"Mess 'im up, boys. Make sure he's pissin' blood fer a week."
In his daze, Berrod felt rough hands drag him out the door of the alley-side bar. His head still spun from the kick he had just collected to the side of it. The opponent had tapped with the instep, but it had still been enough to send him sprawling into a stupor.Â
The night was cold, and the place stank significantly. It was the rougher part of Ul'Dah, down in the dank alleys he'd spent so much time in before. For some reason they comforted him -- prior to a few moons ago it was the only home he knew. Berrod coughed as his face dragged through the dust; that snapped him back to focus. He was in trouble, and had to act fast, before --Â
The boot to his side granted him a sharp, explosive pain that indicated to him at once, that it had broken a rib or three. He fought the sudden wave of nausea -- assisted by the savage tug at the red tail on the back of his head. The very thought of nausea vanished as a heavy fist cracked him square in the jaw. Berrod's world tumbled, rotated and heaved -- then he was sucking dust again. His mouth was warm and wet -- likely bleeding. It hurt to breathe.Â
 Another boot came, this time to his other side. For some reason the ribs there seemed more sturdy; he felt a distinct shred of agony from just the one.Â
Perhaps out of stubbornness alone he clapped a hand to the floor, ready to push up and face his foes, no matter how many they would be. In the haze of pain he couldn't tell whether there were two or two hundred of them. When they laughed, however, he made out at least four voices. "Help 'im up! Big man wants ta put up a fight!"
Three pairs of hands dragged him to his feet. Still he thrashed, swung his arms and fought the urge to vomit every time his ribs screamed at him. He couldn't see -- there was dust in his eyes. Dust and blood. The blood was new to him -- he hadn't noticed when he'd cut his head during the fall.Â
Blinded, wounded and already beaten, Berrod set himself into a wide, low stance and raised his arms into a guard, defying the protest of his broken ribs. His very consciousness swam, his stomach was set to heave and his legs trembled violently, but he would not give up. It wasn't easy to ignore the stabs the loud laughter took to his pride, but it had to be done.
As long as he breathed, he would not stop fighting. It was his way, and he would live it or die in it.
In his daze, Berrod felt rough hands drag him out the door of the alley-side bar. His head still spun from the kick he had just collected to the side of it. The opponent had tapped with the instep, but it had still been enough to send him sprawling into a stupor.Â
The night was cold, and the place stank significantly. It was the rougher part of Ul'Dah, down in the dank alleys he'd spent so much time in before. For some reason they comforted him -- prior to a few moons ago it was the only home he knew. Berrod coughed as his face dragged through the dust; that snapped him back to focus. He was in trouble, and had to act fast, before --Â
The boot to his side granted him a sharp, explosive pain that indicated to him at once, that it had broken a rib or three. He fought the sudden wave of nausea -- assisted by the savage tug at the red tail on the back of his head. The very thought of nausea vanished as a heavy fist cracked him square in the jaw. Berrod's world tumbled, rotated and heaved -- then he was sucking dust again. His mouth was warm and wet -- likely bleeding. It hurt to breathe.Â
 Another boot came, this time to his other side. For some reason the ribs there seemed more sturdy; he felt a distinct shred of agony from just the one.Â
Perhaps out of stubbornness alone he clapped a hand to the floor, ready to push up and face his foes, no matter how many they would be. In the haze of pain he couldn't tell whether there were two or two hundred of them. When they laughed, however, he made out at least four voices. "Help 'im up! Big man wants ta put up a fight!"
Three pairs of hands dragged him to his feet. Still he thrashed, swung his arms and fought the urge to vomit every time his ribs screamed at him. He couldn't see -- there was dust in his eyes. Dust and blood. The blood was new to him -- he hadn't noticed when he'd cut his head during the fall.Â
Blinded, wounded and already beaten, Berrod set himself into a wide, low stance and raised his arms into a guard, defying the protest of his broken ribs. His very consciousness swam, his stomach was set to heave and his legs trembled violently, but he would not give up. It wasn't easy to ignore the stabs the loud laughter took to his pride, but it had to be done.
As long as he breathed, he would not stop fighting. It was his way, and he would live it or die in it.
![[Image: tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png]](https://68.media.tumblr.com/80be4033cdf57fb6268473ef9ce37db6/tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png)
