The Smith vs. The World, Episode 2

[Kroom]

Closed to Sei.

The atmosphere was oppressive, even to a man like Jak, who was used to the stifling world of the forge and furnace. A low ceiling, a dark room with scant and weak lighting, hazy with smoke from a smoldering hearth, not to mention all the patrons puffing away at their pipes. Some were clay, some wooden, and a few were cobs, but they were all lit and happily contributing to the thickness of the air.

Nor did the shouting help. Every last man-jack in the bar, and the whores and serving wenches, was crowded around the bare ring, roaring their bets and sloshing their pints. They all wanted a front-row view of the coming brawl, and there weren't enough seats for them all. Jak was amused at the thought: trying to get a view of a fight, there would be other fights. Aptly juxtaposed to this stupefying clamor, the smith remembered a holy man that had once tried to tell him that “violence begets violence.” He'd never set stock in the proverb, until now, and now it struck him as far more humorous than the holy man had intended it to be.

The smith stood on one side of the cleared space. He was stripping away his weapons and armor, stripping down to his shirt and trousers, though he kept his boots and belt. As his brawny frame was unsheathed, appreciative hoots sounded on all sides; some from the women who wanted him, and some from the men who had bets on him. He blinked as he rolled up his sleeves, trying to gain any measure of focus through the yammering crowd. Damn, but they make a racket.


Jak had been settled at a table, not five minutes since, working at his third pint. It had been a long day at the forge, and his muscles were only now relaxing. He felt good. He'd finished some work for a few clients in the town, and gotten a new job from a recommendation: some merchant wanted a new sword, and Jak was willing and able to supply. A very good day, and now a few pints to cap it off.

Then he'd been jostled. Some fellow, swimming in his pint, had staggered into him, shouting incoherently. The smith ignored him, trying to drain away his pint. The drunk refused to depart, though, and now he was slurring something akin to actually language.

“'oy but yer a strongy fub,” he said, hiccuping. “'oy betcha could break a rock wit' dat arrm, ya?”

“Sod off,” the smith muttered into his pint.

“Ya wanna take a wing at me, big man?” he drawled, spreading his arms and almost toppling.

“Y'don't want that,” Jak retorted.

“Oh y'ah?” The drunk seemed offended at the thought that he might not want to take a full swing from a drunk blacksmith. “Mebbe I go take a wing atcha mum -” Jak had had enough, and he wheeled, nailing the drunk with a fist like an anvil. Unsurprisingly, the other man toppled, then scrambled to his feet, swearing.

“Swear ta thund'r,” he howled, “I get m'boy to slam ya!”

“You try that,” Jak spat, “I'll take him too.”

“Five shiny says y'can't!” the drunk howled. Jak grinned, finishing his pint and wheeling to stare down the drunk. Let's have some fun.

“Taken.” Straightening, the smith stretched and grinned to the whole bar. “Who else wants in?”

A roar of approval brought a smile to the smith's face. Gonna make some quick shinies.

The din was growing, and the smith was grinning dangerously now. The ale had him well heated and loosened, his blood was up, and all that was missing was his enemy.

[Zack Blaze]

It was a strange feeling to be patted down all over one's body to check for hidden weapons. Zack Blaze had garnered a reputation among the less cultured members of Althanas as a ruthless fighter, and one who would stop at nothing to accomplish his goals. He had fought innocent girls, little kids, and even people's pets in order to earn such a place among the ruffians. There was no reason to blame any of the people in the makeshift arena for being extra cautious. They had taken both his sword and the book he found when he and Makai started their strange relationship.

He was going to need neither.

When it came to close range combat, Zack Blaze fancied himself a master of the craft. He was no Godhand Striker (not yet anyways), but he could very much hold his own against some of the Althanian greats while completely unarmed. Security was dumb enough to let the teleport stone pass inspection, which Zack figured as because the thing looked like a large ebony pearl more than anything else. Perhaps they thought it held some sort of sentimental value for the fighter? Either way, it gave the brawler a huge advantage against whomever he was chosen to fight.

The smoke exhumed by the patrons provided a nice grey mist around the circle. He could drown out the angry shouts of those placing bets and the jeers of detractors by now. He balled his hands into fists and his knuckles cracked one digit at a time. The smell of flavored tabacco, while normally entoxicating, was far less potent when mixed with several other flavors. His nostrils twitched at the fumes, and it was all he could do to keep his mind off of the secondhand poisons. Smokers and drinkers both shared a tendency of letting their guard down, granted a pretense that just one drink would loosen them up, but a clear mind was always the brightest to Zack. In an arena, a one second delay was the difference between hands raised in victory or eyes bruised in defeat.

His opponent was a half naked man, rippled with muscles only one who swung around a weapon regularly could have. He was probably a mercenary, or a craftsman of some sort, so the boy made a note to watch out for any wild swings his foe would take. The opponent was grinning, a gesture Zack returned in kind. They both thought the match won already. This battle was going to get really bloody really quick. He rolled his shoulders, and the joints released an exaggerated pop. Zack's right fist slammed hard into the palm of his left hand as a third man stepped in the middle to announce the rules. The boy ignored him, his eyes dead set of the maybe craftsman across from him. His feet bounced to and fro as the rule announcer shouted the names of both Zack and his foe.

"Good to meet you, Jak. Gonna be a hell of a tongue twister when someone says Jak jabs got jacked by Zack." He snickered.

[Kroom]

Jak blinked. The man standing opposite him - he'd heard the name 'Zack' thrown around - was about his height, though not nearly as muscular. Three ales in and with the taste of the cheap brew still on his tongue, Jak felt a pleasant buzz behind his eyes, and a bouncing energy in his hands and fingertips. He was loose, warm, and ready to earn some quick coin.

The circle cleared before the fireplace was perhaps ten feet in diameter, if that. Jak stood at one edge, feeling encouraging slaps landing about his shoulders and sweating in the firelight. He bounced on the balls of his feet once or twice and then moved forward, lifting his hands into a ready position and examining Zack. The other man looked about Jak's age, or maybe a little younger - and gods below but he was pretty. The kind of pretty that took effort to create and maintain. He had a smirk about his face and a carriage that bespoke training and confidence, and all of it came together to irritate the smith. Not an angry irritation, though - it was the irritation of a man staring down a yapping dog, inches from punting it away and sarcastically admiring the creature's bravado. One thought ran through Jak's mind.

Oh, you're cute.

Zack snickered something that was lost in the roar of the crowd, but judging by the smirk on his pretty face it was some sort of taunt. Jak's temperament, swirled with the beer, decided now was as good a time as any. Before Zack had finished speaking, the smith slid forward with a hop-step and jabbed his hefty right foot forward. The low kick, almost a stomp, targeted his opponent's right leg around the knee or lower thigh; but the gesture was so quick it could easily be thought a feint.

[Zack Blaze]

The pops of the fireplace and eagerness of the crowd pumped Zack up. Fighting a strange opponent in a makeshift circle of men as if it were some sort of honor bound bar brawl was exactly Zack's kind of element. He knew just from the look of his foe that Jak would do his best to keep the fight in close quarters. There was a slight weight advantage about the barfly, and Zack knew that he would have to remain quick on his toes and mind in order to stand any chance against the muscular man.

Jak moved quick, a leg raised into the air and coming down rather quickly. The street fighter leaped backwards into the mountain of men that stood behind him to avoid the blow. The drunks never budged from their position, and stood as a wall against the youth's staggered form. They watched both the quick kick and the ungraceful dodge with dropped jaws. Zack knew half of them would be on the ground if they were in his shoes, and counted his lucky stars he wasn't some backwater drunk hick.

Tried to shatter my leg from the get-go. Oh I like you. I like you a lot.

He rolled his shoulders and jumped into the air. He moved his legs behind him and kicked off of one of the large brutes that held his weight up before. While Zack's smaller frame was easy to support, it was less easier to support a full on Zack Blaze kick. The drunk was sent backwards and rolled into a table, the street fighter launched off of drunk like a rocket on its way towards Jak. He shifted his legs forward and hoped to slam them into the shoulders of his foe repeatedly. The crowd roared and ale was sent flying out of raised mugs as the 'dynamic dick' careened downward with a bicycle kick.

"Hope you like jogging, Jakov!"

((tl;dr Zack dodged with a jump back, jumped off a bystander and is now attempting Jogging Practice))