Winter 2, 512AV
"So I says to him, you've got two choices. Either I cut off that what hangs between your legs, or I slice you from ear to ear."
William's sitting at a table in one of Sunberth's taverns, drinking pisswater ale out of a dirty tin cup. The men around the table laugh, slamming their hands on the table. The laughter stops as the men drink, each one a little more drunk than the last. William counts himself among them. The alcohol's cheap but it does its job. The only problem is the petching taste. He takes another drink, and clears his throat.
"You lads think that's funny eh?" He asks. A chorus of drunken ayes greets his question, with one lone dissenter clamoring up from across the table. He's a big petcher, ugly scars crisscrossing his face. He's got a nose that looks like it's been broken more than once, and a look that says he's used to getting his way.
"Ye've been blabberin' on and on for 'alf the petchin' night. I'm tired of yer stories. Gods. I doubt ye've done 'alf the shyke ye say ye've done," the big man says, taking a long sip of his ale. The table grows silent, the eyes of the other men bouncing back and forth between William and the fellow across the table. The tension becomes unbearable, spreading from one table to the next, until the room's quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The only noise is the meager fire in the corner, barely burning, barely producing heat.
William smiles, lips stretching out wide. He runs his tongue over his sharpened teeth and laughs. For a moment, it's the only sound in the room, drowning out even the meek crackling of the fire. He leans over the table and pounds the flat of his hand, laughing until tears spring to his eyes. Slowly the laughter spreads. The tension breaks as the men go back to their drinks, but there's something odd about it. It's jarring and forced, but the men laugh anyways because most of them don't want to see blood. It's too petching cold.
William leans back in his chair, still smiling, eyes locked on the man across the table. He hasn't moved either, nor has he made an effort to join the laughter that's still ringing out in places across the tavern. William drains his tankard, and sits in on the table in front of him.
"So your majesty, what do you want to petchin' hear about?" William asks, smiling darkly. The men around the table keep laughing, but there's worry in their eyes. They're laughing to stop the oncoming storm, not knowing that it was determined the day that William was born. Petcher loves to fight.
"I'd like to hear ye choke to death. That's what I'd like to hear," the man across the table says, cracking his knuckles.
"Well. Can't do that with an empty drink. Guess I'll get another, then I'll see if I can choke myself to death. Sound good?" He asks, not waiting for a response. His head spins when he stands, but he can't tell if he's in a rage or just drunk. Either way, the plan in his head will end in blood. He picks up his tankard and walks around the table, heading towards the barman and another mug of cool piss.
He's almost around the table when he springs into action. He swings the tankard hard, slamming it into the back of the big petcher's head. It makes a sickening clanging sound, and the man jerks forward. For a split second, the tavern goes silent, before it explodes in a wave of noise. William's distracted by the clamor, and doesn't make his second swing before the big petcher flips the table. The clatter of the tankards is enough to draw William's attention back to the problem at hand.
The man jumps to his feet, seemingly unfazed by the blow that would've put a lesser man to sleep for days. William swears under his breath and swings again, only to have his arm caught and his body sent through the air. He tries to loosen his body as much as he can as the tavern ceiling goes sailing by above him, relying on his acrobatic skills to land him unharmed. However, as things tend to do, nothing went according to plan.
Instead of landing on the floor, where he thought he'd be landing, he ends up crashing down on another table, spilling drinks on the patrons and laughing wildly. He loves a good petchin' fight. He struggles to get up, shaking off the pain in his back, but he can't get further than a sitting position before the big man comes charging across the room. William waits until the man's in the air, looking for a flying tackle to end the fight, and pushes his feet into his chest. The man sails overhead, propelled by William's feet, and crashes into the wall.
William tries to regain his feet, leaning up on the table once more, only to feel it shudder and crumble underneath him. He lays stunned for a moment before climbing to his feet. When he stands, he takes a brief second to scan the room and his smile widens, sharpened teeth pushing into his bottom lip evilly. The fight has spread. Petty grievances and minor arguments had erupted into full fledged punching matches. Glass shatters, tankards go sailing through the air, and the occasional chair is splintered into kindling.
William admires his handiwork for a moment before making his way across the tavern where the big man is crumpled against the wall. He's trying to push himself back onto his feet but he can't seem to find purchase. William bends down, grabs him by the back of the shirt and breeches, and carries him to the door. With a mighty heave he tosses the big petcher out into the frigid night, and turns back to the fray.
He grabs the man closest to him, spinning him around and slamming a fist into his mouth. No particular reason for it, but he hasn't been in a good brawl in a long while and he'd hate to see this one end so soon. The man crumples to the floor with a gurgle leaking through broken teeth. William turns to face his next opponent, only to have a chair leg slam across the broad of his back. He swears and nearly goes to his knees, remaining standing through sheer force of will. He turns to face the his assailant, only to have someone jump on his back, trying their damnedest to throttle him.
William swings his hand upward, searching for a face. The man with the chair leg is readying it for another swing when William's fingers sink into an eye socket. He twists viciously, hearing the man scream and feeling his grip loosen. The man with the chair leg swings it, and William ducks down, allowing the chair leg to swing inches over his head. He propels himself forward from a squat, using his powerful legs to send him crashing into the man in front of him.
He ends up on the man's chest, swinging his fists wildly, not aiming anymore, just trying to petchin' knock his teeth into his throat. The man manages to grab William's arms, holding them up to stop the blows. William isn't deterred. He slams his forehead into the man's nose, feeling it shatter. He tastes blood on his lips and then feels the man's knee slam into the fork of his legs. He groans and rolls off of his victim, laying on his back and staring up at the tavern ceiling. Around him, bedlam still reigns.
His hand shoots out, searching for something to wield, and it closes around a thick board. Maybe it was part of a table at one point, but now it's nothing but a makeshift club. He swings it out blindly, feeling it connect on more than one occasion. He sees men clutch their knees and fall to the ground. Others curse and hold their new broken hands. William is still swinging the board when he feels rough hands grab him, feels the curious sensation of weightlessness that comes with being carried, and the next thing he knows he's laying arse first on a dirty street.
"So I says to him, you've got two choices. Either I cut off that what hangs between your legs, or I slice you from ear to ear."
William's sitting at a table in one of Sunberth's taverns, drinking pisswater ale out of a dirty tin cup. The men around the table laugh, slamming their hands on the table. The laughter stops as the men drink, each one a little more drunk than the last. William counts himself among them. The alcohol's cheap but it does its job. The only problem is the petching taste. He takes another drink, and clears his throat.
"You lads think that's funny eh?" He asks. A chorus of drunken ayes greets his question, with one lone dissenter clamoring up from across the table. He's a big petcher, ugly scars crisscrossing his face. He's got a nose that looks like it's been broken more than once, and a look that says he's used to getting his way.
"Ye've been blabberin' on and on for 'alf the petchin' night. I'm tired of yer stories. Gods. I doubt ye've done 'alf the shyke ye say ye've done," the big man says, taking a long sip of his ale. The table grows silent, the eyes of the other men bouncing back and forth between William and the fellow across the table. The tension becomes unbearable, spreading from one table to the next, until the room's quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The only noise is the meager fire in the corner, barely burning, barely producing heat.
William smiles, lips stretching out wide. He runs his tongue over his sharpened teeth and laughs. For a moment, it's the only sound in the room, drowning out even the meek crackling of the fire. He leans over the table and pounds the flat of his hand, laughing until tears spring to his eyes. Slowly the laughter spreads. The tension breaks as the men go back to their drinks, but there's something odd about it. It's jarring and forced, but the men laugh anyways because most of them don't want to see blood. It's too petching cold.
William leans back in his chair, still smiling, eyes locked on the man across the table. He hasn't moved either, nor has he made an effort to join the laughter that's still ringing out in places across the tavern. William drains his tankard, and sits in on the table in front of him.
"So your majesty, what do you want to petchin' hear about?" William asks, smiling darkly. The men around the table keep laughing, but there's worry in their eyes. They're laughing to stop the oncoming storm, not knowing that it was determined the day that William was born. Petcher loves to fight.
"I'd like to hear ye choke to death. That's what I'd like to hear," the man across the table says, cracking his knuckles.
"Well. Can't do that with an empty drink. Guess I'll get another, then I'll see if I can choke myself to death. Sound good?" He asks, not waiting for a response. His head spins when he stands, but he can't tell if he's in a rage or just drunk. Either way, the plan in his head will end in blood. He picks up his tankard and walks around the table, heading towards the barman and another mug of cool piss.
He's almost around the table when he springs into action. He swings the tankard hard, slamming it into the back of the big petcher's head. It makes a sickening clanging sound, and the man jerks forward. For a split second, the tavern goes silent, before it explodes in a wave of noise. William's distracted by the clamor, and doesn't make his second swing before the big petcher flips the table. The clatter of the tankards is enough to draw William's attention back to the problem at hand.
The man jumps to his feet, seemingly unfazed by the blow that would've put a lesser man to sleep for days. William swears under his breath and swings again, only to have his arm caught and his body sent through the air. He tries to loosen his body as much as he can as the tavern ceiling goes sailing by above him, relying on his acrobatic skills to land him unharmed. However, as things tend to do, nothing went according to plan.
Instead of landing on the floor, where he thought he'd be landing, he ends up crashing down on another table, spilling drinks on the patrons and laughing wildly. He loves a good petchin' fight. He struggles to get up, shaking off the pain in his back, but he can't get further than a sitting position before the big man comes charging across the room. William waits until the man's in the air, looking for a flying tackle to end the fight, and pushes his feet into his chest. The man sails overhead, propelled by William's feet, and crashes into the wall.
William tries to regain his feet, leaning up on the table once more, only to feel it shudder and crumble underneath him. He lays stunned for a moment before climbing to his feet. When he stands, he takes a brief second to scan the room and his smile widens, sharpened teeth pushing into his bottom lip evilly. The fight has spread. Petty grievances and minor arguments had erupted into full fledged punching matches. Glass shatters, tankards go sailing through the air, and the occasional chair is splintered into kindling.
William admires his handiwork for a moment before making his way across the tavern where the big man is crumpled against the wall. He's trying to push himself back onto his feet but he can't seem to find purchase. William bends down, grabs him by the back of the shirt and breeches, and carries him to the door. With a mighty heave he tosses the big petcher out into the frigid night, and turns back to the fray.
He grabs the man closest to him, spinning him around and slamming a fist into his mouth. No particular reason for it, but he hasn't been in a good brawl in a long while and he'd hate to see this one end so soon. The man crumples to the floor with a gurgle leaking through broken teeth. William turns to face his next opponent, only to have a chair leg slam across the broad of his back. He swears and nearly goes to his knees, remaining standing through sheer force of will. He turns to face the his assailant, only to have someone jump on his back, trying their damnedest to throttle him.
William swings his hand upward, searching for a face. The man with the chair leg is readying it for another swing when William's fingers sink into an eye socket. He twists viciously, hearing the man scream and feeling his grip loosen. The man with the chair leg swings it, and William ducks down, allowing the chair leg to swing inches over his head. He propels himself forward from a squat, using his powerful legs to send him crashing into the man in front of him.
He ends up on the man's chest, swinging his fists wildly, not aiming anymore, just trying to petchin' knock his teeth into his throat. The man manages to grab William's arms, holding them up to stop the blows. William isn't deterred. He slams his forehead into the man's nose, feeling it shatter. He tastes blood on his lips and then feels the man's knee slam into the fork of his legs. He groans and rolls off of his victim, laying on his back and staring up at the tavern ceiling. Around him, bedlam still reigns.
His hand shoots out, searching for something to wield, and it closes around a thick board. Maybe it was part of a table at one point, but now it's nothing but a makeshift club. He swings it out blindly, feeling it connect on more than one occasion. He sees men clutch their knees and fall to the ground. Others curse and hold their new broken hands. William is still swinging the board when he feels rough hands grab him, feels the curious sensation of weightlessness that comes with being carried, and the next thing he knows he's laying arse first on a dirty street.
