Expo '86

[Bohemia]

"Aye, you'se kids seem ta pick tha best times ta get inj'red."

Horace the tender, thick as a tree with a beer gut to rival any freshman's, and still strong as a bull, towered over Jon, who sat scowling at one of the pub's many tables, sulking at the thick shell of plaster encasing his lower leg. "Fuck you, old ti-" The tender's thick fist rammed down on top of the abrasive teen's skull, rattling his jaw. "Respec' yer elders!"

In all fairness, it was partially Horace's fault that Jon was injured. The tender hadn't been paying attention, and by the time he'd downed his eleventh beer, he'd stumbled over to a soldier in the Corone Armed Forces and called his wife a skank. Unfortunately for the boy, the soldier wasn't just bigger and meaner than him, he was also sober. Horace broke it up just before the soldier had shoved a dagger into Jon's skull, apparently irritated by the slurred, jeering voice of the teen screaming "Pansy! Pussy! I bet you're wearing women's panties!" In the end, Jon had succeeded in giving the man a black eye, but the soldier had given the boy a better present; a fractured tibia.

"That asshole cheated," Jon mumbled, rubbing his sore head. Usually, Horace would give him another blow for his foul mouth, but it was the middle of a monday, and the bar was as populated as the top floor of a graveyard. In fact, the only denizens of the pub was himself and the tender, but then again, a day didn't go by that you didn't walk into the bar and find their faces in the crowd. Horace had never had a son, and Jon just seemed to fit the bill. He had, after all, a lot to learn about the world. "If ya think tha soldier wus cheatin', ye wo'u'n' have a ghos' of a chance in tha Lornius."

"Lornius? The fuck is Lornius?"

"Aye, Lornius be a team tourn'ment, the sort ye go in with a pardner on yer arm. Used to be, what we were happy wit' jus' hittin' each other wit' sticks, but you damn kids these days 'ave to go an' use swords."

"The fuck is a tournament?"

"Stop usin' tha' werd! Ain't fittin' for a young boy ta say. Ya know, tourn'emnts? Althanas' bes' warriors go up ta Lornius, fight each other fer fame, money, what have ye."

Jon's eyes instantly lit up like light bulbs, and he leapt to his feet, only to end up back on the ground, teeth clenched and pained muffled cusses hissing through them. As Horace laughed, Jon rolled over on his back and thrust a fist in the air. "I'll do it!"

"Eh? Wot the 'ell you squawking 'bout?"

"Lornius! I'll go there, to kick ass and take names!"

The tender's stone solid mug slowly moved, his firm, underbitten jaw stretching into a grin as he stroked his grizzled chin. "All righ' boy, I sugges' ya get plenny a sleep. We'll start ya in tomorrow."

"Wha...excuse me? Baking powder? My leg is broken!"

"Aye, don't matter," Horace replied, crossing the pub's polished maple floor with his pained rolling gait, poking his head out the doors to look out at the dusty, spacious street. "Ye'll be fine."

((Takes place after current threads, including especially Flip Side of the Coin. Solo))

[Bohemia]

"I ain't what used a staff ba'fore, but I know one thing ya gotta have while usin' it; balance."

Early morning, the type of early where the stars were a fading memory and the sky was taking that dim cyan shade, found Jon balanced precariously on a makeshift balance beam in the back lot of the pub that Horace owned, monolithic practice dummies made of steel beams, towels for padding, and boxing gloves. "Uhh...balance...what do the uhh...punching steel dummy things have to do with that?" Jon pitched to the side dangerously on his one uninjured foot, but managed to find his center of balance again. "Quick thinkin'!" Horace yelled, and spun the nearest one to Jon.

"Wha-"

One of the boxing gloves came in low, and smacked right into the boy's groin. He doubled over instantly, letting out a small, defeated squeak, and fell over and onto the ground four feet below, dust puffing up around his form, curled into a fetal position. "Ohhh...my balls....not cool..." An aching emptiness came to find it's home in his loins, and snaked up into his stomach, the sort of pain that grinned fiendishly at you, tipped it's hat, and said 'Ah, don't mind if I stay for a bit!' After a few moments of twitching, Jon slowly, carefully rolled over onto his back, looking up at the brightening morning sky. "I quit."

Horace's old work boot prodded the boy in the side, gently (if you could call it that) at first, with growing viciousness with each passing second. "Nuh uh, kiddo, ye ain' fuggin' givin' up jus' cause someone bopped ye in tha dick. Ya think tha's the worst? Heard a rumor, sayin' Letho Ravenheart 'imself's gonna enner the Lornius." Jon's eyes sprang open, and he struggled to his feet. If there was one person he hated in his short time here in Althanas, it was that bastard Letho Ravenheart. Jon could recall a time when he'd gone against a man named Tanner, self proclaimed King of the Slums, to free the people he was selling to slavery. In the end, that bastard Ranger had rode in with all his men and took their credit, made it look so easy. "That...bastard?"

"Aye, him. Ye'd better get back on tha' beam, wan' ta las' even a secun' agains' 'im." Without a word, Jon crawled back on, as though forgetting his pain, and continued to get the everloving shit beat out of him by the spinning boxing gloves, the unfeeling steel beams whose only duty was to knock sense into him. All he wanted now was to grow. And to kick Letho right in the crotch.

" 'Atta boy."

[Letho]

This thread has been closed due to inactivity and moved to the Archives. If you wish to reactivate this thread, please PM me or one of the administrators.