The darkest night [Closed: Smokestack vs. Konnal Ivanov]

[Gan Mann]

Smokestack was in a foul mood. It was one of those days where everything would go wrong. At the end of a day of hard labor, he had dragged himself to the nearest taver: the one he would always go when the blues struck him. It was the same crap as always. Reminiscing the times he had entered this tavern, he couldn’t remember a time he left the place unscathed. Every time he opened this door, the door his massive arm had now gripped, he came out several hours later refreshed by his or someone else’s blood. He liked it here.

He opened the door, accompanied by a slender moonbeam in this darkest of nights. He smelled the rancid stench of drunk lowlifes, scurrying around the tavern; everyone as ugly as the night. He felt right at his place here. Having come here before, he had noticed that no normal people had ever frequented this place. It were always the same swindlers, gamblers and despicable lowlifes who walked in this rotten place of wood, iron and vomit. It was a place worth devastating, for it was the only place Smokestack knew that was totally worthless. Even the long, wrinkle-ridden face of the bartender looked like it was begging to be smashed to pieces; this place was the most rage-inducing place Smokestack had ever been to. And it was exactly the reason why he liked it here.

Although there were thick clouds of smoke covering the whole tavern, the bartender seemed to recognize Smokestack immediately. Smokestack imagined this was most likely because of the two glowing cigars in his mouth, which were his defining feature. That, and his expensive clothes and his foul and frightful grimace. “So what’ll it be, hotshot?” the bartender asked him in a low, monotone, voice. “The usual.” Smokestack answered. After the bartender had finished filling his massive jug with almost pure alcohol, he payed him with a few golden coins. “Keep the change.” he said, smiling, as he knew this money was actually worth significantly less than it's gold equivalent. He walked to the left of the tavern near a window, where his table and chair were free. Pity. He had hoped he had somewhat of a reason to smash someone’s skull in.

He sat down on the chair, which was way too little to fit his grotesque figure, and it screeched as if it were crying for help. Smokestack laid down his club to the right of him, right under the window, while he himself was facing the door. He waited for the slightest opportunity to anger someone, someone he had not seen before. He extinguished his cigars, only to light two new cigars, further increasing the fat, husky cloud of smoke that filled every crevice of this hellhole.

[Konnal]

“Wretched flatland.” murmured Konnal as he walked through the night. He despised the necessity of dealing with the dark elves, especially away from his home ground in the mines where dissent could be met with swift, or slow, retribution depending on the situation. But business is business and the deal had gone as well as could be expected, leaving Konnal with money to burn.

A perusal of the nightlife locales didn't afford anything Konnal considered 'respectable', so he wandered in search of the most despicable tavern he could find. It wasn't long before he found what he wanted. A palpable aura of filth surrounded the place along with the smell of vice. The interior was what he expected, the room divided not so much by the table placement as by those still standing and those unable to lift themselves, by virtue either of drunkenness, bruises or fascination with their bets. The sparse lighting combined with a thick smog rendered the patrons a nondescript mass as Konnal went up to the bartender, avoiding the riffraff as much a possible for now.

“Give me a bottle of your finest liquor. It's my birthday.” Konnal requested with a smile, and tapped the counter as he waited for his drink.

[Gan Mann]

Smokestack looked out of the window. The night was clear. The moon shone through the trees, shedding some light on the glass of booze he was drinking. He realized, partly because of the alcohol, that he just hated people in general. He hated his father. He hated all the people he met during his childhood. He hated his mother, for she had given birth to him. Even now, he hated the people around him just because they were around him. Utter disgust came to his mind, disgust for all the races. He took another gulp from his far from nutritious drink. It fueled his emotions. He detested these wrought, foul creatures of black flesh around him, always judging, always looking. Just the smirks on their faces when they saw him walking, looking at his monstrous figure, looking at his hideous face, laughing as they walked by... Smokestack pounded his fist on the table, making a huge crack in the middle of the table. He spilled some of his drink. He looked at his reflection in the glass. An unsightly face appeared. The gold of his jacket glistened in the moonlight, but it couldn't hide his ugliness. Ugly. Detestable. Disfigured. Yes, that's the word. Disfigured. He looked at the people around him. Ugly people.

Suddenly, the door of the tavern opened. A small, bulky person entered and went straight to the bar, looking around him, as if he was judging the place. But how could he make a good assessment? The whole building was covered in smoke. Smokestack immediately turned his head to this stranger, checking who he was or better yet, checking how ugly he was. He could easily assess this stranger, though looking through layers of thick, black smoke. Smokestack looked at him, blinked his eyes, took another sip of his booze, and looked at the stranger again. This man... this man... he recognized the bulky figure. The fat arms. The plump legs. It was as if they were his own. Although the stranger was obviously way smaller, he recognized the figure. Who knew Smokestack's own figure better than himself?

He looked closer. He concentrated on the face. It was... elegant. So much unlike his own. His own face scared away even the most putrid of maidens, cracked the strongest mirror. But this face... clean. Immaculate. Aside from the broken and reset nose and jaw, this face was unstained. Unsoiled. Unspotted. Nobody would make fun of his face. No. No one would think THAT face was ugly. NO. It was beautiful.

He saw the stranger talking with the barman. Rage was coursing through his veins. Why? Why was his own face so despicable, and yet, the face of this stranger so pure? Anger was building up. He bit on his cigars. He stood up with a lot of ruckus, pushing three chairs to the ground. He grabbed his club, and swung it over his shoulder. He was roaring as hard as he could. He was obviously pissed. In a drunk ánd angry way.
"You! Apologize now or I'll fucking murder your ass!!!"

[Konnal]

Konnal turned at the sound of a loud crash, someone in that direction had been eyeballing him.
The dense smog had become impenetrable in that direction, or had it been that way the whole time? Konnal was unable to see who had caused the ruckus, he couldn't even see what had fallen or been knocked over, he only heard a voice bellowing

"You! Apologize now or I'll fucking murder your ass!!!"

A loud drunk was nothing to Konnal. What bothered him was that the bartender took the threat seriously enough to put the bottle he had requested back, as if there was a possibility that he wouldn't be drinking it.

“I'm fresh out of apologies. ” Konnal growled, “If you've got the audacity to ruin my fucking party I'm going to rip your guts out and feed 'em to you.”

Konnal stood broad chested facing the corner and slowly ventured into the smoke, waiting for someone to attempt a 'fucking murder'. Or more likely several someones by the sound of things. thought Konnal as the thick atmosphere engulfed him.