The Winds of Ysgard - Part One

[Ireth]

Rikhard opted for neither flirting nor game-making, and continued nursing his drink. The last thing he wanted to do was attract any sort of trouble. The innkeeper was one thing, but a tavern full of hostile strangers was quite another.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison patted Troia's hand. She whispered, "Be wary, Princess. Predators're giving us the eye."

Her other hand reached into her purse. Instinct told the Huntress to strike first, but this was civilization. She would wait for the men to unleash the beasts within. Then she would show them: a Huntress ain't nobody's prey.

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard noted Addison's whispered warning, and made no visible reaction. Eyes down, mouth shut, that was how he'd avoided conflict for the past eight years or more. Or at least tried to. Sometimes conflict grabbed him by the hair and hauled him kicking and yelling to where he least wanted to be. He hoped that wouldn't e the case now -- figuratively or literally.

 

[Tom]

Einan craned his head to glare at the group in the corner, hands balling to fists on the tabletop. The muttering rose rather than died down, and they stared back at him with clear hostility in their eyes.

Turning back to their own party, he sighed, and allowed his shoulders to slump, the fight suddenly draining from him. He muttered, "Maybe I should just cut the tips of my ears off, since it's their fault we're being treated like this."

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard glanced up. "I'm pretty sure that would make things even more obvious. It would take time to heal, after all."

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison glanced out the corner of her eye. She knew where the drinks were. She was pretty sure she knew which man was the shot-caller.

"Ain't no avoiding what's coming."

She saw a fly and gave it an idea.

"Best way to win in a surprise attack…"

The fly was on a roundabout course to its destination.

"…be the one with the best surprises."

Addison hoped Loke would enter the tavern before the fly landed in the man's drink.

 

[Tom]

Troia glared at Einan, half-appalled and half-saddened. "You'll do no such thing! It's not your fault you were born an elf, and you're not going to injure yourself so we can have an easier time of it."

"It's no different than a spy dyeing or cutting his hair to blend in in a city," Einan retorted.

"But that's hair!" she protested, aware that she was shouting, but disregarding the resentful looks flung her way. "Hair can grow back, and cutting it doesn't cause you any pain."

"I can stand a little pain, if it means people will stop treating me like a freak," he snapped back.

Troia paused, a stab of pity going through her as she saw the look of hurt and anger in his gray eyes. How could he possibly consider it? It was mad. Completely mad.

 

[DMThaane]

Loke dumped his saddlebags in the corner of his room and set his shield and throwing axes beside them. He unstrapped his belt, setting it on the bed, followed by his splinted greaves and bracers. With that done, he began the laborious process of removing his mail hauberk. Once freed from his metal cacoon, he belted his seax around his waist, enjoying the sudden feeling of lightness, as though he could walk on clouds or run across a rushing stream. Not that he would ever be so foolish as to try.

When he returned to the others, he found a sense of tension hanging over the room like a smoke almost thick enough to choke on. It seemed he'd arrived just in time.

Loke skirted around the edge, sitting by the counter and ordering an ale. With a room so tense it was best to order a drink he would be willing to abandon.

His ale arrived just as the door was thrown open and three men entered, wearing helmets and thick jerkins. Militia, perhaps, or off-duty soldiers. Either way they were not armed but they were trouble.

One of them, a heavyset man with an old burn scar over the left side of his face, saw Einan and spat on the ground, pointing him out to the others. Loke's hand tightened around his cup. It was only a matter of time before someone started something.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Outnumbered.

Addison saw that the inevitable attack would come from both sides.

Escape is impossible.

She scanned the tables for empty spaces for her hand or foot. She tried to predict where her strongest allies would go. Loke, maybe the helmet guys. Farrun, the group with the man about to find a fly in his ale. She would get behind the larger group, assuming the people at the tables stayed out of the whole mess.

The couple at the next table would not be trouble. A group of men--maybe they'd get in the way, maybe just watch. And what of the innkeeper? Addison's fingers caressed the shocker in her purse.

Advantage: ours.

She took her drink in her other hand, and relaxed herself in a pose that was decidedly ladylike. (Some models at her fashion shows had given her tips.) She sipped slowly, savoring the flavor (though the grog was rather ordinary) and the dying moments of peace. She let her glass come down hard.

"Einan, there'll be no more talk about dulling the points o' your ears. Anyone's got a problem with you'd best shove breadsticks up his ass or whatever **** it takes to stifle the urge to give more than a hairy eyeball. If there's to be bloodshed o'er this, most o' the blood'll come out o' them."

As soon as her drink hit the table, the fly under her spell plunged into a man's drink. Whether he noticed the drink or noticed Addison's words, the Huntress did not know or care. The beast within her was ready to pounce.

 

[Gryphos]

Bendalitz's eyes scanned the room as he took a sip of ale. Well, if fisticuffs were about so start then he'd be safe. No one other than that barmaid and probably her colleagues knew he was with Farrun and the elf. If he wanted to he could just sit back and enjoy the show, but alas, his unwavering sense of morality would once again put him to work.

He set down the drink and retrieved from in his satchel a loading lever. He set it on the crossbow and, bracing it against his lap, pulled back the string. The lever went back in his satchel, and he placed the bolt into place, before hiding the crossbow under the table.

He'd try not to kill anyone.

 

[Nimue]

Farrun regarded Einan, his face unusually grave. "Don't swallow their hate. Don't do their work for them," he said quietly. "Folk like that should be ignored, not bowed to. Let them try and sneer when you're a hero."

He felt less and less inclined to ignore them as the glares and growling whispers from the corner grew more overt. When the door creaked open his gaze twitched back on reflex, and he took a measure of the three hard-boiled men who came in. They creaked with leather. He also saw Loke, sitting at the bar like a hound tensed for the hunting horn. Farrun shifted in his seat, casually turning his back towards the wall and leaning elbows on his knees with his hands free and relaxed. Had this trio been fetched? If so, by who? The innkeeper was gone from the room, but he might be in the kitchens or the back room.

Despite all his best intentions to be sober and responsible, he felt an undeniable itch, an almost gleeful anticipation for the moment when the storm would break loose. That thunder-heat in the air.

It was rare that Farrun missed the advent of dinner, but he was watching the helmed men when the barmaid trotted out from the kitchen with bowls of soup and cuts of bread and meat on her platter. He did not notice her until the scarred man moved abruptly into her path, boot outstretched.

The entire platter tipped, bowls slid, and the maid tumbled to the floor, followed by a crash of crockery. Hot soup and ale-foam spattered their table. Farrun jumped up to help her, as her fair face slid from comical surprise to unhappy horror. But as soon as he was up, he found himself with a dirk pointed at his midsection by a tall, pockmarked man. He stared back evenly at the ambusher. Old man, you're getting slow. Or too quick with the ladies.

"Elf-lovers ain't welcome here," the man growled. He kept his voice low, and hid the knife from most of the room by how he stood. "Leave, and there won't be trouble."

Farrun broke into a wide smile. "My good man, I want no more trouble than you do!" he rumbled, and as he said it, spread his hands as though in conciliation--and then his arm shot out and seized the man's wrist in an iron-hard grip, jamming thumb and forefinger deep between the man's tendons. The tough cursed and dropped the knife as his numb hand spasmed, and then swung at Farrun with his free fist, murder in his eyes.

Farrun leaned back and let the blow miss him, then slammed in with a focused uppercut, knocking the fool's head back into his helmet. At the moment of contact, he added a pop of magic, enough to make sure the man would go out, and stay out, without breaking his thick skull.

The man toppled backwards and Farrun let him fall. The room was roaring--he didn't bother to make out words, but some of it sounded like reproach, and some of it like anger. Most of the room recoiled, clutching ale, staggering out of the way, but the group in the corner rose to their feet together like a pack of feral dogs. Six, seven of them maybe.

Then the other two toughs fell on him. He ducked a punch that fair whistled over his head, and drove an answering blow into a jerkin-covered gut. The scarred man clipped his ear and jaw--he missed the brunt of it, but still felt it in his teeth. No more dirks, he thought, or they'd already have them out. He grabbed the still-staggering man by the stuff of his shirt and, twisting, muscles burning with gratifying effort, threw him bodily against the bar. Towards Loke. The scarred man, sharper with his fists, was still on him. Farrun dodged again, trying to get more space, and trying to keep an eye on the rest of the room.

He didn't want to use magic on these men when they could be taught with fists--a language they understood. He was no sorcerer, bent on dominating all who came against him. That, and he might be enjoying it. But if any of the younger folk in the party were threatened, he would do whatever he had to...

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard jumped back as the fighting began, faster and closer than he would have liked. He stayed rigid in his seat, but brought his leg up under the table to reach for the knife in his boot. He wouldn't use it unless he had to, and he prayed there'd be no need.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison figured Loke and Farrun alone could handle the three—or were they already down to two now? The Huntress was looking at the far table, and sure enough, those men found the excuse they were looking for. A simple roll of her shocker would take out the whole group—except that they were already up. Addison moved quickly, hoping to stall their advance toward innocent bystanders by coming at them—fast!

She slammed her left hand onto the next table and volleyed herself over it, landing feet-first on another table where some gentlemen were seated. Their table tipped as she slid across it, and the moment she skidded downslope to the floor, Addison found herself face to face with one of the more thuggish men from the corner table.

She barely noticed the fist coming square at her jaw—and jumped back to dull the impact. As far as her opponent knew, the "elf whore" (as he called her) was airborne from the might of his fist. Addison slammed into the tipped table on her back, and toppled over onto the floor. The man who punched her started to laugh, but the rest of the mooks weren't laughing with him.

What the laughing man failed to see was the metal ball that rolled between his feet, toward his buddies—some of whom had the sense to hastily distance themselves from the device.

The shock trap bared its teeth. Blue-white jagged beams lit the room, paralyzing two men from the corner table.

Laughing Man stifled his guffaws as Addison rose with mashed potatoes and bits of meat in her hair. "Whore ye said, have ye?" She shoulder charged the man, but his weight was more than she could topple, despite her rush of adrenaline. The thug stood his ground, intent on out-muscling her. Addison kept a strong stance and growled, "Ye can call me Huntress, call me beast, call me wyvern-slay—ack!"

The man got a grip around Addison's throat, but whatever attack he meant to follow with would not be delivered. A bolt of lightning from Addison's trap knocked him flat on his back, quivering.

Addison stared down at her stunned foe as bolts shot past her, seemingly going out of their way to avoid her. "Storm-bringer. Ye can call me that if ye like."

 

[DMThaane]

Loke caught the man Farrun had propelled towards him and drove his knee up into his groan, yanking his helmet off before driving his head into the counter. The man went down and Loke advanced, ale in hand. He caught one trying to flank Farrun, splashing drink in his eyes, then driving a fist into his gut.

The man's friend charged into him, slamming into his stomach, but Loke did not go down. Instead he drove his elbow into the man's back, once, twice, then grabbed him around the waist and hurled him up, dropping him on his own head.

The man he'd blinded was up and threw a wild punch which Loke dodged, tripping him and catching him on the back of the head with a swung of his cup, sending him careening into a table next Troia.

 

[Tom]

Einan didn't hesitate to join the brawl. The very first man he met was the one who'd spat at him--a coarse, shaggy-haired oaf, with sly eyes and a crooked nose. Einan pulled back and let fly a vicious left hook, all his anger feeding his strength. His fist connected with the man's jaw, sending him reeling back.

Pain bloomed across Einan's knuckles, but he didn't have time to spare it a thought. His opponent had recovered and was coming at him, his own hands curled into ham-sized fists. As Ugly threw a punch at him, Einan ducked, feeling the blow whistle harmlessly over his head, and seized the man's knee. He pulled hard, and Ugly came crashing down with a shout of surprise.

The man took the opportunity to scythe out one leg, sweeping Einan off his feet. He hit the ground with a jarring thud, the breath knocked from his lungs. Ugly scrambled up and knelt over Einan, one hand on his shoulder, all the weight of his (very large) body pinning the smaller elf down.

"Now I'll teach you, you filthy elf," the man snarled, fist raised.

Still gasping for breath, Einan barely dodged the blow that passed by his head to connect with the table leg behind him. Ugly pulled back, cursing as he shook his hand, and Einan took his chance. Summoning all his strength, he kneed Ugly in the fork of his legs. The man's face went a sickly shade of purple, and he emitted a soft keen as he sank to the floor.

Einan staggered to his feet, shaking out his bloody hand. His heart was beating wildly as he sucked in deep breaths. A sense of satisfaction made the corners of his mouth twitch up. Well. That was that.

--

As the man Loke had thrown careered into a table beside her, Troia shot to her feet, panic scattering her thoughts. Her mind flew to the sword at her side, but she knew she was no use with it--not yet. Her knife? No, this was just a tavern brawl. She didn't want to run the risk of killing or seriously injuring someone.

Yet, as the man slowly picked himself up, she knew she had to do something. But what? she thought in desperation, hands balled into uncertain fists. Then her eye fell on their table and the dishes that still sat on it.

As Loke's opponent recovered, she grabbed a wooden trencher off the table. Still shaking his head to clear it, he didn't see her coming, only gasping in surprise when she brought the trencher down on his skull with a ringing crack. Troia couldn't ignore the tiny thrill that kindled in her as she felt the heavy wood jar in her hands with the strength of the blow. His eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped to the ground.

Troia stood over his unconscious body, stunned, the trencher hanging from her nerveless hands. She didn't believe she'd just done that. She'd never done anything like it in her life.

But, she had to admit, it had felt good.

 

[Gryphos]

When violence erupted, Bendalitz continued to sit, and watch. It was rather entertaining. Nothing quite like a good tavern tussle to add spice to an evening. Only, he hardly wanted it to get over-seasoned.

He stood up and rested the crossbow down on his chair, before approaching the mayhem, cracking his knuckles.

A thug decided to take the opportunity to come at Farrun from behind. Bendalitz held out his foot and instead he careened face first into a table. Not hesitating a single moment, Bendalitz grabbed him by the hair with his left hand and held his head steady, as his right fist slammed into his cheek. As the thug went limp, he let him drop to the floor, his fist hurting a bit now.

After that, a few of them caught on that Bendalitz was with the others. Another dull-faced gentleman charged from a dark corner, through his entire weight into Bendalitz, and tackled him onto what must have been a remarkably sturdy table. The thug pinned him down by the neck, smiling goofily.

Bendalitz struggled under the man's grip, but to no avail. Bendalitz was not a strong man, nota hardened fighter or regular brawler. He was more like a viper, lying in wait with a deadly strike.

He looked into the face of his attacker. Who was he? An elf-hater, certainly, not specific to the Yvalhyn. An idiot, then. But what drove him to this idiocy? Could it be undone, or would no one miss him? Did he deserve to live?

Probably not.

Bendalitz drew his dagger and slid the blade across one of the man's wrists. That hand left his neck, and Bendalitz rammed his head upwards, into his face. The attacker fell off him, collapsing against the wall, hand tight around his wrist, as blood peeked through the fingers.

Bendalitz wiped his dagger off on his coat. "Probably a wise idea for you to get a bandage on that."

He turned to the chaos and saw another would-be attacker in front of him. Bendalitz raised his dagger, and they obviously thought twice, turning away and running back into the conflict, as Bendalitz eyed the crossbow he left in his seat.

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison watched the lightning dance around her. In the safety of her trap—me magic—she had a moment to scan the room. Everyone at the table had rushed across, except for one man standing with his back to the wall. He had a drink in his hand.

Addison told him, "I think one o' your friends soiled himself. A shock'll do that." She glanced at his drink. "Don't drink the fly," she said. She wondered if she could will a bolt to the man, but she didn't bother.

Instead, she held her other shock trap for all to see as she walked across the room. Her target: the toppled barmaid. She extended her free hand to the girl.

"Men and their games o' toppling." Addison gently pulled the barmaid to her feet. "Are ye hurt, girl?"

 

[Ireth]

Rikhard was perfectly happy to stay out of the fighting, until a drunken patron stumbled into his chair and knocked him to the floor. As Rikhard stood up, a fist swung in his direction. He dodged with the ease of long practice, helped by the fact that his opponent was much addled by alcohol, and Rikhard hadn't yet finished his first. He ducked and wove away from more oncoming blows, zigzagging and dodging like a... thing that was most certainly not a rabbit.

One blow finally glanced off his cheekbone, and Rikhard stumbled, but smoothly kept his footing. He tried to back toward the nearest wall, wanting to avoid being hurt from behind if he possibly could.

 

[Nimue]

Farrun ducked another hammer-blow and came up with a punch below the ribcage, then another. The scarred man wheezed, doubling up, and Farrun unwisely gave him room--too used to sporting bouts. The man suddenly grabbed a chair and swung at him. Farrun couldn't avoid a cracking hit to his side, but fortunately the spindles of the chair-back broke away and the rest of the chair smacked one of the other louts in the knees. Farrun had his guard up when the scarred man lunged for him, and blocked two punches with his forearms and returned a square one to the jaw. His opponent staggered but jabbed back. Hard as nails--a real mercenary, Farrun thought.

You need to end this. Forget your pride and stun him. The action had reached those who didn't want to be involved in it, and he couldn't watch the room and his adversary at the same time. He hoped anyone who truly needed help would cry for it, and slammed in with one last burst of violence. He hit fast and unforgiving--shoulder, side, knee to the stomach, then wrapped his arm around the man's throat. The scarred man grunted like an angry bull and lashed out, getting in one last hit straight to Farrun's cheek, but Farrun held grimly until he finally sagged.

He was sparing a moment to make sure he was still breathing when a roaring voice--even louder than the rest--cut across the chaos.

"STOP! Stop it, you fools!" It was the innkeeper, burst in from the kitchen door. His was almost as good as a battlefield voice, enough to be heard over a room of drunkards. The other barmaid stared over his shoulder. "Borvi, Gren, Urthing, the lot of you!" He hammered on the bar with a pewter tankard until the noise got through to even the most thick-skulled, and the frenzy turned to a slow churn of movement.

"These are the Queen's men!" he bellowed. "That's Loke Bloodaxe," --he pointed with an angry fling of his beefy arm-- "That's the Queen's Left Hand, and that's Farrun Bloody Dragonrider! I knew you were a pack of idiots, but I didn't think you were swiving stupid enough to take those odds!"

Farrun raised an eyebrow in ironic acknowledgement, bending to check another of the men lying on the floor. Gold mist collected around his fingertips. No swelling in the head, no breaks to the spine. All around him, the formerly furious tavern louts were staring and shuffling, their faces a picture of realization and reversal. One of them staggered towards the door clutching a bloody wrist. Farrun, noting the corner he'd come from, grabbed him firmly about the arm. The man squeaked and spluttered, trying to pull away, until he noticed that the pain was gone and the bleeding slowed to a dab. Farrun let go of him again and borrowed a rag on the bar to wipe his hands with, glancing over.

"Rather dramatic of you, Bendalitz," he remarked. But an effective way to take a man out of the action.

He took stock, counting each of his companions, relieved to see no obvious pain or bleeding. He'd have to take a better look, later, but for now... just the warm, stupid haze of a fight won. And a split lip, and skinned knuckles, and an aching in his ribs that made him wonder if he'd bruised one. He felt great.

"Ow!" That came from the fair barmaid, trying to stand with Addison's help in a puddle of soup, gravy, and ale. "My ankle! I think it's twisted..."

 

[Legendary Sidekick]

Addison knelt down by the barmaid. "Put your arm around me; I'll get ye up on a stool."

Addison massaged the girl mostly to calm her—only keeping her fingers near the ankle if it didn't result in a pained reaction. She asked aloud, "Any medics in the house? Not just her. We got a bleeder."