Chapter 13
Steven shut his eyes to the stinging of the frozen wind, hearing his footsteps crunch loudly beneath him. He sighed acutely; he knew he should have worn thicker boots for this trip. Snow seeped in between the worn fabrics holding the old, black, leather work boots together. He rubbed his face gently with his gloved palm to warm his face, which was growing paler by the moment. The wind whipped his cloak out around him as he struggled over the feet of accumulated snow. The west-khan's palace was in view now, at least. Left alone with his thoughts, the silver-haired man began to drift his cognition to his rescuer. Whoever it had been had a very good method of protecting his identity: the voice was unrecognizable and mostly unremarkable, he hadn't been able to see the face (which begged the question of how the stranger himself managed to see), and even smaller details such as body language and combat style had expertly avoided detection, even to Steven, who prided himself on being an expert in matters of perception.
The door of the palace was close now. He had to think of what to say to the west-khan and his wife. What could he tell them? He has learned only one detail of real significance, but perhaps that information would be enough to prompt a reaction. The silver-haired man hoped so.
"Sol!" Steven heard exclaimed as he pushed open the door.
"Luna!" came the reply as the sound of metal clashing assailed his ears.
"That will do!" grunted the vastly deeper voice of the west-khan, standing near his throne, "It appears one of our guests has returned from his expedition."
The silver-haired man wiped the snow from his cloak and stood up straighter, "Evening, sir west-khan."
"Lon'qu, I insist," the man reiterated.
"Of course," Steven bowed, "Are Lady Lissa and Lord Donnel appropriately situated?" The silver-haired man slipped off his hood.
"Lissa is asleep," the west-khan reported in his typical neutral baritone, "and Donny has been assisting in restoration and maintenance around the palace. Quite a helpful lad, that one." A minuscule smile played along Lon'qu's lips.
"I see," Steven breathed with relief, "then things appear to remain under relative control."
"Other than those two shouting all day," the dark-haired man glared with malaise at Owain and Cynthia, who were now whispering the names of their moves at one another as if that ensured no one could hear them.
"Indeed," Steven watched them, too, "When did Cynthia arrive?"
"Just a day or two ago," replied the khan regnant, "her mother was carrying a correspondence to Ylisse. Apparently Ylisstol has been retaken, and Lucina has banded together several of the old Shepherds to combat the invaders on her father's orders."
"Brilliant!" Steven's eyes lit up, "That's wonderful news. Perhaps we can begin to wrap up our little sojourn here, then. All that remains is to ensure my family's safety..."
"I wouldn't be so eager," Lon'qu contradicted him, "Chrom has been captured, and, according Lucina, the aggressors who seized Ylisstol are planning a later invasion."
The silver-haired man's face dropped back down into the expression he had worn while trudging through the snow, "That is... markedly less encouraging news."
"I have learned that your mother and younger brother are among Lucina's cadre," the west-khan added.
"Truly?" Steven's ears perked up, "Then I may need to return to Ylisstol regardless."
"I would appreciate it if you would first share what you have learned," Lon'qu halted the young man.
"Ah, naturally," he nodded, "I forget myself. Unfortunately, Khan Lon'qu, the east-khan's security detail is more effective than I had anticipated. As a result, I learned precious little, but I can report this much: at the time of my visit, the east-khan, the one called Vlasis, a boy of rather minor stature and snowy, flaxen hair, was at court with a very old-looking gentleman who dressed in all black and seemed to make every effort to disguise his person. He had a silvery blue color to his hair, and he spoke to the east-khan as an equal, mentioning something about the distribution of supplies. I also ascertained that this elderly man doles out special invitations to certain individuals to allow immediate access to the east-khan. Unfortunately, I was unable to procure one for myself. I apologize that this report tells you little, Khan Lon'qu."
The khan regnant waved his hand, "You came back with your life and some information for further investigation. That's more than I would have expected out of most spies."
"Please, sir," Steven smiled, "I am no spy; I am an agent of diplomacy, nothing more."
"Quite," the khan smirked along with him, "In any case, I'll notify my intelligence officials and keep working with the information you've provided. In the meantime, you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like."
"Very generous of you, Khan Lon'qu," bowed the silver-haired man, "but I worry for my mother and brother."
"Give it at least one night's rest, boy," ordered the khan regnant, "If you're going to be able to find them tonight, they'll still be there in the morning. You seem exhausted."
"Sleep is but a passing fantasy to men of my ilk, good sir khan," chuckled Steven.
"Rest," Lon'qu ordered again.
"The most effective of hunters in my warren knew the value of avoiding overexertion, man-spawn," announced the khan's wife, stepping out from within the palace, "I would presume one of your purported intelligence to be likewise apprised."
"Perhaps you're correct, Lady Panne," bowed the silver-haired man, "If the khan and his wife both insist upon my repose, I would be remiss in refusing it. Thank you."
"It's no trouble," Lon'qu noted with a meager smile.
"If you are hungry, man-spawn, Donny and I have just finished creating a soup," Panne added.
"Allow me to guess: carrots?" laughed the young man, following her into the dining hall.
[...]
"...which is why I arrived here with such haste. No easy task, as I'm sure you can tell," concluded the old dignitary with a huff.
"I head you loud and clear," nodded the Plegian king, "but I dunno a thing about your little story."
"Now see here!" grunted the middle-aged man, "This gentleman claimed to be a Plegian statesman!"
"Did you ever consider that perhaps he was lying?" chuckled Henry from his throne.
"I'm not willing to believe your innocence in the matter, frankly. No one can absolve Plegia of suspicion after what happened just thirty years ago," the man folded his arms.
"Aw, well, I'm real broken up that you feel that way," the Plegian king laughed, "but I don't see how that's my problem."
"Dammit, I want answers, you scoundrel! What am I supposed to tell my masters?" the dignitary growled.
"Maybe that they should find a new guy to gather intelligence, nya ha ha!" cackled Henry.
"So you deny any involvement in the actions of this 'Steven?'" the middle-aged man pointed his finger accusatorially.
"Was that his name?" the Plegian paused a moment.
"Ah-ha!" the man opposite him leapt, "so you do know of him!"
"Not really," Henry shrugged, "I just don't think you gave us a name before. Thanks for that."
The man's face took on a shade of fuchsia, "Do you deny it or not?!"
"Does over two thousand pounds of concentrated force shatter a human femur and cause the most intense physical pain imaginable?" replied the king of Plegia. The other man hesitated and lost some of his passion. "The answer is yes," Henry elaborated, "Plegia had nothing to do with whatever espionage this 'Steven' guy was committing. We've got enough to worry about on our own soil; who cares about a buncha human popsicles up north?"
"As one of those 'human popsicles,' I resent that remark," growled the dignitary.
"Well, hey, you have been pretty cold," giggled the Plegian king, "and I guess you haven't melted yet, because you're pretty hard to swallow."
"How did I get assigned to this position?" the middle-aged man rubbed his temples as he muttered to himself. "At any rate, I also wanted to inquire about the absence of Queen Tharja. Where has she gone to?"
"Oh," Henry shrugged, "she likes to travel. She's always hanging around some destination or another. I don't even really ask any more."
"So your country doesn't know where one half of its rulers are?" snarled the man opposite Henry.
"What they don't know won't hurt them," Henry smiled, "You, on the other hand... you ask so many questions, you might not even know if you were going to get killed for that information."
The man hesitated and glanced around the room, "It's my solemn duty to gather as much information as possible to sate my masters' inquiries."
"Couldn't you be replaced by a simple piece of paper?" chuckled the king.
"I'll not stand for your mockery, villain!" charged the middle-aged man.
"Want me to yank off your legs, then?" Heny smiled broadly down his nose.
"I... believe I'll pass," the other man swallowed, "but do not think my superiors will be satisfied with your threats! They will come after you!"
"Then I hope they're a lot scarier than you are," the king laughed, "You're about as intimidating as a goldfish that's lost an eye. Do you know what they call that?"
"No..." the older man breathed carefully.
"A goldfsh! Nya ha ha!" Henry laughed hysterically. The older man shook his head and marched out the door.
"Don't you think antagonizing the Feroxi could lead trouble to our doorstep, father?" Noire mewled, meandering slowly into the throne room.
"Nah," he dismissed, "the Feroxi are all divided right now; none of them have much power at all, but the east doesn't even have the traditional authority of Khan Regnant. They're basically impotent, like a kitten pawing at an elephant. And then the elephant steps on the kitten and turns it into a big, squishy, bloody pancake. Mmm... blood pancakes..."
"Ew!" shrieked Noire, "Father, why do you have to make such dreadful analogies?"
"I'm the elephant in this scenario," he elaborated:
"I know, but it's gross!" his daughter shuddered.
"What?" the dark mage replied with amusement, "No way. That's just a little kidding around. Gross would be that time I broke a guy's bone halfway out of his arm, then stomped on him while I yanked it out and drove it right into his-"
"Stop stop stop!" Noire fled the room.
"I still can't figure out how she's mine and Tharja's daughter," shrugged Henry. Afterward, the dark mage put a finger to his chin, "So, Steven's been poking around. I wonder what he and his family have gotten themselves into..."
[...]
The walls of the castle were a stormy gray, suffocating the inside air with darkness. A few torches flickered meager light as they licked the walls. Robin stared straight ahead as the rain slipped gently off his hood. He could still hear the sound sharply slamming against the unyielding stone and mortar that covered them. The rest of his rain-soaked party began to slowly trickle in, absent Minerva and Gerome's wyvern, both of whom were none too pleased about being left in the downpour. The resentment showed on Cherche and her son's faces immediately. The former tactician performed one final scan of his group, Inigo moving a lock of Morgan's hair out of her eyes and Sylvia delicately kicking the rain out of her boots; the dark of night was slowly weighing on the outside air as the door was shut behind them.
"You," one of the guards of Lieben Keep, dressed heel to brow in crimson platemail that shone like the sun even in the meager light, pointed at Robin, "You're the Grandmaster, right?"
"That's what they call me," he reported with a snide smile.
"General Argent has requested a council with you," explained the guard.
"What a coincidence," Robin remarked flatly, "I had some business to discuss with the general, myself."
"Excellent, he'll be waiting in the war room, just behind that wall," the same guard indicated with his finger, "but your companions must remain here."
"That won't do," the former tactician shook his head.
"Sir?" the guard raised an eyebrow uneasily.
"I have in my company my two daughters, my son-in-law, and the duke and duchess of Rosanne as well as their son; I won't be refused their part in whatever negotiations the general desires," asserted the aging tactician.
"Please, sir," begged the guard, "I can't let all of you in."
Robin glanced back over his shoulder, "At least allow Duke Virion to accompany me."
The guard paused and nodded, "That may be for the best. I believe General Argent would be agreeable to that."
"Father," Robin heard. Turning his head around, the short, redheaded girl had stepped forward, "I want to be a part of these deliberations, too."
"Depends on what the nice fellow in the armor says, sweetie," her father quipped. Morgan didn't find it funny. "Do you expect General Argent would be opposed to my youngest daughter accompanying me, as well?"
The man in the red armor looked to each side and relented, "I can't imagine he would strongly object to it, but that's it. No other visitors."
"Thank you," the former tactician nodded, "that should do just fine." Their roles decided, Robin proceeded to the meeting place with Virion and Morgan behind and on either side of him. "I didn't know you were still so ardent about learning your father's practice," Robin whispered to his daughter.
"I'm coming to make sure you don't get ambushed and killed," she scoffed, "seeing as how you don't have the sense to anticipate such things, apparently."
Robin fondled the hilt of the blade tucked in his sleeve, "Indeed, perhaps your father is becoming a sentimental old fool."
Inigo stared as they left. After pondering his wife for a moment, he turned to his sister-in-law, "You didn't want to go with them?"
"Of course I did," she smiled brightly, "but Morgie's the one who's way into strategy. I don't know much about it, and that guard seemed to be finished making concessions, so I wasn't going to press the issue."
"You share your father's tact, dear," mused Cherche.
"Not to mention his apparent ennui," grunted Gerome, "do none of you care what's to occur in these negotiations?"
"Nothing is going to get resolved by stamping our feet and making demands," Sylvia put her hands on her hips, "that's one thing I've been taught."
"I'm sorry I can't abide and sit on my hands," snarled the heir to House Virion, "I suppose it would be the teaching of a tactician to wait around while the action is happening and let the fighting sort itself out, as if that could possibly work."
"Usually, I'm not partial to fighting, but you're giving me a very good reason to drop the gloves, you snooty rich boy," Sylvia scowled, swiping a curly bang out of her face.
"I don't have to take this," scoffed Gerome, "You Ylisseans are all the same."
"Gerome," chided his mother, "that's quite enough. Sit down and be silent."
"Yes, mother," he obeyed with a sigh, taking a seat a good distance from the tactician's eldest daughter. She herself huffed and produced a few playing cards from within her sleeve.
Meanwhile, in the war room, Robin and company took their seats around the dark wood table, polished to a perfectly glossy sheen, and faced the mountainous General Argent. Argent was an utterly massive man, taller even than Kellam when he was sitting down. His head appeared mostly bald, but, in fact, observing it from the back showed that what remained of his salt-and-pepper hair was tied into a small ponytail. The rest of said hair appeared to have migrated onto his face, for he had a true king's beard, that reached out and over his lips, but was halted there until it reached his chin, whereupon it fanned out and formed thick connections with what used to be his sideburns. "So," his voice was deep and pointed, and very nearly shook the table, "Do I truly address Grandmaster Robin of Ylisse?"
"That is how some choose to call me," Robin bowed, "I'm not much for such gaudy appellation."
The massive man nodded, "Then you and I are of a like mind. These men, my men, they call me 'Silver Soldier...' I tell them how ridiculous it sounds, but they seem to enjoy the reverence the title engenders." Closer inspection revealed the reason for the title: Argent wore an equally massive and gilded suit of shimmering armor that would seem more akin to pure porcelain than metal if not for the prismatic sheen that radiated from the glittering plating. Intricate leafy patterns trailed along the shoulder guards and vambraces of the sterling suit, and gold trim separated the pectorals of the breastplate from a less flashy but more practical-looking sheet that covered the area above the solar plexus.
"Let's not mince words, then, if we are truly of such kinship," Robin put his hands on the table, "I am a friend and former comrade of Duke Virion. He tells me you are attacking his lands."
"I cannot deny it," Argent bowed.
"May I ask why, so that we may put a stop to such hostilities?" wondered the former tactician.
"Surely a learned man such as yourself is aware that Lieben and Rosanne have had many a conflict since their formation," the general offered.
"True, I was briefed on that," Robin acquiesced, "but I was led to believe that such barbarism had since been strictly reduced, in part due to the invasion led by the Conqueror not too long ago."
"Again, you are correct," accepted Argent, "however, Rosanne has acted in a manner that has impugned our recent peace. Perhaps the duke can inform you further."
Virion coughed and tugged at his cravat. "Virion, do explain," Robin implored in a less than sincere tone of voice.
"Er, quite," stammered the duke, "Indeed, unfortunately, it was recently revealed that a spy of Rosannien descent made an attempt on the life of one of the good General's top men, as well as Herr General himself."
The former tactician furrowed his brow, "I see. My apologies, General Argent; this wasn't brought to my attention beforehand."
"Surely you can't condemn a whole nation on the actions of a lone man," Morgan insisted from the other end of the table.
"While the people of Lieben have more recently enjoyed a steady, almost brotherly sort of platonic rivalry with Rosanne, violence against their own is something they are unwilling to tolerate. This reaction has more or less forced my hand," rebutted the general. He looked with interest at the redheaded girl as Virion sweat and Robin paused to think. "Sir Robin, is this young lady your student? The two of you speak with one voice."
"That would more likely be because she is my daughter, General Argent," Robin smiled good-naturedly.
"And she fancies herself a strategist, like her father," concluded the Silver Soldier, "how delightful."
"This is a required job. I joined my father out of fear for his life, not to act a part," Morgan resisted.
"I see. I hope you do not truly expect my men or myself to sink so low as to murder a negotiating party," Argent returned with a note of injury.
"Never, good General," Robin shifted his arm to ensure that the blade in his sleeve was well concealed from sight. "I'm sure Duke Virion denounces the actions of this misguided individual, does he not?"
"Oh, but of course," Virion nodded quickly in affirmation.
"Then there you have it, General," chuckled the former tactician.
Argent shook his head, "My people will not accept such an explanation. And if I may be frank, good Sir Robin, I am loath to accept it as well."
"Perhaps a trade would be a more amenable solution," the redheaded girl offered, "A concession of some kind on the part of Rosanne. Would that please the people of Lieben?"
The general smirked, "Unless you intend to cede the entire territory, I hardly think so."
"General, please," Robin implored with a serious heft to his voice, "be reasonable. We want to avoid war, as I'm sure you do, so help us find a solution that allows for that result."
"There can be no peace here. I thought that was clear," Argent replied, disaffected.
The former tactician furrowed his brow, "Then why was it your men said you desired to see me to begin with? This whole meeting is fruitless."
"I wanted nothing more than to ascertain the truth about the legendary Ylissean tactician. That you have a vested interest in protecting Rosanne is unimportant to me. I will have my war, and if you endeavor to stop me, you will become a casualty thereof," declared the Silver Soldier, rising from the table.
"That's absurd!" scoffed Robin, "You don't care at all about maintaining safety or peace for your countrymen?!"
"Be not so harsh in your judgment, fair grandmaster," assuaged the mountainous man, "This war, whether you realize it or not, will be the perfect way to create peace for my people. Just as to build a home one must tear down a forest, or in the way that desert winds feed the wings of vultures and songbirds in equal measure, there are necessary evils in the world; the greatest of life can only truly arise from strife and hardship."
"I take it this concludes negotiations," the former tactician stood as well, bidding his comrades do the same.
"Correct," Argent breathed with a merciless gaze, "Remove yourselves from my keep at this time, then, please. If I am to kill you, I will do so on the field of battle, as is proper."
"Understood," acknowledged Robin, leaving the room with his allies.
"Damn, that didn't go too well," Morgan lamented upon leaving.
"I had feared as much," reported her father, "Still, something about that encounter struck me as odd. His actions... perhaps he's being coerced?"
"Father?" Morgan snapped him back into reality, "Do you think this war has any connection to those strange people in Chon'sin?"
"So, you got that sense too," he smiled, "Yes, I have significant reason to believe they're related. And the attacks on Ylisse, too."
"Agh, that's right! Ylisse!" Morgan gasped, "Do you think people are okay there? What about Steven and Leo?"
Robin smirked and chuckled to himself, "Those boys can handle themselves, no doubt. And, if I know Chrom, he'll have contingencies in place to take care of his homeland, even if he's not around, himself."
"Chrom's not around?" the little redhead swallowed.
"We'll talk more about it later," Robin told his youngest daughter as they returned to the remainder of their party.
"How'd it go, daddy?" hummed Sylvia.
"Not too well, sweet pea," understated the aging tactician, "We need to leave."
"Bah, I knew your words would be meaningless, you tired dotter," growled Gerome.
"Indeed, I've failed," Robin nodded, "but now comes the more exigent issue: preparing for war."
"And just how do you expect me to handle such a war, Sir Robin? Can you not see that I am doomed?" demanded the duke of Rosanne.
"I'm going to help you through it," coughed Robin, "on the battlefield. We'll stop this General Argent and learn what he knows, and in the process free your dynasty, savvy?"
"That is... most generous of you, Robin, old friend," declared Virion's misty eyes, "Only tell me where to begin."
Robin nodded as he began to mount upon Minerva, feeling the rain slick down his hair and pulling up his hood in response, "In any monarchical or dictatorial situation, there's bound to be some groups opposed to the majority rule. We'll start exploring the cracks in the wall there and start to bring the masonry down bit by bit."
The rest of the group began to hop back on the wyvern along with him. It would be a long ride out.
[...]
The old glass was dotted with stains of improper cleaning. Well, dotted was perhaps too kind; it was littered with such spots. In fact, the glass was downright filthy, but when held up to the light just right... well, to him it still looked perfect. The noise in the tavern had spiked in the evening with the accompaniment of low torchlight playing a melody of conversation onto the floor. The dirty, dirty floor. He laughed giddily; the thing was so filthy it probably put dirt to shame, but he still loved the old wood building. It was his favorite in all the towns he had come to visit. Taverns were always the first location the Storm Blade made his appearance at upon arriving somewhere new, because there was no pretense or judgment there: one simply drank and laughed, with friends or with total strangers alike, there was no politeness, no formality, only drink to be drunk, food to be eaten, and words to be had. A great many words. Even if most of them were totally incomprehensible or incoherent. Cyrus smiled broadly, smacking the glass down on the table, spilling the last of the wood-brown liquid inside out onto the decrepit table. He had greatly amused himself with his observation. Without further prompting, he glanced at the few chatting patrons around him and raised his voice, "Here's a health to the king... and to lasting peace... To faction end, to wealth increase... Come, let us drink while we have breath, for... heheh... for there's no drinkin' after death... And he that would this health deny..." Slowly, his singing voice began to taper as he felt himself sinking to the table, "Down among the dead men... d-down among the d-d-dead men... How'd it end? Down, down, down, down... down among the dead men let him lie!"
"Oh for the gods' sakes," Cyrus heard, rousing his head from the table. A familiar pink-haired woman had folded her arms and was scowling with disappointment at him.
"Hey, Dee!" he grinned, "Come ta join me after all! I knew ya'd do it, you... you silly, uh... you beautiful lady."
"Are you determined to extirpate any respect anyone might hold for you?" Dahlia demanded, tapping her foot on the hard, aged wood.
"Aw, respect is," he paused and pursed his lips to exaggerate the sound, "b-bullshit anyways... heheha... I'd rather have a g-good time! Innat right, mate?" The Storm Blade hooked his arm around the neck of another patron who had been unfortunate enough to sit near him. Said patron stared at the man with the leaf-green hair uneasily. After a moment, Cyrus appeared placated, "You get it." He pointed to the man beneath his arm for Dahlia's reference, "Th-This guy... you know, he... uh, he... uh... he... g-gets it..." Cyrus began to taste his own lips before beginning to shout, "Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme! Come lift up your voices-"
"There'll be none or that!" Dahlia slapped a palm over his drunken mouth, "Now, come away. I'll drag you back one piece at a time if I have to."
"Aw, don' be such a nag... a spoil-sport," he hissed, "Yer not my mother or my wife, so just leave me be, eh? I'm, uh... enjoyin' myself."
"I don't care," the rose-haired woman continued to tug at him, "You need to come back. And don't think I'll be covering for you when you have your inevitably disastrous hangover."
"Oh, yes ma'am," he teased with an excited giggle, "Listen to this daft bird, thinks she can yank me to and fro... Just lemme get one more 'fore we go."
"No, Cyrus," Dahila tried to meet his eyes, "we're leaving."
"Jus' one more... wunmuh..." he pleaded, stuttering toward the bar. As he moved, another patron grazed past him and knocked the glass from his outstretched hand. He watched catatonically as it struck the wood below and shattered. "Ay! Asshole!" the Storm Blade cried after the man who had shoved past him, "Ya broke my favorite glass!"
"Oh, hells," Dahlia shrugged, releasing her captive.
Immediately, the man with the leaf-green hair staggered forward, "Broke muh glass... think ya kin jus'... jus' walk by me? Na-na-nah... Now we gotta problem, you an' me." Cyrus pointed at the man accusatorially.
"Why don't you just siddown, you dumb sod," the same man pushed him, "You're too drunk to stand as it is."
The Storm Blade suddenly smirked, "Obviously, you dunno who I am, so I wanna know what makes ya think ya can talk to me like tha'."
"I run an arena a few miles to the southwest, so I'm more than used to dealing with some overzealous drunkards, if that's what you're getting at," grunted the patron.
"Oh... oh, I see," Cyrus wheezed out a laugh, "But I ain't no mere drunkard... I'm the Storm Blade, Cyrus, baby! My blade makes a tempest with every swipe! I move like the wind, hit you like rain, and strike hot and loud like lightning!"
"Right," the man pushed Cyrus again, "Just sit down, you nut."
Without another word, the green-haired man lobbed a punch that squarely struck the other man's jaw. With a grunt, the arena owner turned and struck back, denting Cyrus's chin. Then he jabbed again, and again, and again until he had knocked the Storm Blade in the face about ten times. As the arena owner waited for his opponent to topple into unconsciousness, the leaf-green-haired man began to laugh loudly and insultingly, earning him another punch. This one, however, he caught and twisted the arm of his adversary. He giggled maniacally as he shoved the patron over to the bar and smashed his head off the countertop. The arena owner picked himself up and wrenched himself from the Storm Blade's grasp and took another swing, aiming for the stomach. It landed and sent Cyrus stumbling backward into destroying a table. Still, Cyrus regained his footing and leered st his enemy. With a charge, the Storm Blade lifted the arena owner off his feet and sent him crashing head-first into the counter again. He followed up by taking a glass and smashing it firmly over the opponent's head, then repeated the process with all nearby glassware until the arena owner's head was bleeding in an innumerable quantity of scratches. When the owner picked himself up, he swung his foot into Cyrus's shin to create some distance as the swordsman doubled back. Afterward, the patron continued to levy punch after punch into his victim's cheek, until the leaf-green-haired man's nose was clearly bent out of place and bleeding profusely. "And where's all your bravado now?!" jeered the arena owner as he paused to take a breath.
"You tell me..." laughed the Storm Blade, "when you learn what your own spine tastes like!" With a vicious leap, Cyrus drove his elbow into the other man's face, breaking the nose like fine china. Afterward, he kicked at both of his foe's legs until he dropped to the filth-ridden tavern floor, whereupon the leaf-green-haired man dropped a punch onto the man's fallen face, followed by another, then another, and another... Eventually, Dahlia sighed as she stared at the blood-soaked stumps that were once the arena owner's face and Cyrus's knuckles. With a final utterance of "prick," Cyrus fell to the floor, prompting his partner to grab his shoulders and slowly drag him out of the tavern and into the streets. "Put the damages on his tab," requested Dahlia of the tavern's owner.