it smelled like sweat and adrenaline. the air was hot. it was loud. it hit him in the chest, sending energizing shockwaves up his sides and down to the tips of his fingers. he wanted to hit back.

i shouldn’t be here.

the doorway behind him disappeared, faded into the crowd that he waded into, utterly hypnotized. the occasional cat call from old betters went ignored. mostly, people left him alone. his face was so old that it was new again.

i shouldn’t be here.

soon enough, he’d found the bar, and had just begun nursing a beer in a sweaty palm when he heard a familiar voice. the blue flashed in his peripheral vision. when he turned his head, his own face was neither friendly nor aggressive. he looked more like he was in a daze.

i should not be here.

”just watchin’.”

he sipped, and his gaze left again, falling on king’s last opponent still recovering at the edge of the ring. bo's chin nodded in the man’s direction.

”who’s that?”

KING WAYLAND

☉

king turns his head, casting a quick glance at the man he'd just defeated. he was conscious now, being helped out of the ring with a person on either side. he tosses boruta maher a cheeky grin, shrugging.
[break][break]
"no clue. got me twenty bucks, though." the simplicity of beating on a nameless stranger was easy; gratifying in a way he couldn't exactly articulate.
[break][break]
a glass of something brown hits the table in-front of him and king tosses it back. it drowns that all too profound metallic bite from tasting his own blood.
[break][break]
all but slamming it down, he has a thought.
[break][break]
"why don't ye give a shot? look like ye need a bit of stress relief." for good measure he barks a breathy laugh. "'sides, what's the score 'tween us? 8-8?"

[attr="class","notes"]boruta maher[break]

[attr="class","wizzcredit"]☉

twenty bucks. twenty bucks wasn’t shit. king was here for the same thing he’d used to come here for, and it wasn’t monetary. it was something in the heart.

he sipped his beer, eyes still lingering on the loser. 8-8. sounded about right, from what he could remember.

“nah, i can’t. got a new job, gotta keep my face pretty.” and he shook too many hands to have his knuckles busted up.

he was doing big boy things, all grown up now. no more messy grunt work. no more paid fights. no more scraps. 

KING WAYLAND

☉

"ah," he says in an exaggerated way, chuckling a single, quick note. it sounded more like a grunt, to those who weren't paying attention.
[break][break]
"fatherhood made ye soft. i get it." he shrugs, snapping his fingers for another drink. the bartender complies, already having one prepared. this was a routine, it seemed.
[break][break]
"no sweat, yer probably not the only lug in 'ere whose ass i can find 'n kick." he looks around, for emphasis, glass still on his lips.

[attr="class","notes"]boruta maher[break]

[attr="class","wizzcredit"]☉