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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 69
Tavern was nearly empty at this hour, so I sat at an empty table
and ordered myself a meal and some ale. My game partners

entered later that evening and were surprised to see me. They
waved and joined my table.
“You look like hell,” the skinny ruffian commented.
“Tanks,” I replied and ordered some milk. I needed to keep
sharp for what I was about to do. Finally, they entered, my enemy
and his buddies. I smiled as I saw their stunned expressions,
feeling my body come alive with an inner fire that staved off the
ache in my joints.
“Take it outside!” The bartender barked as I got up, ready for

a brawl. My enemy and his buddies nodded agreement and
turned to leave, and I did likewise. My own companions were
quick to follow, catching me by surprise.
A moment later we were all outside forming a circle in the
mud, joined by the patrons and sailors passing by who stopped
to watch the action.
“Caught me by surprise the other day,” I commented

venomously, through clenched teeth, to my enemies. I then
caught sight of Ivar, who had also joined the crowd, though
further back.
“You fight dirty,” my enemy replied.
“Put yer fist up and quit yapping,” I replied as I positioned my
fists to protect my face. And so the fight began.
I storm-paced to my enemy, locking gazes with him; slightly
intimidated, he failed to respond as I smashed his face with
a left swing. He feebly jabbed me with his right, too stunned

to put any real force behind his blow. I ignored his jab and
proceeded with a right swing, then a left. He spat some blood
and teeth as he fell backwards to the ground. I dropped onto
him, taking only a moment to mount him as he struck at my