“Can she do that?” Asked Jon.
“She’s an elven woman, with the honour and duty of her retainer called into question. She can do whatever the fuck she likes,” replied Bron.
“I call this into question,” said Faelyn “my terms stated ‘if he won,’ not if she did.”
“Aye that you did, but you failed to state who precisely would fight, nay thinking the lass would take it up. Surprised us all, I tell ya. You’re lucky I’m givin ya this much. Usually, terms go to the challenged, an I think I have the right of it since they’re my fucken rules, and this is my fucken bar.”
“Our fucken bar, dear,” shot back Bretha at the counter.
“Forgive me, love. Our bar.”
“I must retract my challenge then,” said Faelyn, clearly more contrite by the second.
“Do that an I’ll ban you from the Cask permanently. Faelyn ma boy, don’ you come in here swinging yer cock about, and then slip it back when an honourable lady wants te show ya what for. Do ya mean to mock both the guests an m-, our bar?” He winked at Bretha. “Let’s hear it!”
“No… no, I do not Smith-sun.” Faelyn thought for a moment, and the tavern was intensely silent. “Very well, I will fight, but with one more term, if it pleases the Lady. The face is to be out of bounds. I wish not to mar the visage of one so comely and early in years.”
“I accept this term,” responded Kay instantly. She was rearing to go, and that was deeply worrying.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Then we have an accord! Lads, move the tables! Tonight’s entertainment has arrived!” Bron announced, arms wide, to raucous applause and cheers. The tavern burst into action moving furniture.
Jon was so drunk, he would probably lose a fight with a tree. But he wanted to pass out in a gutter anyway, so it was no huge loss. Kay, on the other hand, was a fucking monster this side of the rift, and they hadn’t exactly gotten to the part where she learned how not to use magic. The ‘Not-in-the-face’ rule was a small mercy, Faelyn’s body might last a bit longer than his neck and skull. To this end, Jon was furiously typing on his leg. Lee read it out over comms as he went.
“Jon says to…pull your punches, Kay. He says… what the fuck, your typing is atrocious dude. You must be fucking plastered. He says ‘pull them a lot’, I think. ‘Could kill him’, ‘aim for non-citicli areas’ must be ‘critical’. Aim for non-critical areas. ‘No chest. limbs and shoulders, OK.’”
Jon sighed and relaxed, that would have to do.
He overheard Kay mumble “Gods damned non-critical areas.” as she paced in the forming ring of tables. At least she was listening, and she looked stone-cold sober too. Intoxicating her was officially a dead strat in returning to the med-bay, that reminded him to retrieve his pack in safekeeping behind the counter with Bretha.
He moved the selection arm to first-aid while he waited. There was no ‘better safe than sorry’; this idiot, Faelyn, was not fucking safe.
The question was how few injuries he could sustain before the fight ended. The magic of this world gave zero fucks about orientation or leverage, that meant if Kay could lift one hundred and fifty kilograms on a bench, then she could punch a shit load too.
She would definitely rigidify each fist as he taught her. Granted she was not warmed up or synced, but even half her power would be devastating. Hell, imagining dropping a few kilograms on his chest was making him cringe, and she might punch faster than the weight fell. Then taking the impact surface area of the two front knuckles into account, and he was really regretting teaching her proper form. In fact, the more time he spent thinking about it, the more that gutter was looking heavenly.
“Oh god, what have I done.” He cradled his head.