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And not that it’s ever much of a challenge. Like the ale, it’s a weak substitute for something else. But seeing as there are no other worlds to raid or true battles to wage, throwing a few fists will have to satisfy me for now.
It’s better than nothing, and anything is better than pacing between the walls of my own home, thinking of her.
Several fights are already in progression, as always. This place is frequented by rough and tumble lower caste demons, although they all tend to gather near their own kind. The trolvar with their sharp fangs and molting wings arrange themselves perch-like near the long bar towards the back, the volvath, my kind, stand taller than the rest, sneering in the corner with their gleaming red and yellow eyes. Even various dazoneth scurry about. Some of them come with their soz’garoth masters, who bet on them much like razorfiends, and others—more sentient—crawl or walk or fly about.
Dazoneth are always a surprise to fight. Some of them are weaker than they appear, as they’re all amalgamations of demons and whatever animal a curious soz’garoth sorcerer ran across that day. And like their predecessors, some are more intelligent than others. Few are capable of speech, but most are capable of taking a chunk out of your flesh and spitting it back in your ale.
A decent challenge.
Sometimes I almost feel pity for the chimeric bastards, but today I only care about slamming my fists into their transmuted faces.
“Ale?”
“Make it two.”
A zonak servant skittishly runs back to the bar. He brings back the ales and sets them down without comment. I take one in each fist and drink, taking in the crowd.
There’s a battle raging in the center of the alehouse between two vovalth. I know the first one, with his milky white skin and striped, curling horns. Stedik is a fool, and it’s a pleasure to hear his spine crack against the table, to watch a drunken soz’garoth attempt a half-assed healing spell while the asshole groans in pain, and the victor pours a pint of ale on his head.
Partly a pleasure, at least.
My blood thrums, but I can’t help but compare this to the raid on Protheka. To the original battle that built this stormy island in the sky.
A zonak brings more ale, and I drink, tasting nothing. Finally, my bones warm and my mind goes blissfully cloudy. An alehouse fight might not be a grand battle, but it’s good enough. It’s something.
My hands itch. I curl them into fists, scanning the crowd.
A hand curls on my shoulder, and nails dig into my skin.
“You’re in my seat,” a familiar voice growls. “I’ve spoken to you about this before.”
“And I told you,” I say, spinning to bury my fist in his gut, “to go fuck your mother for me.”
The blow lands, but he was prepared for it, and counters immediately with a sweeping kick. He’s massive, a good double my girth. My head comes up to his shoulder, and that’s only if I’m standing at full height.
At last, a fight.
One of my legs buckles, and the table nearly catches my head on the way down, but I duck at the last moment, pulling him down with me.
It’s a vicious, grappling fight, and the other demons shout in delight. Without thought, my fists sail, catching him anywhere they can reach. His own fists return the gesture, bruising my ribs and shoulders despite my battle-hardened skin. My blood soars—what a relief it is to let my muscles bend and twist, to punch and kick and—
We are suspended in the air. One of us has tossed the other. I can’t tell if it’s him or me. The ales here are strong, and kicking in beautifully. All I know is that I don’t feel numb or bored or confused. I feel alive, as vital as the storm raging outside.
With a vicious crunch, the table beneath us collapses, and all other fights and conversations cease. Splinters of black stone fly into the air, sprinkling throughout the air like hard, oily rain. One splinter falls in my overturned ale, and a splatter of the liquid falls on my bleeding cheek.
I’m not the only one bleeding. Blood drips down my dear friend Drir’gen’s face, and his white teeth flash a grin. His small wings spread along his back as he pulls us both upright.
Twin doors slam open, and a demon stomps out of his office in the back. He points a curled, taloned finger at both of us, quite unamused.
“Out! Both of you, out!” And then, grumbling to himself as he stomps toward the destruction, “It took fucking weeks to transmute the last one.”
Demons can break themselves here all they want, so long as they don’t disturb the furniture. I toss him a few coins and walk outside with Drir’gen, laughing like a fool the entire way.
He’s a hulking brute. The rumors are that his mother bedded a gilak, but he’ll tear your head off for even thinking about it, so his friends just look knowingly at each other whenever he enters a room. Merciless and vicious, it’s a rare demon who will fight him and live to tell the tale.
My brother in all but blood, we’ve been inseparable since we were mere whelps.
“This is the second place I’ve been kicked out of today,” Drir’gen says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “I should have known it would only be more trouble when I saw you.”
