendered stunned until Timmy reached down, and grabbed the smaller man. He lifted him up over his shoulders, grimacing in menace at Woe. He tightened his grip on the neck, until Woe couldn't get air.
He nearly blacked out several times under the oaf's thumb, until he managed just enough strength, to kick the bastard in the solar plexus. The bruises left there by the Rynmeran's pummeling must have left some welts, as this lightened his grip on Woe's neck. He kicked again, again, until the Oaf's grip slipped on the slime of his own vomit, and Woe fell to the ground. Timmy gripped his stomach, his face contorted in rage and accusation at Woe.
But the Oaf wasn't done. He came forward again, this time with the likely intention to finish the fight. Woe, feeling his life flashing before him, danger activated something deep in the back of his mind. Within an instant, an armored, black carapace of insectoid sleeves wrapped around his arm, materializing out of nothing. Stunned for just a moment with this, but not taking it for granted, Woe only marveled a trill. Then he charged to meet Timmy, his arms moving faster than he'd ever been able to do before.
He targetted the oaf's joints once more. The claws that these arms had formed were enough to rip into the flesh of his joints, debilitating him. He moved with unnatural speed, slicing at the oaf's knees, his spine, his kidneys.
Poison coursed through his arms, Woe could feel. From whence had this come? Did a mage throw something on him? Was this another effect or ability of Lethroda?
He didn't have time to consider, as the Blackguard announced Woe to have the Right by Combat. Meanwhile, Fleaface had long since slunk off in defeat.
