[Clockwork Stag] Bone Breakings Brawls

A brawl erupts in the stag, and some pretty folks best put up their dukes

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Francis Pusher
Posts: 32
Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 11:16 am
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Francis Pusher
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Writer: Hollowbreak
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Sat Nov 17, 2018 12:48 am

19 Yaris 2718
It was one of those nights and situations where no one knew who threw the first punch, but everyone knew everything went counter clockwise once it did. The shoddy light, shabby decor and even more questionable drinking cups were livened up with swearing, furniture colliding and simply general mayhem as drunkards and dullards went to town against each other and anyone who catches their ire at the time.

For Francis, good handsome Francis who liked to chat up people and quite often opposite sex, it was often a time where he found himself ducking under tables dodging chairs, using one of those goddess forsaken cups as impromptu bludgeons and sparing the world said cups existence, or throwing his fists at some clocker’s face in effort to not have his own face caved in by some jealous prick.

It was funny what trouble a handsome visage could get you into, even funnier were the skills it forced a person to learn to fend off or survive said dangers. As Francis stood in the center he raised a his arm, wrist colliding with his opposite’s own to block his punch’s trajectory as Francis countered with a right hook straight into his foe’s abdomen and knocking the wind out of him.

His opponent, an average looking middle-aged fellow gasped out a curse as he doubled over and Francis couldn’t help but breath in relief that one of his troubles was down for the count before a chair suddenly crashed into his back and knocked the Mugrobi descended male into the ground where he groaned in pain.


Suffice to say he’d literally not saw that coming as he lay on the ground, flipping over he saw a ratty looking fellow looking smug, the smugness quickly wiped away as a large meaty hand grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him into the fray. Slowly but surely and praying to whatever entity was listening, Francis lifted himself from the floor before someone accidentally or perhaps purposely stepped on him in this quarrel.


Eyes frantically darting around, adrenaline working to ignore the ache in his back as he looked for a way out but each path spoke of only wading through the crowds and risking another fight along the way.



He let out a sigh of frustration, running a hand through his hair. On the one hand, it certainly wasn’t a boring night and sometimes Francis appreciated a bit of excitement now and then, helped people get their minds of their troubles. Unfortunately, and this is the other hand, he wasn’t sure he was fond of trading the troubles of the mind for troubles of the body especially since it was only a matter of seconds for someone else to mess with him.


How’d the clockin’ hells this all start anyways?
word count: 481

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 126
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Tue Nov 27, 2018 2:02 pm

19th of Yaris, 2718
THE CLOCKWORK STAG | EARLY EVENING
He really hadn't wanted to linger in the city. The cloying memories of Vienda still weren't comfortable ones, no matter how hard Sarinah had attempted to cover old memories with beautiful new ones, no matter how hard he'd attempted to ignore old aches in favor of new joys. A simple trip to the market had turned into familiar faces, Tristaan having run into Red Crow friends he hadn't seen on Surwood and who hadn't seen him since his youth.

Just one drink.

He had a rosh to get home to.

Just one drink.

Else she'd worry he'd been arrested. Or worse.

Just one—

The Clockwork Stag had felt a little excitable when they'd arrived, full of a few rowdy folks made agitated by the oppressive heat that had already crept into early Yaris, filling the establishment with an uncomfortable heat that made the skittish passive uneasy. Still, Bren and Calum were persistent wicks, the older, weathered pair buying him his drink and settling at the bar for a bit of exchanging stories with laughter and smiles.

His grey eyes wandered the pub with his typical curiosity, noting how full it was for so early in the evening. Tristaan shared the fates of the Crow-born tyat he'd calld his tashuwa at the hands of the Bad Brothers, shared about how he'd been spared by a Henchwitch and forced to serve the King of the Underworld at her whim. He shared how he'd met Sarinah and escaped with barely his life, smirking once he got to the end of it all, admitting he had a child on the way with no small flicker of pride.

Enrapt in catching up with each others' lives, none of the three hunched over their lukewarm drinks noticed how the bar fight started, but it was hard to avoid for long. Broken glass snapped the well-traveled passive to his senses, shifting his entire attention to what was quickly unfolding in the oppressively stagnant air of the pub,

"We need t' dust." Tristaan stated the obvious, aware that at least one of his friends probably didn't have a Writ and aware that despite his paperwork from the Circus, he was still marked as a passive beneath the bright crow and flower tattoo that decorated his bare, well-muscled bicep to hide the brand in plain sight. He hadn't been stupid enough to bring his firearm into the city, but that didn't mean he was unarmed, either.

"Oes." Calum agreed, the dark-eyed wick scowling as the bar to their left dissolved into a fist fight that took two bodies careening over the countertop and into all the glass bottles.

"Whatta waste." Bren chuckled, rolling his amber eyes and making to stand while he drained his mug in one long draught, "Lessgo."

The dark-haired passive turned just in time to reach out and catch the charging body of some other drunk patron, the sweaty, salivating man plumb guttered out of his head and deciding the three tekaa looked like decent targets for himself and his fists. Tristaan caught the man by his collar, arms stuff, stance wide, and simply shifted his grip to swing the drunk's face toward the barstool the magic-less son of a galdor had just been sitting on with a crack of skull against wood, knocking him out cold,

"Godsbedamned dry season." He grunted, rolling his shoulders as he tilted his stubbled chin toward the door, "Vrunta. Hurry."

The three began to press themselves through the crowd.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 640
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Francis Pusher
Posts: 32
Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 11:16 am
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Francis Pusher
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Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Hollowbreak
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Thu Dec 06, 2018 5:38 am

19 Yaris 2718
Francis for his part was making his own path through the mess of a brawl, avoiding bodies both prone and moving, the latter adding the hazard of outstretched limbs, but soon found his path to freedom cut off as a fellow in bowler and too much facial hair for comfort blocked him off.

The fellow's movement held none of the drunkenness of the many other patrons, which meant this fellow had blocked him off quite intentionally though Francis cared for none of that, to him it was just another person gearin’ for a fight and the fact said person was about to deck him and so reacted accordingly by raising his arms.


The heavy punch clashed against the back of Francis's arms, the muscles and skin used to such abuse although he was certain there'd be bruising and only the current excitement was ignoring the pain. The man of Mugrabi decent stepped, hands launching out to catch the fellow by the shoulders and force him closer as Francis landed his forehead on the fellow's nose. Bone met cartilage in a sickening crunch as Francis's then place slight distance between himself and his target as he then threw a couple of hook punches into the fellow's stomach in a repeat performance of his earlier victory.

Granted that victory was marred by a chair afterward but it was a victory regardless and that was the gold in the sand he was sticking for!

Still it seemed his current foe wasade of sterner stuff as his hand soon blocked the third strike that was incoming, jutting out an elbow that caught Francis in the forehead and left a small gash upon that dripped blood over his eyes and obscured it.

Francis cursed at this as his own blood stung his eye and had effectively regulated him to fighting half-blind as he stepped back to create some distance only to collide against another group of bodies that were busy with their own fights.

Bowler hat man stepped forward throwing a series of jabs at the part of Francis's that he could see out of which Francis had no trouble blocking… it was the straight cross that came after and at his blindside that Francis had trouble with as it collided with his cheek and forced his head to twist to the side while bowler grasped him by the follar and repayed Francis's painful favours to his abdomen with his own, lodging his knee into Francis's and now forcing Francis to bend forward.

As the fellow was now prepared to eithe rknee his face in Francis wasted no time to shove his head forward into the fellow's groin, causing hin to let out a high oitched yelped as his hands instinctively covered (the only muldly hurt) family jewels as Francis took the time to catch his breath.

“Clock this…” he breathed out, the feeling intensifying as his hands dabbed at his gash and winced, wincing even further as he looked at the blood kn on his fingertips. Approaching bowler he wasted not a second in grabbing him by the shirt and lifting him upwards only to slam him downwards on the ground in a pained heap.

His good eye looked at the only path to freedom and he grunted, wanting to get out of here faster than ever before some other troublesome looking blokes stop him.
word count: 575
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