"I am Jahan of the Tusk," the man said triumphantly, landing on his feet before him. "Proudest warrior of the steppes and the jungles. You are all practice," he finished, pointing his club -<span style="font-style: italic">tusk</span>, Arathorne observed, blunt face first toward the persons intending him harm. He had no idea what was the method behind the strangers' madness - he didn't believe in being a bystander, but his rash actions were bound to evoke such responses. Had Arathorne been him, he'd let the poor fool suffer his richly deserved beating. He admired the man's bravery, however. Desire for a fight or believing him to be treated unjustly - it didn't matter.<br/><br/>Arathorne hadn't expected anyone to stand for him. The moment six, seven other hardened adventurers took steps toward him, he expected fully to be ground into a bloody pulp before being hurled out again like half a minute ago. He wasn't going to go without a fight, however, and clenched his armored gauntlets, settling into a stance his aging master Godric had corrected him on thousands of times. Thankfully, the master's hard-taught teachings were now obvious in his form. His stance was perfect. As he prepared to receive blows and dole them out, he wished the stranger so brave to intervene good luck.<br/><br/>A man directly to the front of him leaned in with a left jab. It was an opening strike, to test his defenses, but the man had over-committed, dedicating his entire body weight behind a blow aimed for a target as small as his head. Arathorne made him regret his mistake, evading the blow by twisting his neck, letting the arm sail past, and grabbing the man's arm. The stranger, obviously surprised by the fluidity of his opponent in full plate armor, tripped on the knight's shin. Arathorne hurled his out-of-balance opponent by using his arm as a lever into a table edge, face first. The<span style="font-style: italic">crunch</span>of the man's nose breaking still slightly audible over the din of hand-to-hand combat.<br/><br/>Arathorne turned to find a new opponent, this time a broad shouldered lady - too broad, he thought. His mailed fist was drawn back for a right hook, then his eyes gradually danced, in the span of a second, from her face to her abundant chest. That mail shirt exposed a fair bit of cleavage, indeed. Then his view was obstructed by a pair of knuckles, and the pain started to set in.<br/><br/>"Woman, I do not -" Arathorne groaned, interrupted mid-sentence as the woman drove her knee into his gut. He didn't feel an inkling of the blow, but regardless, the strike packed enough strength to knock some air out of him. His chivalrous ways forbid hitting the woman in any manner, but he refused to stand and take the beating. Instead, he began backing out, retreating steadily with every parried blow, shying out of locks the female exponent attempted, blocking kicks with a pair of ready palms and pushing them back at every opportunity. This was one of the days where Arathorne regretted wearing his gauntlets.<br/><br/>"May I say-" the blonde knight began, as he was backed into a pillar, parrying strikes midway, the woman allowing him no respite -<br/><br/>He ducked a high kick and barged into the woman's midriff, tackling her to the ground. He took her petite hands, and, despite the hectic chaos, finished:<br/><br/>"Mademoiselle, you have some beautiful eyes," he said as he stared into the woman's large hazel orbs. He never got to fully savor that ravishing beauty - knocked out a second later by a chair leg applied extremely heavily to the back of his skull.<br/><br/>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>And he woke to find himself on his arse behind the bar counter.<br/><br/>"Hey, handsome," the barmaid woke Arathorne with a smack on his face. The young knight noticed that his long, blonde hair was hanging in dark strings, wet with what was most likely water. He rubbed his eyes, patting at his waist and back to ensure that his weapons were still with him. Thankfully, they still were. He groaned and leaned backward. "Of what Lady-given fortune would I have today to-" he brushed aside his hair, preparing to swear viciously, only to see the stunning barwench before him. Arathorne thought quick. "Meet a fine young lady such as yourself?"<br/><br/>"Spare the lame pick-up lines for the street whores, handsome," the girl said with a smile. "What happened?" he asked, baring perfect white teeth at the young woman. "You were knocked out earlier, the barkeeper saw some sense in stopping everyone from clobbering the everliving snot out of you out there, chief of all Lisbeth over there," she pointed at the hazel-eyed beauty Arathorne had to deal with earlier, "Whose chest you were drooling into." Arathorne smiled at the thought. "So you had better give the barkeep a good reason." The knight squinted. Rolling her eyes, the bargirl spoke again.<br/><br/>"You started this fight. Pay up," an open palm extended in expectation. Resisting the strong urge to curse and complain about the injustice visited upon him, Arathorne reached downward to his belt for a coin pouch that -<br/><br/>Wasn't there. "My purse-" Arathorne began, feeling around his belt desperately. "I saw no purse," the girl said coyly. She drew out the hand that she kept behind her back the whole while, and tossed it into the air before Arathorne. Before he could take it, she deftly snatched it out of the air, turned tail and ran. "You vixen!" The knight cried helplessly, trying to scramble to his feet after the girl who dashed out of the bar, only to be stopped the the waiting arm of the barkeeper.<br/><br/>"You ain't snitching your way out without payin' up, sonny."<br/>Arathorne sighed. If every man will have his day, this one sure as hell wasn't his.<br/><br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>So he sat on a stool, drinking his wine. Complimentary of the barkeeper, it was the least he could do to give him a drink while he waited to be instructed on some suicidal errand. Pain throbbed behind his skull, and if anything the alcohol did nothing to numb it. Frustrated, he gulped down the dregs of the chalice, sliding it aside before looking to his side. His benefactor in the fight nodded approvingly toward him.<br/><br/>"Ah, if I'm going to need friends here, might as well make one now," he though, as he left his seat and began striding toward the sitting man.<br/><br/>"Sir Arathorne of Claremont. It is my honor and good luck to have met you, brave benefactor." He reached out with a hand for the stranger to grasp.