The men behaved mostly as Oz predicted, but he hadn't counted on one of them reaching for their weapon and being unable to find it.  Something about it struck Oz as<em>off</em>, but he couldn't quite figure out why, and chalked it up to drunkenness.  For once he wasn't the drunk one, an advantage he clearly counted on.  Of the few barfights Oz had been in, this was the first he'd actually instigated.  Usually he lost, as he found himself preyed upon by much larger men while in a drunken state that prevented him from utilizing his agility.<br/><br/>As they lunged forward he animated to life from his pose, quickly attempting to sidestep their clumsy attacks and counter by aiming for their crotch with a series of swift, somehow playful kicks.  He didn't know if he'd win, but it almost didn't matter.  Fighting for Oz wasn't about hurting anyone, it was about feeling alive.  The pain was somehow enlightening, and it always felt good to inflict a little righteous suffering on the overzealous.<br/><br/>Today he was fighting for the underdog, something he also did from time to time, a holdover from his first profession.  Even when he lost the fight, Oz refused to lose submit to anything; sometimes going as far as to laugh in the face of the man pummeling him unconscious.  If things got out of hand he had his dagger at the ready, but didn't want to resort to that.  Stays in prison weren't fun:  they didn't let you drink there.