[Flashback] I Like My Fights Like My Men...

[Sondra]

... Dirty and Cheap Early Spring, 508 AV "Another round, my little snowflake?" The man laughed as he beckoned with a quick wave of his hand. "Fighting you doesn't pay nothing," Sondra answered as she sloppily got to her feet. "All I earn are split lips." "Not true," the man laughed, "I teach you a tactic with every blow." "If by tactic you mean how to fight dirty and cheap, yes." "You wouldn't have it any other way." Sondra grinned then sucked the blood from the cut on her lip. "It ain't even split, snowflake," the man continued, "You're just being a squealer." "Petch off," the Konti grumbled. She bounced on her toes, and rolled her shoulders to loosen her joints. Her guard was up again when her opponent began to speak again. He weaved words between loose jabs. "Who are your courting next?" Sondra bobbed and swayed. "Some toddy trained girl. Probably a rich runaway who fancies herself a survivalists." "Sounds a little like you." "Makes me like her even less." A jab landed, Sondra danced back to lessen its sting. "And," she was breathing more heavily, "I'll let you know I was never rich. My benefactors were." "Same thing," the man grunted. Sondra feinted a left, but followed it with a sweeping kick from her right. "You wouldn't call a servant rich because his master has a castle."

[Sondra]

Sondra recalled the first time she met Donell. She was fresh from Avanthal lately arrived in Sunberth, still wearing her uniform of a dress and long surcoat lined with white fur. Her hair was long then, and it cost her the first tavern brawl she ever got in. How the row started was fuzzy, Sondra suspected it was both her fault and the beers' fault. The Konti began by using some barely remembered martial arts she'd learned on Mura. Her formal tactics failed spectacularly. The other woman was having none of that dancing nonsense. She went for Sondra's hair and yanked the Konti into tripping over a stool. Donell recognized Sondra's potential when he saw how the pretty looking Konti then swung the stool at her unarmed opponent's ribs. He liked scrappers. It would have been left at mere appreciation if Sondra didn't get the bottle broken over her head, efficiently ending the bout. Now it was a ministry to save this rare bird from extinction. A Konti with a violent streak? It was unheard of. As he helped the dizzy Konti stand, he told her, "Next time aim for her face with the stool." "Petch you," she mumbled back. This made him laugh and he liked her even more. From there, Donell felt obliged to tutor Sondra in the fine art of fighting dirty. Bars were no longer a place to place drinks but a wondrous surface on which to bounce heads. Mug handles could make a fine brass knuckles if you didn't mind a few cuts yourself. Glasses, walls, stools (a favorite for old time's sake), butter knives, scarves, they all represented possibility if you thought fast enough. The Konti adage of let the first be last, was replaced by the idea of let your first blow be the last blow, and the Konti tendency to consider the pain of others in your decisions took on a new level of meaning. The Konti reverence for consulting the head before the heart remained untouched, though. For Donell felt a head-butt was one of the most effective opening moves with stomps to the solar plexus being a secondary attack.

[Sondra]

Sondra's sweeping kick was met with a snorting sound. "Lhex, almighty," Donell looked heavenward, like he was petitioning the gods for understanding of this idiotic Konti. "You've been watching those queer dancers again." "You ever hear of style?" Sondra mumbled. "If I'm aiming to get your eyeballs between my teeth, 'style' isn't going to stop me." He swore again, "Laughing Lhex, those idgits are trying to look impressive. Real fighters want to tear your heart out, eat it and shyke it in your hollow chest." At times, Donell seemed a real poet. "Save the dancing for when you're looking for company," he warned. Without waiting Sondra gave a mule like kick straight for Donell's knee cap. He scooted back grinning. "Aye!" The Konti stepped into her kick, closing the distance. Drawing beside him she made to stomp on the side of his knee, but pulled the motion at the last moment. "Prettiest thing I ever saw," Donell raved about her stomp. "Those wonderfully weak joints just begging to be exploited." Sondra smirked. It had been hard the first time, hard to commit to such vicious blows. In bar bouts, winning meant you fought like you wanted the kill the other man. People watched, taking stock. Win one fight and you'd avoid a dozen. Win one fight savagely and you'd avoid a hundred. "Now let's get back to the bout style. Can't break your opponents knees when you've got a bit of sport going." Sondra picked up her guard and widened her stance to shoulder width. Her knees bent and an electric lightness hopped from one foot to another. "What's the girl like scrapping wise?" "Fast. Short reach. More body blows." "She'll keep at you, but I doubt she'll have the stamina to last long. You just move about and let her make the mistakes. She'll get spent. You just gotta be able to hold on long enough. You know the body blows don't do their best work at first, but as you get tired, you'll start to feel them keenly." Sondra nodded, tilting away from Donell's striking hand.

[Sondra]

Donell shuffled closer to Sondra, bringing the acrid smell of sweat with him. "She'll get close like this, see?" He lightly struck Sondra's ribs. "It does her good to be close up, but you and I know you like the face blows." Sondra nodded, listening. "But your 'haymakers' hurt worse when she's further out. Let's you get all the power you want behind it. Nah, she'll give you a close fight." Grinning, Sondra asked, "You remember my last close fight?" "Oh, yes," his eyes rolled, "You thought you was real clever with that liquor trick. As far as I'm concerned you just wasted good brew on a bad face." His chide didn't stop Sondra from feeling proud. Last fight she saw coming, so before it started she filled her mouth with burning drink. Right when he came in, meaning business, she spat it in his eyes. His hollers were priceless. Granted he was too drunk and sloppy to pose much harm, but it always made her feel sturdy to win against a man. Most times she wouldn't. Cheap tactics were all that could save her in those precious seconds. Her thoughts returned to the practice at hand, being smug about the past wouldn't win her next row. "This is a stamina fight. Not my favorite." Donell shrugged, "Don't let the nerves get you beforehand. Makes the difference between the experienced fighters and the whelps. Whelps will let all the jitter suck the energy out of them. They get so tight they can't recover form a thing. Takes energy for them to just stand there. You, however, are going to think about this fight like a slow trudge. All in pieces, no sprinting." He stopped to glare at Sondra meaningfully. "You hear me, snowflake?" "I got it." Donell's glare got sharper, he knew full well the Konti was tenser than she looked. Sondra sighed, "I understand. Slow trudge. A long walk, taking my time."

[Sondra]

"Get off the rails!" Sondra was staring at the ceiling, half thrown over the makeshift pen built for the fight. The man keep screaming in her face. "You worthless, fishy vagik!" So much for taking her time. A chime before the brawl, Ms. Kore got some bad news. Turns out the slotted girl had skipped town with a few purses in tow. She was being replaced with an unknown. "Fight still fair?" Sondra had asked. "Oh course, wouldn't be worth watching if it weren't," the organizer lied. A six foot Myrian with a solid forty pounds on Sondra was currently beating the Konti's scales off. In a bar fight, Sondra could fight dirty and make it out, but in these formal bouts you lost the purse when you got cheap. And Sondra needed that purse, even the loser's purse. She just had to make it through a few rounds. Gods curse these Myrians, they grew up on blood instead of milk and lived for little more than honor and gleefully kicking people to death. As much as Sondra loathed Mura, at least she grew up literate instead of being tied to wolves or whatever else they did to baby Myrians in Falyndar. Sondra found herself being pushed to her feet by angry gamblers. It was their own fault for betting on low odds and high payout.