“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” Torm groaned.

  The old adventurer was not in the habit of complaining, Oras had found. He would complain once or twice about something that irked him, then politely drop the topic. That being said, he had been grunting and groaning since he had pulled his back several kilometres back.

  Oras could not quite understand the pain Torm was going through. He had heard about bad knees and creaky backs from older people all his life, but he was still spry. There was a vague understanding that he would not forever be in his twenties in the back of his mind. From that sprung a pity and admiration for Torm.

  Despite the fact that he was clearly in pain, Torm had carried the tiger through the jungle and its many awful surfaces. It had taken them longer, much longer, than anticipated. By now, they were wandering through the dark, aiming at a distant collection of lantern lights.

  Torm held the beast by the front paws, Oras and Theria each held one of the back. They heaved the carcass over one final hurdle, then finally put it down. All of them were soaked in sweat.

  ‘This better be worth it,’ Oras thought. He swallowed that complaint, because it wouldn’t be a good look for him to groan about his own decision, especially now that they had finished the hardest part.

  The village they were now in was fairly large, standing at easily over one-thousand people. As the first resting spot on the land route between two countries, it saw both trade and pilgrimages on a regular basis. The coin was reflected in the quality of the buildings, using more stone and clay than the wooden farmsteads that Oras and Theria had primarily grown up around. There were even buildings in the style of the capital, with the elaborate plaster mouldings and symmetrical patterns.

  It was a place that had money, which made it perfect for them to sell that carcass. There would be a tanner with the gold to buy it and customers to take the pelt off of them, giving the motivation to acquire it in the first place.

  There was just one slight issue - it was night. It wasn’t so dark yet that the entire village was asleep, yet it was the time that people would not appreciate having their door hammered on. Their best bet was finding the local pub. Alternatively, they could have waited until morning. It wasn’t as if they were going to do any more travelling that night anyhow.

  Which also would have brought them to a pub, since they needed a place to sleep.

  Only problem was that they still had a big sabertooth carcass with them. Someone would have to keep a watch over it, at least until they found some place to store it away. “I’ll just sit here for a moment,” Torm groaned, likely understanding what was going through Oras’ mind. “You two find a buyer or a mattress. Don’t care much which one it is right now.”

  “We will,” Oras assured.

  “Ya take your well-earned rest,” Theria was swift to add, gently patting the man on the shoulder.

  With no other clue, the duo just followed the noise.

  The closer they got to the noises, the louder they got. A simple reality of approaching things, but also a reflection of a hostility that they would usually have liked to avoid. Every shout that echoed out into the street was rowdier than the last.

  The establishment they found matched the idea forming in their head. It was a two story structure, its facade damaged, its curtains drawn, and one of the windows broken. A cheap piece of wood had been hammered in place to prevent the frequent rainfalls from seeping into the chamber behind.

  Like every bit of sealing from that building, it was a shoddy job. Light flooded out through the top and bottom of the slightly undersized door and noise went even further. Oras could only imagine that this place was the source of frequent complaints from the locals. It was also the only place that was open.

  “Charming place,” Theria said.

  “Why can’t you be sarcastic about that?” Oras lamented. His wife had a genuine smile on her face. Even tired, she was seeking her thrills.

  “It’ll be fuuuuuun,” she told him.

  “Do you notice that you did not say ‘fine’?”

  “‘Cause I can’t guarantee that, now let’s go!” Theria took the first step. By the time she had pulled open the door, it was too late to stop.

  The people inside the bar barely noticed them at first. Everyone was focused on the centre of the main chamber. Wooden fencing surrounded a patch of compacted dirt, within which two grown men were beating the shit out of each other. Both had bloodied noses, swollen eyes, and one bled so intensely from his lip that Oras did not believe that it was just a case of a split.

  “Fresh meat!” one of the men in the bar, and it was exclusively men, eventually shouted. “And a pretty woman at that!”

  “Toss the guy back out!” Another man demanded.

  “Please, we just have a quick question,” Oras addressed them diplomatically. He glanced back, considering if he should even close the door. ‘Probably better to have an exit to-”

  SMACK!

  “OW!” Theria complained.

  Oras whirled back around. Wide, heterochromic eyes, first gave Theria the once-over. His wife was rubbing her backside, taking a step behind her husband as she did. Her face reflected annoyance for only a moment, before shifting into the entranced state of combat focus. Oras’ own face was a mask of cold rage, his pupils narrow slits.

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  A man waved at him with a mockingly raised hand. “Your woman got a nice bu-”

  Bare knuckles flattened the nose of the man, blood all but exploding out from the ruined nostril on impact. Not prepared for that sudden of an impact, the rough-looking male stumbled backwards.

  “Motherfucker!” he shouted, staying upright by holding onto a wooden beam.

  Oras growled, “Never touch what is mine.”

  “Oh, we got a tough guy over here!” Another person in the bar said and got up. “Let’s-”

  “HAVE SOME FUCKING FUN!” The bartender hollered and threw a full tankard at the speaker. The hard-wood container slammed into the back of the man’s head with a loud thud. Beer rained down on everyone around. There were shouts. There were laughs. Then, there was chaos.

  The entire pub broke out into a massive brawl.

  In the sudden commotion, Theria charged forwards. The wife-toucher laughed, a congested sound, courtesy of his broken nose. It was the arrogant sound of a burly man that thought a woman couldn’t hurt him. Had he been dealing with a dainty city girl, he might have had a point.

  Theria’s fist slammed into the drunk fool’s solar plexus. Air was pushed out of the man’s lungs, leaving him in a loud wheeze. He stumbled back two steps. Fortunately for him, he landed right on top of a chair. “Fuck… have some chill!” he begged.

  Oras’ blood remained up, his fists clenched, and two other drunken brawlers swaying forwards meant he had a place to take that aggression.

  In his rage, the Dragonblood’s body moved without its usual, disciplined sharpness. Slugging straight at the first guy that stepped into range had him overly telegraph - enough so that even a drunken man could easily sidestep the uppercut.

  Totally overcommitted, Oras was left wide open. The counter swing caught him in the stomach, having him half fold around the meaty paw of the middle-aged man. Farm work and regular brawls had shaped the fist into a weapon in its own right. The corners of Oras’ vision crackled with lightning and small dots.

  The second brawled swayed towards Oras. He already had his fist raised to deliver a punch straight to the Dragonblood’s head. Luckily for him, the two men were far from a prime example of coordination. The shoulder of the man that had just punched Oras now was the shield he could duck behind.

  “You got your smack in, get the fuck out of my way!” the second man complained.

  “Kiss my ass,” the first guy responded with a rough laugh.

  A moment later, his laughter was replaced with a pained hiss. Theria’s foot had slammed into the back of his right knee, making his leg buckle. Already of poor balance, the drunken man keeled over, painfully catching himself on the edge of a table.

  “Hands off my man,” Theria stated, voice as cold as water from a deep well.

  “Hah! Needs his wife to protect him, what a pussy!” the gruff man mocked.

  Oras delivered a kick to the man’s chest. Fat absorbed much of the impact. Enough force translated that the man lost his grip on the table edge and slipped all the way to the ground. “Stay down,” the Dragonblood warned.

  “Alright,” the burly guy groaned, holding his flank while making a dissuading gesture.

  Similar scenes were playing out all around. The brawl, as suddenly as it had begun, was also not going to last very long.

  One moment, Oras was scanning the room, the next he was halfway down to the floor. His eyes gradually peeled sensical information back out from the darkness that had taken over. A throbbing pain at the back of his head told him what had just happened.

  “Pay attention, dumbass!” the second brawler cackled.

  The mockery was annoyingly well-founded. Oras grabbed the backrest of a chair to stabilize himself. Letting his brain return to normal function while he watched Theria get a revenge swing in. His beloved redhead went for several punches, all of which the drunken man dodged narrowly.

  Oras chose the path of least resistance. Remaining otherwise motionless, he stuck his leg out. Continuing his backwards dodge, the last of the drunken brawlers stepped against his former victim’s foot.

  The man let hear a high-pitch shout, before slamming down, back first, on the wooden ground. “Pay attention,” Oras drawled, allowing himself that bit of sass.

  Giggling, the man wagged his finger at the Dragonblood. The fight had clearly left him, entirely replaced with amusement. By now, ‘peace’ had returned to the entire pub. Losers laid on the floor, taking a moment to breathe, while victors returned to their drinks.

  Oras’ attention first snapped to the man who had touched his wife. The villain was still on the chair, entirely too unhurt for the Dragonblood’s liking. A dark part of his mind insisted he, at the very least, beat the man to a pulp for daring to do what he had done. No one touched a dragon’s prized possessions and got away with it.

  As Oras stepped forwards, the impudent male raised his gaze. “What do ya want?” he slurred, a tinge of worry inside his voice.

  “Grovel,” the Dragonblood uttered a single word.

  “Excus’ ya?”

  Oras stared at the man, his muscles quietly tense beneath a casual stance. In his heterochromic eyes laid the desire to disembowel the man, shackled only by an observance of propriety. “I will not ask again,” he said and waited.

  The bar was quiet. Everyone could sense the threat that lay in the air, something that went much deeper than a simple pub brawl. It was enough that the man’s drunken haze faded, letting him return the drilling gaze with growing worry.

  Ultimately, he slipped off the chair. Reluctantly, without true remorse, the man went on his knees and lowered his head. “I went too far, sorry,” he stated flatly.

  Oras waited until the man’s head almost touched the floorboards, to let out a content grunt. Humiliation was enough to appease his darker draconic desires. He stepped away. A quiet sigh of relief went through the room.

  The duo of adventurers stepped up to the bar next. Having spent the brawl behind the counter, the keeper had gone through unscathed. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice exceptionally mirthful for the kind of establishment he ran.

  ‘Seems like bar fights put him in a good mood,’ Oras thought. Not too eager to spend any more time in this place, he asked immediately: “We are looking for someone that can take a beast corpse off our hands. A tanner, preferably.”

  “You’d be lookin’ for a while then. Zuldan, our village leather worker, went out to a trip three days ago. He won’t be back for a couple weeks.”

  Oras swallowed a curse. Trying to sell that sabertooth corpse turned out to be a horrific waste of his time. ‘Can we carry it to another village? No, it's not been bled, by the time we get there, it’ll be ruined anyway.’

  “Do you want it? Does anyone else?” Theria asked.

  “Nope and I wouldn’t bet on it. Best case, ya can sell it for the meat. What are we talking about?”

  “A sabertooth, massive… likely a maneater.”

  The barkeeper made a disgusted face. “Appreciate ya tellin’ the truth, fellah, but there ain’t no way that anyone will want that. Big cats ain’t tasty to start with and eating maneaters is wrong. Cannibalism by second degree and all that.”

  It was an opinion that some local cults held and even if they did not, Oras could imagine that it was generally frowned upon. No one around here was desperate for meat. As the barkeeper said, selling the tiger for its meat would be a lost cause.

  At this point, it was either to try and desperately hope he would find someone in the morning or accept that Torm had pulled his back for nothing.