Keely's Saloon

Date: Late night ------- Location: Keely's Saloon, Showroom

It is a late night in Keely's and the show room is busy and loud. The sounds of bets, heckling and cheers ebb and flow at the fights. Many of the table's further from the sight of the pit are unoccupied.

(Ighlaf): Ighlaf is seated at a table claimed closer to the sights of the pit. They have a mug of whiskey they have blatantly carried in from the Seaglass Inn, which is still entirely full. They appear to be sketching, looking at the fighters distractedly. On a separate page they have some words written, occasionally jotting some down as the fighters in the pit speak.

(Inaya): Soon enough, perhaps predictably, Inaya saunters on through the swinging doors, that axe over her shoulder as it always seems to be. Apparently nobody here has a problem with that, and most of the regulars don't even give her a second glance. Guess she spends a bit of time here. She heads initially for the table on the south side of the floor, but, spotting Ighlaf, arcs her track over that way instead to just nose into his business, peering at the sketch, then the other page with the words.

"'Chu drawin' now?" she asks in her hoarse rasp, ticking a look between the pages and Ighlaf and then the pit. "And why you writin' shit?"

(Yasin): The show room of Keely's is probably used to seeing burly, heavyset types wander in out of the street. Yes, maybe not foreigners, but the body type? Probably a wafer a dozen.

Yasin, on the other hand, doesn't walk into the show room like a man who knows his way around. His hood is up, like he doesn't particularly care to be seen, and his posture is so wound that it looks like tension that could snap the string off an oud. Discomfort is visible even in the numbed gaze of his honey-brown eyes, as they flit from patrons to the fighting pit.

Those eyes flit around the available tables, as if he's gauging where to take a seat. But mild doses of recognition and surprise mix into his features as he spies Ighlaf and Inaya there, so he heads over that way. He invites himself to a seat without a word, other than a little grunt by way of greeting to the both of them, his hood still up. He does spy a peek at Ighlaf's sketches, but after settling in, he seems to be mostly staring at the pit.

And at the fighters there.

(Esfandiar): The flamboyant Irzali makes the rounds of the tavern room, through which visitors to the pit must pass, appearing largely at ease as he works the room - sitting briefly with this patron or that one, smoking with them, gossiping with them, trading zingers with them, and periodically drifting back toward the bar to have a quick word with the slick-haired bartender. The scent of skunky herbal smoke lingers heavily about his person and follows him wherever he ventures. Though some locals can be heard disparaging his odd dress and his strange accent and his confusing manner, others seem interested in buying what he's selling - both literally and figuratively.

(GM): OOC: Esfandiar just rolled magnetism and street smarts, coming up with 84.

(Ighlaf): Ighlaf is sketching something that seems to be one of the fighters punching if someone takes a closer look. They don't reply right away, adding a couple more details until it dawns that Inaya spoke to them as Yasin draws their eye. They lift the pen from the page and answer, "Hello. I am drawing some of the fighters, and attempting them in motion." They glance to the other page, "And writing their taunts." Their lips twist as they comment, "Drawing and practicing Ilexi." They resume the rest of the sketch, one of a fighter about to receive what looks like a painful punch to the face. They tear the page out and put it to the side with their attention now fully on the room, pen tapping at a blank page as they watch Esfandiar flit around the room.

(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled finesse and painting, coming up with 51.

(Inaya): "Writin' shit don't help you learn to speak," Inaya scoffs amusedly, though she continues to watch Ighlaf's sketching. "I can speak their little barbarian tongue, but fuck if I know how to write it. That one just said, uh. You're a fat-kidneyed... cock-eyed fool bastard." She points to one of the fighters in the pit. "And that one's sayin'... Your mother's a... tarted up hog wearin'... stained silk dresses, uh. That means she's a whore. Stained silks." She nods at her likely loose translations. "And I'm gonna... knock your twisted nose... into your asshole."

She's distracted, though, by Yasin's approach, eyeing him for a moment with that hood before giving a small smirk and a tip of her head. "I do not think I have seen you here before," she says quietly aside toward him by way of greeting. "You come also to learn insults in Ilexi? I can teach you some." That smirk touches near a grin, vastly amused.

(GM): OOC: Inaya just rolled intuition and linguistics, coming up with 46.

(Esfandiar): Whether he's found an opportunity to abandon his post, such as it is, without being missed, or his curiosity simply gets the better of him, the mustachioed Irzali soon sweeps by the table occupied by the three ex-Dolphins to hover and look busy nearby. He has perhaps been drawn by the anomalous appearance of the Razmani smith - no surprise, only vague approval registers when he takes in the woman with the axe, and the artist gets a quirk of an eyebrow only, but the smith draws a smirking stare of several moments, during which wheels appear to turn behind his pale gold eyes.

And he is certainly eavesdropping some of the time he is near the table, but seems to find it a challenge to look away from the fight for long, now that he's here.

(GM): OOC: Esfandiar just rolled luck and stealth, coming up with 60.

(Rakim): The next time some big bruiser goes pushing through the flapping door out of the showroom, a spindly figure slips through on the backswing, never needing to touch the door himself. From that rearmost perimeter of the space, the mutt surveys the action in here for tonight with an appraising eye, taking his time to decide whether he likes the look of things or not. Much like Inaya's entrance, his own is accepted by the locals without much notice despite his visible foreignness -- he doesn't work here, but he's a common enough presence all the same.

(Ighlaf): Replies to Inaya with lingering amusement after listening to the translations, "It helps me learn a few words, and my writing, yes? Not quickly, no." They admit while they seem to be considering writing Inaya's earlier words down. Their gaze flickers over to Yasin and then gaze towards the pit, but leave him be after their earlier hello. Their pen returns to the paper.

(Yasin): The young, burly Razmani that looks like he feels completely out of place here tears his eyes away from the fighting pit to look over to Ighlaf at the greeting and explanation of their sketches, offering them a nod. It might even be described as a friendly nod, maybe, if it weren't dulled by his gaze, his tension, and a lack of a smile. Nevertheless, he leans over to better examine those sketches, and then says in a quiet, appraising tone of voice, "...You're capturing them well."

As for Inaya's greeting... the gulf of contrast between the expressions of Yasin and Inaya couldn't be more vast, in this particular moment. He ticks a brow upward at that question, then shrugs. "No. I do not come here, ever." He looks towards the pit, then back to Inaya. "I was..." He's quiet for a few seconds, as if searching for the right word. He settles on: "Curious."

"But... sure, Inaya," he then says, making an effort to sound casual as his attention once again drifts towards towards the pit. The fighter with the supposedly "twisted nose" takes a nasty punch -- right to said nose. Yasin winces. "...You can teach me some Ilexi insults."

(Inaya): Inaya flashes a little grin aside to Esfandiar by way of greeting, but as ever it doesn't last, fading off as her attention shifts back to Ighlaf. She nods some at the reply, but then ticks her gaze back to Yasin, smirk disappearing altogether as she studies him for a few moments beneath that hood.

"Here is one for you to know," she offers in a hoarse half-whisper then, eyes not leaving his face. Speaking in slow, careful, clear Ilexi syllables, though they're Salawi-accented and raspy as always, she speaks: "Your last fire has come." She doesn't offer a translation to Sirdabi.

(Yasin): Inaya's disappearing smirk and sudden scrutiny of the young man's face seems to take his attention away from the fights, even as the 'cock-eyed fool bastard' who took a punch to his nose previously lands a mean-looking uppercut to the originator of said comments, producing a sickening sounding thud as fist meets jaw. While all that goes on, though? Yasin's just looking at Inaya, at those impassive, unwavering eyes.

After she speaks those words to him, untranslated, he simply nods to her, a look of understanding visible in his reception, regardless of his knowledge of the language. He holds that look for a few long beats.

And then he turns his haunted gaze back to the fighting pits, once more. The victim of that uppercut is blinking, wavering, trying to stay upright on his own two feet.

(Ighlaf): At Yasin's words, Ighlaf gives a distracted smile and nod with a muttered, "Thank you." Their eyes return to the fighters a moment, looking through them but not focusing on features, eyes tracking the movements of their arms and feet. Until the uppercut lands, and the pen returns to paper. "What does 'your last fire has come mean,' entirely?" They speak towards the table more than to Inaya. "Death?"

(Inaya): "Aye," Inaya rasps back to Ighlaf now, with a nod. "Some shit their barbarian religion talks about. Fuck if I know," she says, shrugging roughly. Her gaze is pulled back to the pit, with a faint wince at the wobbling fighter. "Guess I'm glad I didn't bet on--" and she shifts to Ilexi again for the fighter's name, "The Brown Spear." And at this, she catches sight of that spindly mongrel somewhere aside, and flashes him a smirk - whether he might've caught the reason for it or not.

(Rakim): Deciding that he doesn't half mind the look of the crowd in here tonight, Rakim has by now drifted down toward that pit-side table by way of natural gravitation to one's own kind. The fight doesn't appear to interest him much beyond a cursory skim of the combatants, seeing that it's practically all over red rover at this stage, but he sure does lean in past Esfandiar to get a goooood look at Yasin's face shaded underneath that hood. There's a gleam in his eye for it when he straightens up again, but no comment.

Rakim catches the tail-end of the conversation here. His Ilexi must be improving, because he understands the pit-name well enough to punish Inaya's smirk with a straight-faced jog of his eyebrows and an extremely crude gesture in front of his sirwaal -- in the region of his own Brown Spear.

Trust this guy to really class the place up, huh?

(Esfandiar): The plump, mustachioed rake goes to pat the mongrel on the bony back between his shoulder blades - barring a rebuff - as he smirks about the turn the fight is taking. His pale gold eyes flash with subdued pleasure as he watches the already-punch-ugly tough take another to the face and then hit the dirt. Recovering from that, though, and the scandal of the smith's presence, apparently, he steals a sidelong glance at the table. Small mouth screwing up a bit, he licks a fingertip and smooths it over one arched brow. Something in the vicinity of the table, and more specifically Inaya and Ighlaf, has drawn him into a pout.

(Yasin): "Your last fire has come," repeats Yasin, overhearing Ighlaf's question and translation from Ilexi to Sirdabi. His repetition of those words is quiet, certainly spoken more to himself than to anyone else, though undoubtedly anyone near him would be able to overhear. He repeats the Ilexi version of it that Inaya had said once more, for good measure. Syllables and sounds memorized, even if the individual meaning of each is not.

And though the fight is certainly over, 'The Brown Spear' about to fall, that young, hooded man doesn't yet take his eyes off the fighting pit in front of him. For some reason, he seems particularly interested in this part of the fight. The end of it. The boring part, no?

He's only distracted once he catches Rakim giving him that loooooong look, eye movements indicating sudden awareness of being watched. That distraction only lasts a moment, though, before his attention returns -- just as the Spear's opponent takes advantage of his confused state to slam his fist into the side of his head. Yup. He's out, falling to the floor of the pit with a painful thud.

Yasin holds his gaze there for a few more beats, before finally tearing himself away and looking once again at Ighlaf's sketches-in-progress.

(Ighlaf): The next sketch, more focused than the last is just an muscular arm punching through the air. The drawing reveals the various raised muscle fibers lifting veins with the strength and tension of the clenched fist, with lines implying speed around it as the arm extends. The drawing ends with some of the musculature of the shoulder and side, gathered together.

The sketched punch would probably hurt juuuust like the man who got hit. Ighlaf finally notices the encroaching presences at the table, looking up at the thud and then towards the movement from Esfandiar. They place their pen on the table as they link their fingers together to stretch, giving a vague nod in greeting. They then seal the inkwell, not that spilling it would make the table look any worse. They turn to speak to Yasin, "I might bet a single wafer: what I think is the stupidest name will win the upcoming round."

(Inaya): Punishment, indeed. That's Inaya down for the count alongside the Brown Spear, as she busts into abrupt, wheezy laughter that - as ever - sparks off a coughing fit. She doesn't get to watch the fight's finish or respond to anything further for a bit, just turned away and doubled over hacking up a lung for a while. How pleasant.

(Esfandiar): There is a minor commotion in the pit when a similarly thuggish but more amply dressed person tries to encourage the defeated fighter to get up and leave the ring under his own steam, with a heavy boot. One eye watching that mess like it's as entertaining as the rest of the match, Esfandiar comes to rest an elbow on the back of a chair next to the others, plump fingers knitted loosely together. He leans in toward the table, not afraid to get cozy in order to get in there.

"I should like to have her ear," he mentions in Sirdabi, of the hacking sailor, in a tone that is at least a little resentful. Considering the imposing woman with a dainty pout, he admits grudgingly, "but it would seem cruel to take them from one with so few organs left, no?" Just fleetingly, so brief that most would not notice it, his face falls into a look of something almost shy.

(Yasin): Yasin's eyes are, at first, drawn towards that drawing of that arm, punching through the air as it is, that depiction of a single physical act of violence against an invisible, phantom opponent. His gaze rests there for several seconds, before Ighlaf's words distract him.

He arches a single brow at the comment of the single wafer gamble, and holds that look towards Ighlaf. But... his right hand reaches down to his own coinpouch, he takes out a single copper wafer, and he slides it onto the table near Ighlaf's sketchwork, delivering the reply in a quiet, low, "Alright. I'll take that bet. The... lesser of the stupid names will win."

He's only vaguely aware of the shared joke going on between the former prisoner and Inaya, and the resulting coughing fit. But then Esfandiar's sudden cozy appearance -- perhaps the smith didn't notice him close the distance -- actually has him jolt a little. Not an incredibly obvious gesture, but probably more noticeably jittery than one should be in a place like this.

The hooded smith seems to at first be about to deliver some mild reproach to Esfandiar at that comment -- clearly visible in how he narrows his eyes, a look of scolding about to surface. And then... nothing. He just shrugs instead, and says, "I'd think you already have enough ears of your own, Sayyid."

(Haber): A new fighter enters the ring below, striding in with understated confidence. Like the other fighters, he is barefoot and wears only a loincloth that reveals most of his muscled form. Insipid blue eyes lift to the spectators leaning against the ring above, a nod exchanged with the bookie.

"The warm-up is over!" he calls in Ilexi, thumping one meaty fist against the pale skin of his chest. "I, the Windson Wonder make my challenge. Whoever dares, come and fight me!"

This declaration over, the solid young man turns to where the other fighters are gathered, waiting with a lingering smirk.

(Ighlaf): The laughing and wheezing fit from Inaya draws their eyes with puzzlement, having missed the exchange. They do notice Esfandiar approaching and slide their own wafer towards Yasin's on the table as they listen with slightly narrowed eyes. They respond with "Having a necklace of ears sounds a bit useless, but she does have two ears." with a slight twist of their lips. They then direct their next words to Yasin as new fighter arrives, possibly to distract him from startling.

"The new fighter's name doesn't have me wincing, so he may be your side of the bet." They give said fighter a single glance, then their attention is on those near the table.

(Yasin): Yasin studies this new fighter, his eyes surveying the barely clothed, muscled man with eyes that are clearly unpracticed in judging a combatant. But, unpracticed or not, he nods to Ighlaf, tapping those two wafers with a callused forefinger, perhaps in agreement of said bet. "Seems proud of himself, that look on his face. What, uh, did he say his name was? Wind-something?"

(Ighlaf): Watches the wafers be tapped by Yasin and answers, "Yes. The Windson Wonder. He started speaking telling them all the warm up is over." They have a slight look of amusement.

(Esfandiar): Taking a cool, disinterested tone, the plump Irzali tells Yasin and Ighlaf both (along with anyone else who cares to listen): "Alas my own ear cannot interpret the ehm... unique tongue of our friendly hosts here." Looking to Inaya with a fey little smirk on his full lips, he supposes, "Perhaps it is too refined by city living, hmm?" This might almost be a volley at the Salawi sailor, more than about her. Meanwhile, without a glance at the tabletop, he produces a one copper folly and flips it onto the pair of wafers - it lands with the obverse side up, showing the great stele of Omrazir.

"I will take the bad one, too, hmm?" he murmurs, flashing a look at the artist. "The witless ones are always best with their hands." He smiles, letting his pale gold eyes flit from Ighlaf to Yasin and back again before he gives the scruffy houndish fellow a twinkle-eyed glance, sidelong.

(Rakim): Mischief managed, the mongrel watches Inaya crumble with a crinkle of crow's feet and an air of general contentment, ever the biggest fan of his own handiwork. Really it's her own fault for making it so fun and satisfying -- she does this to herself, he's innocent. But he leaves her be to recover from there, bundling his thin arms up into a pointy pretzel across his chest.

No rebuff whatsoever for the fleeting physical contact from Esfandiar -- though a flit of eyes does doublecheck that it was indeed his Friend here and not some other. He settles in to linger there beside said mustachioed fellow, watching the next competitor posture down in the pit. Wryly, the dog concurs of the latest witticism, "This is so." Then he produces a clutch of coppers from somewhere beneath his cloak and dumps them on the table with the rest. "Five on whomever has the balls to face this one." While saying so, he eyes the throng of fight-ready thugs ringing the pit, interested to see who among them will step up. And how stupid their name is.

Speaking of which, turning his face toward Esfandiar, Rakim asks in conversational tones perfectly audible to the rest of the knot of foreigners at the table, "What would the Smith's pit-name be, do you think, Friend?"

(GM): OOC: Rakim just rolled logic and shady arts, coming up with 138.

(Ighlaf): Turns partially to gaze at Esfandiar, "Apologies." While not sounding apologetic for the upcoming words, "By that standard, Inaya has the most wits of us." They do sort of give a slight shrug to Yasin, though. They look at the slow pile up of coins and eye the pit themselves, their attention split between that and the conversation to their side.

(Yasin): "The Windson Wonder," Yasin repeats from Ighlaf's telling, giving a subtle nod. "Guess we'll have to see what the opponent's name is, to be sure." He's about to turn his head back towards the pit when Esfandiar speaks, so he gives that man his attention instead. His reward for turning his head, of course, are those two jabs -- though only one was directed his way.

It is hard to tell from Yasin's expression, however, if the jab lands. Maybe that's just because there's something unyielding about his features this particular evening, something hollow about the way he's looking at everyone and everything.

He holds his gaze upon Esfandiar, looking into his pale-gold eyes, even while Ighlaf speaks. He then says in a detached voice, at first, an agreement: "Maybe you're right, Sayyid Shirazi." He allows that agreement to sit a moment, and then asks, "What is worse, do you think? Being witless, or being... " He draws out the pause. "...useless?"

As for Rakim's question about the smith's pit name? He just arches an eyebrow and turns his head back to face -- mostly -- the pit.

(Inaya): "Fuuuuuuuck--" -wheeze, cough- "You," is Inaya's eloquent and amused reply in Sirdabi to Esfandiar, once she can even draw breath to get that much out. "Don't matter," her voice breaks and she coughs again, "-How- fuckin' long I been here, ain't -ever- gonna be a sand-rat." That much speaking requires a few wheezy breaths to recover from, sounding more like a consumptive child than a scarily-overgrown sailor for a few moments.

And then she flashes a smirk first to Ighlaf, then back to Esfandiar, and adds in Ilexi, "And I have too all parts of me needed." Emphasis on the all, and a little grin and a waggle of her eyebrows that probably comes off more threatening than anything else.

(Esfandiar): Arching a single dark, slender brow, Esfandiar wonders of Ighlaf in passing,

"How do you figure that?" To Yasin he flashes a devilish grin that exposes the gleam of his gold tooth to the dull firelight and replies breezily in Sirdabi, "I wouldn't know myself, but you might ask Captain Larth, hmm?" A subtle glint in his eyes suggests he believes he may be encroaching on tender territory; it is not a look of malice, but of pleasure. The smile lingers but the devilry softens when he turns to the dog at his side to "hmmmm" with one eye remaining on the smith - sizing him up.

"The Backtalking Bruul? The Sassy Stonesweep?"

He gives a little frown and glances to Inaya and Ighlaf for help: "Must they start with the same sound, hmm?" His pout gives the impression that he resents this restriction on his artistry.

(Rakim): Rakim can't help but look smug when Yasin hits him with everybody's favourite move: The Eyebrow. A classic.

He doesn't know the rules of pit-names, but naming things is one of his things -- after all, he gives a new name to everyone he meets. He readily combines the typical pit-style with the alliterative pattern Esfandiar has begun, albeit flavoured along a different overall theme. "... the Bereaving Bellows. Heartache's Hammer. Doleful Drift..." he muses out one-by-one alongside Friend, trading them back-and-forth like a game of dice.

Then one more. He taps a finger to his chin and tosses out the last with a shrewd look angled in beneath Yasin's hood. "Or perhaps... the Avenging Anvil..?"

No doubt not a single one of these at all work when translated into Ilexi.

(Ighlaf): Finds their lips curling into a smile at Inaya's words, and replies themselves in accented Ilexi. "Wrong parts for your first words for him, there." Ighlaf then prop their chin on their hands, elbows braced onto the table in a slight slouch as they look up at Esfandiar then glance pointedly at the sketches with a slight shrug of one shoulder, "I would fall into witless, yes?"

They don't attempt to entertain and add to the names being thrown out, but do comment. "My favorite name of the fighters of recent was the Momentous Angel. Not all start the same." They unfurl slightly from their slouch to grab the mug of whiskey to fidget with more so than drink.

(Yasin): Tender territory was indeed trod on, abundantly clear in the way the smith's shoulders tense up juuuust a touch at the mention of the Guard Captain. Of course they do. Maybe not noticeable to a casual observer, but certainly noticeable to someone in close proximity or watching Yasin carefully.

Then, the naming starts.

Little volleys back and forth between Esfandiar and Rakim, trading options like little darts thrown at the smith's broad back. As large a physical target as he is, that wound he's hiding under his hood is probably nearly as big.

The Bereaving Bellows seems to bother him the most, if anyone was watching him sharply enough. A working of his jaw, like chewing through some annoyance, maybe. Some additional note of fury in the look in his eyes that wasn't there before.

But he takes it, each like another little callus to be added to his person. Aside from a subtle nod to Ighlaf at the point that not all the names need to start the same, he keeps his eyes on the pit, and grunts out as they pause, "All of your names are fucking terrible." He's quiet a few moments, then mutters out, "Get more creative. The Fury of the Forge, or Molten Menace."

(Inaya): "I can one of those make, for my own," Inaya retorts to Ighlaf, again in Ilexi, accompanied by a lightning-flash of a grin. Swapping to Sirdabi and glancing back to Esfandiar, smirk lingering, she adds, "But still he would turn me down, I think." She puts on a very regretful sort of expression that still manages to be patently fake.

The naming, though, she does not join in with, whether not clever enough to come up with amusing wordplay or some other reason altogether. She smirks, finding amusement in some of them, plainly, but aside from watching those throwing out title suggestions, and a small shrug to Esfandiar at his question, she's no help.

(Haber): Down in the pit, a challenger appears. He is clad similarly to the Windson Wonder but is noticeably taller and leaner, blond hair darker. There is perhaps some real animosity between the two for he glares at Haber and spits back his acceptance gruffly in Ilexi.

"I, the Loomis Loomer will fight you," he growls and then drops his voice lower, tone more menacing. "Imbryck scum."

A flurry of whoops and yells erupts from the watching crowd, jeers and taunts thrown at both of the fighters as they start to circle each other in the ring. Haber cracks his knuckles and the Loomer turns his head aside to loose a gob of phlegm that lands wetly in the sawdust.

"Quit dancin' and 'it 'im already!" comes a call from above.

(Ighlaf): Aims an amused look at Inaya and seems to be thinking about commenting on the names being thrown out, when they hear the newest challenger speak and are distracted. They point firmly towards the pit and towards the Loomer. "My coin on him winning." They mouth the name and shake their head.

(Rakim): Just a couple of hyenas nipping at the fresh meat that's wandered into unfamiliar territory. How were they to resist? Rakim's first blow struck truest - as is often his M.O. - and that makes him the winner. He gloats at Esfandiar with nothing more than a crony's mischievous glance, and Yasin is spared further hazing from this quarter by the activity down in the pit.

Stirred to join in on the clamouring call for general violence and mayhem, Rakim cups a thin hand round his mouth to holler some broken Ilexi - "Make him to eat his tooths!" - down toward the fighters. Feed whose teeth to whom? Doesn't matter. Then he appraises the two fighters more deeply, getting a good look at them while they square off. "Son-of-Wind has the weight advantage, I think..." he supposes of Haber. Then with a squint at the opposition, "But Loom-Loom has better reach..." There's promise of a close match there. Those are always the best ones.

(Yasin): After his little naming complaint and having thrown a few options in of his own to the mix, Yasin is distracted from those little jabs at his back by the appearance of the ... Loomis Loomer.

He gives an almost immediate -look- to Ighlaf at the naming mention, and looks unsurprised when Ighlaf declares that the Loomis Loomer gets the bet -- the worse of the two names. He says, "Alright. That settles it then. My wafer on the Windson Wonder, the rest of you on the Loomer."

He shifts his weight in his seat, maybe trying to loosen some of the tension from his posture, and sets his eyes on the pit, and at the fight that's about to unfold.

(Esfandiar): The gold-toothed Irzali hisses at the scruffy mutt beside him, wordlessly vowing to have his revenge, it would seem. Yasin's manful shifting seems only to entertain him, and as such his interest drifts when the new fight begins. Pale gold eyes drifting from one fighter to the next before lingering on Haber, he murmurs, "I like that one better. Alas that I must cheer for him to be beaten senseless before my very eyes." He sighs ruefully through the former prisoner lifting his voice to shout down toward the pit. Once he's finished, Esfandiar straightens up enough to call down something sharp in fluid Irzali. Those familiar with the language will have heard him shout, "Feed his balls to the crocs!"

(Ighlaf): Catches enough of the words from Esfandiar to mutter to themselves, "Would they even know what crocs are?" as they focus moreso on the yelled violent encouragements than the fight itself as the noise in the room increasing with heckling and jeers. They to mention to Yasin, "While I do think it is the stupider name, I sort of want him to win with it." Then turns their attention to the pit.

(Firouzeh): Excess noise has drawn in an out-of-place, foreign old woman like a moth to a gossip-riddled flame, probably just finishing up a late-night clinic shift. Her arrival is uneventful; she pauses to rudely stare at the crooked noses of unlucky brawlers here and there, clearly judging the lack of proper settings as she makes her way to familiar faces. She doesn’t greet anyone, keeping her gaze trained on the pit as she settles beside Inaya.

“Who is favored to win?”

(Inaya): Inaya had taken to her favourite occupation in Keely's of late, notching the edge of the wooden table with her axe in a neat little row, so it's not until Firouzeh actually sits down that she looks up with a blink, and an odd little smirk touches at her lips. "Grandmother," she greets in her hoarse Sirdabi. Then she's looking back to the pit, and points out first the heavier-built, lighter-blond fighter with those insipid blue eyes. "That one is--" she switches to Ilexi for the name, "The Windson Wonder." And then, pointing to the taller man opposite, "The Loomis Loomer." Back to Sirdabi, then, "These ones have a bet that the one with the worse name will win," and she doesn't seem to feel the need to explain which -that- is, as she gestures to Ighlaf, Esfandiar, and the nameless mongrel nearby. "But my folly's on the Wonder, and Yasin's also." Having said this, she now digs into a pocket to pull out - alas, not a folly, but an Ensorian wafer after all - and slaps it onto the table.

(Firouzeh): Inaya's explanations are met with vague nods and 'mhm's, though the Ilexi naming conventions clearly don't click in anyway that tells her who -actually- has the worse name. It all sounds equally stupid to Firo.

She weighs the competitors with all the appraisal skills of someone who has no idea who to choose, tilting her head back and forth. Usually dealing with the aftermath, not the pregame. The elder works on settling herself in for the fight through the indecision, dropping her wicker basket off her shoulder and clunking it on the ground infront of her feet.

Instead of putting her bets on the brawlers, she casts a overly thoughtful glance around the table. Maybe it’s a matter of who she trusts more to pick a winner. Maybe she just really likes to defy her shitty bar tour guide. Her stake is produced with a grin, declared as, "Worse name will take it."

(Inaya): "That one," Inaya informs Firo, pointing to the Loomer. "It means... uh. Shit." She glances aside to Ighlaf and the scruffy cur as though for help, with a blink and a frown. Like she'd actually get any. Maybe she's just stalling for time to think. "'The One from St Loomis Who Stands Tall.' But-- tall, and also like an enemy. A threat, yes? But it sounds even more stupid, in Ilexi. The other is, uh... 'Marvellous Child of the Wind.'" She really has to think about these translations, apparently. She shrugs, like that's the best she can offer, and makes another notch with her axe in the row of neatly-spaced little grooves along the edge of the table, her eyes wandering back to the pit for the fight's opening moves. No heckling shouts from her - that's not worth the effort it would take to lift her voice loud enough to carry. But she seems to enjoy the ones that do get tossed around.

(GM): OOC: Inaya just rolled intuition and linguistics, coming up with 67.

(Rakim): From hyenas to humanitarians, spurring pledges of teeth and tendermeat to the masses. Feed the world; Annur bless.

Hunched and unassuming figure that she is, Firouzeh's entrance goes unnoticed by Rakim until she's already settling herself in at the table by Inaya. His brows bounce up toward his receding hairline, and he blink-blinks in open surprise to see her, but then... said surprise fades. Because maybe - for whatever reason - it's not so strange after all. What's left is a wry sort of look which soon is drawn back toward the pit fighters anyway.

As for the silent request for help translating, all the mongrel does is repeat, "Loom-Loom," in grave Ilexi with a very serious nod.

(Yasin): Despite the deadened look in his eyes, Yasin for once almost mirrors Rakim's expression. A blink-blink of his own and the return of The Eyebrow towards Firouzeh's appearance, as she casually settles in, inquires as to the news of the pit, and produces her grinning declaration. The young man doesn't seem to quite digest it as easily as Rakim does, the surprise lingering there for a few solid beats. But he looks back to the pit, anyway. As he does so, he says to Ighlaf in reply, "Given the number of bets against 'Windson' at this table, I have a feeling you'll get your want. We'll... see if Inaya and I get to keep our wafers, though."

(Ighlaf): Gives a nod to Firouzeh as she takes a seat and simply says, "No tea?" They recall their tankard then and slide it across the table, rolling the full contents between their palms until asked about the names nodding at what is mentioned. "Big talker alongside the height." They consider, and slowly say, "Possibly a commentary on weaving." Their tone is dubious about that.

They eye the coins on the table at Yasin's words. "He certainly seems eager to punch the other fellow."

(Ighlaf): Turns their attention towards the pit as it seems the fighters have had enough of heckling and listening to the crowd. The fighters begin throwing their strength behind strikes, punches and kicks impacting or being stepped aside occasionally. Both seem rather eager to be close and aggressive, exchanging and blocking strikes rather than using their feet to move anywhere but forward unless they lose their footing at a hit. The crowd becomes louder, calling out encouragement and curses on the fighters.

(Yasin): "He does--" is all Yasin really says in reply to Ighlaf's observation of the fighter's eagerness, before the fight begins, and Yasin's attention turns quite directly to the goings-on in the pit. The young man makes no calls for encouragement or curses, despite the increasing volume of the surrounding crowd. He just watches.

Aggressive indeed describes the brutality that takes place, even if it is evenly-matched. The Loomis Loomer aims a swing at the side of Windson's head almost immediately as the fight opens, but Windson seemed ready for it, blocking it and ducking down to sink his own fist into Loomer's undefended gut. The Loomer seems all too happy to take that blow as he brings his left hook around to do what his right couldn't, slamming at Windson's face. Both blows land, though the power behind them doesn't look as great as it could have given the pain both men endured at that moment.

It is when the bloodshed begins that the crowd really begins to show their excitement.

That happens when Loomer has both of his strikes blocked by Windson, and Windson has grappled both of Loomer's arms in the blocking, using his weight advantage to pin the man's arms in place. It could be a bad position for Loomer. But, the leaner man uses the leverage Windson granted him to bring his skinny, pointed knee up into Windson's jaw, a nasty crack ringing out as Windson's teeth clamp down on his tongue. Windson, despite the pain and the blood now dripping from his mouth, takes advantage of Loomer's temporarily off-balance position, feinting with his left before landing a blow squarely on Lommer's nose, breaking it. Celebratory cheers and insulting jeers ring out at both blows struck, and someone shouts out in Ilexi, "Bust his fuckin' head!" -- a sentiment that could apply to either fighter.

The two men circle each other, bloodied, grinning with vile intent in their eyes, eager for more.

(Ighlaf): Ighlaf winces and averts their eyes after the crack, then returns their eyes after the jeer to the circling.

The Loomer, ignoring his bleeding nose uses his longer reach to to match his name, presses forward in a strike with his right arm, and as Windson moves to block-- Another feint, and Loomer whips out a strike with his left. Windson wise enough to feint earlier, side steps along with bring up his forearm to block. He tests his footwork in a fierce kick to the Loomer. There is blood spatters around the pit now, ones that may shift the footing with an unlucky step. The strike moves in-

(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled luck by itself, coming up with 37.

(GM): OOC: Yasin just rolled luck by itself, coming up with 36.

(Yasin): Windson's footwork isn't bad. Though lifting his leg to go in for that kick puts him at risk of slipping on freshly spilt blood, his stance is balanced, and his foot comes flying in towards Loomer's upper stomach. The Loomer manages to see this coming at the last possible moment, and twists his body ever-so-slightly such that the kick doesn't land with as much force as Windson had intended. Still, though, foot does meet flesh, and despite his maneuvering, breath is forcefully expelled from Loomer's mouth as his body attempts to compensate.

He's winded, but frantic, rage-fueled energy seems to take precedence over the need for air, and Loomer immediately uses that long reach of his to aim a direct jab at Windson's right side -- the side that isn't being presently supported by a leg. Maybe he's trying to throw him off balance. The jab comes flying in and--

(GM): OOC: Yasin just rolled luck by itself, coming up with 32.

(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled luck by itself, coming up with 32.

(Ighlaf): As that jab comes at Windson it hits with impact but doesn't shift him off balance as he moves into a better stance. It probably hurt, though. The two fighters renew an exchange of blows, quite evenly matched as stubborn will and spite keep them going. Purpling injuries of fresh bruises abound and a not too little amount of blood blocks Windson's vision on one eye from a cut on his eyebrow as the fight continues. Loomer allows rage once again to take over, striking without regard for anything else as Windson's own strike clips him on the side of the head. Then after the impacts... both fighters stumble, and slump. No surrenders or clear winners this time as both fall into unconsciousness.

Ighlaf blinks at that as the crowd mixes between jeers and cheers at the violent end of the fight.

(GM): OOC: The scene fades to black.