Private Tales Capers in Cortos

[Francisco Alarcón]

Torch and lamplight illuminated the streets of a bustling Cortosi city. As one would expect from a city flourishing from trade, the nightlife was electric. The city and its impressive port was built on the estuary of The Roaring Brother, where commerce ebbs and flows through the seasons.

The once-monk strolled down the street that took all pedestrians through the port district. He had no further business there, aside from his desire to lighten the burden that weighed him so- the heavy purse of coin attached to his hip. A final night of gallivanting to properly say his goodbyes to the city that had treated him so well. The street was lined with inns, bordellos, and taverns, all of which without any vacancy. However, he felt compelled to one place only: The Raucous Rodolero, the largest and busiest tavern in the district. Or so it was said.

Thus the brawler strode in, ostensibly a hooligan, with silver rings, some bejeweled, adorning each finger. A long silk cloak with a thick fur collar and foreign patterns embroidered on it flowed at his knees. A ruby dangled from his earlobe, and a silver cuff hugged his helix. Even among a melting pot, the foreigner stood out. Contrary to his appearance, the air of humble confidence that he carried lent to the mellow way in which he carried himself.

After breathing in what was quite honestly a stench, he let out a happy exhale, pleased to have entered the tavern. His entrance was met with an eerie and abrupt silence.

 

[Rob Yew]

Mercenaries from the Thronebreaker Company had taken over the entire tavern. They crowded the tables. They leaned against the walls. They bellied up to the bar. They even hung from balustrade, feet dangling over the stairs and second landing.

In the center of the room, at the largest table, sat the most muscular dwarf Arethil had ever scene. He did not wear a shirt and the world rejoiced for it as lanternlight played across the rippling mass of flesh. He'd many tattoos, but overbearing them all was the oxhead that took up the entirety of his torso, its snorting face a challenge to all. Beside him sat an elf, whose face was even more tattooed and who wore his gambeson unbuttoned in a roguish flair. On the opposite side of the dwarf sat a young, dark haired man with blue eyes and a shy grin. Others crowded at their table, a female elf with bandoliers of knives, several well groomed men who looked like they might be nobles, a gaunt figure with a pinched expression and very expensive spectacles, and more besides.

The entire room of a hundred or more bawdy Thronebreakers stopped their conversation when the door swung open to admit a stranger.

You could have heard a pin drop.

 

[Francisco Alarcón]

A sane man would have turned and exited without so much as an utterance.

Wood creaked under the weight of every step as the stranger strode further in. The glares of over a hundred glued to the man but did not shatter his composure. One would rightly question the sagacity of an individual that audaciously entered deeper into a place where they were clearly unwelcome. With a relaxed expression, he walked a straight path to the bar without so much as paying a glance to those that watched on. He passed turning heads, scowling mercenaries, and most impetuously, the large center table that seated the core of the company without any acknowledgement.

He did not lean against the bar upon his arrival. Instead, a hand came out from under the cloak and with a silence-breaking dull clink, a coin was placed against lacquered wood. A single finger pushed the coin out, which scraped against the bartop.

The coin was left untouched, and no drink was served. The barkeep's eyes warily scanned from one side of his establishment to the other, but the ostensibly dim-witted stranger paid no mind to it.

"Out of ale?" His voice boomed.

The barkeep anxiously stroked a well-trimmed beard and spoke with an accent that made him sound completely unenthused, "You should leave."

"After a drink."

He could hear a commotion behind him following his response.

 

[Rob Yew]

"Lad," came a gruff brogue that broke the silence, "D'yae know whose bar yer in?"

The dwarf with the ox-tattoo stood up, chair squealing back, and continued to speak.

"These here are Thronebreakers. And this here is a Thronebreaker bar. No unless yer itchin' to sign up, you best be on your way, eh lad?"

 

[Francisco Alarcón]

Words akin to the bellowing of a bull caused the foreign lad to turn where he stood. Eyes of jade swept across the tavern, taking in the audience of glaring faces. They finally settled on the tattoed mass of muscle in front of him. Narrow eyes squinted further at the dwarf.

"After a drink," He spoke with authority and confidence that could easily be mistaken for hubris, given the situation.

 

[Rob Yew]

"Alright, have it your way."

The dwarf cracked his neck and unlimbered his arms like a pugilist.

The rest of the tavern looked on, then a slow chant began.

"Ox. Ox. Ox. Ox."

They beat their tankards on tables, thumped their feet on the floor, and pounded the walls as they chanted his name. The dwarf came at Tsutomu, aiming to wrap his burly arms around his waist.

 

[Francisco Alarcón]

Tsutomu began to twist the ring on his forefinger in some form of anxiety as the chant began.

Ox? Was this thing supposed to be an Ox or the Ox?

He widened his stance and dropped his body slightly, lowering his center of gravity, intending to catch the charging dwarf. His arms were low and open.

Then, the dwarf hit him. Despite bracing himself, Tsutomu was pushed back against the bar. Some wind unwillingly left his lungs. He grunted upon being slammed against the bar.

Right. Ox.

He recovered quickly and bent at the knees. Fingers curled and clutched at the waistband of the dwarf's trousers. Quadriceps strained as he attempted to hoist the dwarf up.

The dwarf went nowhere. Thick arms shackled Tsutomu around his own waist.

 

[Rob Yew]

"OX!"

He set his thews, made sure of his grip.

"OX!"

His fingers locked, his sinews strained.

"OX!"

With a roar, he arched his back and threw himself backward, intending to suplex Tsutomu's skull into the floor.

 

[Francisco Alarcón]

Finding it impossible to keep himself rooted, Tsutomu pushed off from the wood floor as he felt the dwarf lift him up. He slipped an arm free from between them and raised it to guard his head as he crashed against wood. The brawler managed to twist his body in the dwarf's grasp.

His struggling lessened the blow, though his breath was taken from his lungs and the side that collided with the floor ached. Still, he rose, gasping. Before the Ox could come again, Tsutomu ripped his fine cloak from his shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting shirt under. It was tucked into his trousers and appeared more like a robe than anything else.

He folded his arms at the elbows and pulled them up through his sleeves and out of the opening on his chest. He spread muscled and tattoed arms out wide, flexing impressive muscles as the shirt fell over his shoulders and flapped at his waist. Jet black ink covered almost the entirety of his body as if it were another layer of clothing. Waves of black curled around his body, some coming together in intricate swirls, others flowing and abruptly ending. The imagery of colorful beasts detailed the canvas of black. A massive demon's face covered his back, fangs bared and wicked eyes glaring at any that would dare oppose it.

His arms, fully extended to either side of him, suddenly swept in and smacked his chest, taunting the Ox.

With his right foot in front of his left and pointing towards the Ox, he bent at the knees and took a stable stance. His left hand curled into a fist at his hip, while his right hand jutted out like a spearhead. His elbow was slightly bent.