Work Text:
Caleb collected their empty shot glasses with a grin and a wink, sauntering off to the bar for refills. Beren watched him go, his eyes flickering over the assortment of humanity currently taking up space at the long wood counter. The Lunar turned to Fiera, and with a small shake of his head, said, “You might want to get your shield ready, Lioness.”
Caleb slammed the three shot glasses down on the bar and motioned to the man behind it. “Three more whiskys. An’ not the watered-down horse piss you call the cheap stuff either. I want the good booze.”
“Doing well for yourself? It's good times down here in the South for those who know how to take advantage,” said the man at his right shoulder. “I myself just made quite the tidy profit, delivering certain goods to Zoatham.”
Caleb turned, pushed the brim of his hat back a bit, and looked the man over. Whip at his hip, gold studs up his left ear, the flat dead eyes of a scorpion over a too-casual leer. “Oh, aye? An’ what kinda goods that be? Reckon you don't strike me as a vittles procurer. Might be lookin’ for another job, if ye've got work for a gunslinger.”
“I might be. We're flesh traders, iffn ya get my meaning. Got wind of a whole herd of 'em out east of here I mean to catch.” The man tilted his head back, evaluating Caleb's capacity for cruelty and violence, he imagined.
“Well now, and that information's reliable? Them natives are wily critters.” Caleb's hand crept down to his gun, under the cover of his sarape.
“Surely it is. Got three little birds back at the wagons and they sang and sang and-- urlk--!”
CRACK--
Quick as lightning Caleb had drawn, aimed, and fired, hitting the man point blank in the throat. The resounding boom silenced the entire saloon and every single eye focused on Caleb.
As the man slumped slowly to the floor, blood soaking his shirt and coat, Caleb slid his gun back into its holster, thumbing the safety loop over the hammer. He picked up a shot, tossed it back, and announced without a hint of shame: “Anyone else wanna admit t’me they're lowdown yella bellied slaver scum?”
A thick brown glass bottle crashed over Caleb's head as the entire bar erupted into furious roars. Caleb vanished into a pile of angry bodies.
“Oh Sunlord preserve us,” Fiera muttered, standing up and preparing to wade into the fray.
☙ ❧
Beren caught sight of a shady-looking patron that was just waiting for Fiera to move forward to pull a cheap shot. In a flash of primal fury, he shot up from his chair, flipping their table at towards Fiera’s would-be ambusher. It flipped several times in the air like a comically huge coin before flooring its victim and knocking nearby patrons back, shards of broken chair and table flying off in all directions.
That served to stir the remaining hornet’s-nest of drunk and eager-to-fight patrons from the back of the saloon. The furniture served as a maze that the less-brave wove through, while those with nothing to lose shoved chair and table aside to reach Beren. Most had never fought a Lunar in hand to hand combat, and some might live to wish they never had.
Lunar combat charms mixed with adrenaline to fuel a combat fury that was just waiting to be directed. He rolled his sleeves up, tilted his head to either side and prepared neck and shoulder for the first wave. Combat always brought at least a smirk to his face, if not a full on smile.
The first victim swung at him with a chair, which Beren caught with ease and pulled in to get a surprise gut punch off, instantly incapacitating the man. Not waiting for other attacks to come at him, he took advantage of the improvised weapon he held and swung it behind him, catching two more would-be attackers and shattering the chair to splinters as the men fell into furniture and patron alike.
A dull faraway pain registered across his back; more splinters flying from beyond his field of view. He lowered his head and slowly turned around, a particularly enjoyable tactic used to compound the intimidation factor when he faced assailants. Five faces came into view, each far less eager to continue what they started, but far too drunk to back down now. Smile widened as he dove into the group, not giving them another second to consider.
☙ ❧
Fiera dodged neatly aside from the flung table, stomping on the rim of her shield and flipping it up into her grip as she went. She left Beren to the drunken slavers immediately around them, ducking and weaving between furniture - flying or otherwise - to cross the saloon to the bar.
The main fracas was an obscene pile of twisting bodies between the bar and the big glass window looking out onto the high street. Fiera checked on the bartender, who had wisely dived for cover behind his bar, clearly being used to this sort of thing, and regarded the fight.
Trust Caleb to find the biggest one to pick on. Fiera hooked a foot around one man’s ankle and yanked him backward; his skull collided with her shield and he dropped like a rock. Another turned to face her and got a knee to the gut for his trouble; when he doubled over she dropped another shield bash to his head and he, too, joined his fellow on the floor.
A third connected with her jaw, a hard overhand that crashed down against her cheekbone and ripped the veil from her face. She tasted blood from a bit cheek and spat it at him, a little of that nomadic warrior’s exultation rising like smoke in her spirit. The brawler jumped back from the bloody gob and she drove forward with a shovel hook strike to his stomach. He dropped, retching, to the floor.
“Caleb, how is it you manage to find a bar full of slavers on their night off?” Another - much drunker - man came at her, she ducked under him and flipped him backwards with the curve of her shield, right into Beren’s dogpile. (Or would it be catfight? She wondered, given the man’s particular form affinity). “And on our night off?”
“Aw, I dunno, darling,” came his drawl instantly, assuring her of his health and good humor, despite the meaty thuds she heard from his direction. “I was jus’ lookin’ for a quiet drink!”
“You’re going to be the quiet one!” slurred a particularly boisterous man, sloshed on at least half a bottle of decent drink. “Quiet as the grave!”
“Ah, child,” she replied, as the boisterous one swung a sloppy punch aimed more-or-less for her chin. “Don’t you know Caleb here will be talking all the way to the Underworld? Even Ignis Divine could not still his tongue.”
She caught his fist in one hand and twisted, turning the man’s arm outward until he had to fall with it or suffer a broken wrist. As it was, she felt the bones crack and winced for him. He dropped to his knees and she delivered a roundhouse kick to keep him there.
“You wound me, darling, you truly do,” Caleb replied, driving a fist at another man’s face in a traditional boxer’s stance. She wasted no more time on him, turning to check on her other friend in the bit of space she’d made.
“Beren, how are you --” She needn't have asked. A piece of what once might have been a chair flew past her head, shattering several bottles of alcohol lined up behind the bar. Someone else had attempted to break their beer glass over the Lunar’s head and back and was shortly about to regret their ill-considered action.
She picked up a piece of broken table - their table - catching another brawler, stumbling backwards from Caleb’s fist, on her shield and tossing him over her shoulder. The table piece she threw, aim judged carefully, and pinged off the ear of one of Beren’s foes. The slaver clapped a hand to his head with a shrill of pain, leaving him perfectly open for a knockout attack by the Lunar.
Caleb was down to his last two; one an absolute monster of a man, as big as a mountain, and just the sort of opponent he liked to take on - masochist that he was. The other had scooped up a broken bottle and was preparing to jab its very sharp points into Caleb’s unprotected back.
“Now, that’s not fighting fair,” Fiera said. As Caleb took a step forward she came in between him and the brawler at his back, one foot behind her partner’s to guard and the other aiming a vicious heel to the brawler’s kneecap. He dropped, jabbed at her midsection, she blocked with an armored elbow. A shield bash to the face knocked him to the floor, where he went limp.
A shriek and the terrible crunching of wood snapped her attention upwards in time to see Beren drop-kick a man backwards through a door and the wooden railing of the second floor. He hit the bar with an echoing thud and bounced off onto one of the few remaining tables.
Mountain man managed a good grip on Caleb; she felt his presence leave her back and turned to see the big man lift Caleb over his head as if he were no more than a bale of hay. He tossed her partner through the big window with a crashing tinkle of glass.
A rope snapped tight around the big man’s wrist - how had Caleb managed that? - and he was yanked forward by the force of his own throw. He tripped over the wall and sill of the window and landed face first on the decking outside with a sickening crunch.
Fiera stood straight and wiped the blood from her mouth, staring around the saloon. The slavers were moaning in various states of incapacitated on the floor, some of them with the kind of stillness indicating they’d never get up again. There were still thuds and groans coming from upstairs, but she was confident Beren had it well in hand - if it weren’t for the exquisite care he took for his clothing and his person, Fiera was sure he’d be nearly as bad about starting bar fights as Caleb.
“Be thankful you’re not all dead, children,” she addressed the moaning carpet. “I’d suggest acquiring a new form of work by the next time we three come through town.” She picked her way over to the window and looked out over the street, where Caleb was getting wobbly to his feet. He spat out a glob of blood, fished in his shirt pocket and stuck an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
“Caleb.”
“What? I jus’ got us pay for the next month!” He turned to her, triumphant, and spread his hands open-fingered like a stage-magician’s trick. Between his fingers were a dismaying number of small fat-bottomed money pouches.
Fiera arched an eyebrow at him and gave him a *look*. Fishing out a pouch of her own from her waist, she turned and tossed it to the rising barman. “My apologies. For the mess, and the damages.”