[COS] City of Shadows

"If you want to change history, come to the condemned building in Riften's dockyards tonight."
Savile heard these words and began to dream about the amount of Septim's that could come with this deal. The Fighter's Club leader might not be trustworthy, but there will be others there anyway so it at least won't hurt if I check it out. I only hope Caleb won't go. So Savile decided that just before nighttime he'd walk to the condemned building and enter. Perhaps this will be the chance to redeem my name. Savile the Social... not Savile the Dead as it is now.

((I'm sorry if this post ends up being short and sh**ty, I'm too lazy to write a decent post right now.))

Veloca returned to the bar late in the morning, close to noon as a number of people, some drunk, some injured, some angry, and some all of the above were milling about the Ragged Flagon. She rubbed her eyes and sauntered behind the bar, leaning on it and watching as a heated argument broke out between a Dark Elf and Caleb, the Imperial she had met the night before. The Dark Elf's body was emaciated and scrawny; his face was gaunt and the skin was tightly drawn around his features, making his eyes look like they were sinking into his head. She was unsure what had been said to Caleb to cause him to storm off, but it didn't seem to bother the Dark Elf too much.

Many fights were still going on, so business at the bar was slow for the time being. Veloca took this opportunity to take a small break and stand in the doorway leading to the Fight Club, observing the matches that went on. Before long her eyes were wandering around the cavernous space, the sounds of the fights becoming dulled and fuzzy background noise to her meandering thoughts. The biggest thought on Veloca's mind was of her recent defeat to the brutish Nord she fought the day before. She wanted to redeem herself, prove that she wasn't only capable of handling herself in this damn city, she was more than able to take on anything someone (especially a drunken man) threw her way.

The sudden quiet that settled over the room pulled Veloca's attention away from her thoughts and back to the room she was standing in. Someone was saying something about goals, ambitions they had for the group of people who fought every night. He even mentioned changing history, and coming to the dockyards if one wanted to be a part of it. The offer didn't give much in the way of information, but Veloca had always been a curious person, and it sounded tempting. What could this group of people (hopefully herself included) possibly do that would change history?

Veloca laughed to herself, smirking as she slowly returned back to her post at the bar. There's no way I'm passing up an opportunity like this. Could turn out well for me, and prove to be very interesting. She was anxious now to see what this man had in mind, and couldn't stop herself from fidgeting.

Caleb let the words sink in, what had this man meant by changing history? He began thinking of the gold, what was in it for him. Also, perhaps it'd be the life for him, never had he felt so alive being down here in the ratway. This was the life he wanted, he knew it in his heart. "Who's fighting next! I need gold!" One of the spectators beside him cried out, Caleb made his way to the ring, cracking his knuckles. The crowd began cheering, knowing they were in for a good fight. He took off his shirt, tossing the cloth aside and waiting for an opponent to step up.

Moments later, a bald-headed man made his way through the crowd. The man was huge, a Nord by the looks of it with a squashed face which gave him an appearance akin to a hog. His bulging gut was ripe with fat, but he had a waist like a tree trunk and his arms looked as solid as thick branches. "Ready fer' your ass whoopin'?" He said to Caleb in a low, guttural voice as bets were placed. Caleb simply narrowed his eyes and raised his fists to his face, bent his knees and got into the proper stance. The man chortled, doing the same, expecting Caleb to be easy.

"Kick his arse!" Somebody in the crowd yelled, and the man suddenly charged like a bull. Caleb's eyes widened and he tried weaving to the right, but he was too late. The man's arm descended upon Caleb, clothes-lining him with such force Caleb went head over heels before slamming against the stone floor in a discombobulated daze. The man chuckled, satisfied with his work as he grabbed Caleb by his hair and tossed him to the other side of the ring. "Fight, milk drinker!"

Cyrus was in the crowd as the ringmaster gave his speech, addressed his audience, whose maniac cheers were silenced, all previous noise slaughtered as his mouth spoke words, each syllable powerful and dominant. The man oozed power, leadership, and was quite clearly the current alpha-male in this dog-eat-dog underbelly of the grime layered streets of Riften, and the offer stated at the end of his little display echoed in Cyrus' mind, the temptation, the potential of participating in uprising revolution lingered in his thoughts. He was going to go to the docks, if only to hear out his goals, his ambitions, his invitation to a society that could possibly change history. That last part was certainly intriguing, to say the least.

Cyrus slipped out of the now-mumbling, confused crowd as quickly as he weaved his way in, and he made his way to the docks, curious as to what this man's idea of history-changing may be...

Isnar looked at R'alle, who was sitting next to him, when the ringleader gave his speech. "Changing the history, huh? I don't know if this is for us, R'alle. We can still go if you want to check it out." Isnar offered. He led the cat into the fight club and watched as Caleb fought. Wonder what he means by 'change history'. Probably something illegal or morally wrong. Some other people might know what it is. At night, me and the boy will follow anybody going. Isnar wanted to find out what they were going to be doing.

Black-Crow had wondered over into the Fight Club moments before the man came out and addressed the crowd. Turning out his pipe and finishing off his mead he made his way to the ring and placed a bet of 200 septims on the Imperial. Thoughts of what the man had said filled his head, could this be his chance? He had hoped to use the fight club to fill his pockets with gold but maybe there was more to it then that.

Ordering another mead from a passing waiter he took a seat near the ring and began to count the septims he had left, “Only 300 gold left… Let’s hope this Imperials a scrapper” he muttered leaning back in the chair he opened the bottle and took a sip letting out a sigh. He would have to find the dockyard once night fell, hopefully he could just follow the crowd out of the Ratway.

Caleb scrambled to his feet, his nostrils were gushing hot blood which flowed across the bottom of his face. The crowd went wild at the sight of crimson, this was what they wanted. He could taste his own blood as it dripped upon his lips, it was a foul taste, and Caleb wiped the excess blood from his mouth with his forearms.

Caleb approached the man, looking to take the offensive, immediately his opponent began swinging. Caleb bowed under each blow until he saw his opening, he put all of his weight into an elbow directed at his opponent's face. His elbow smashed against the pig-faced man's mouth, sending chipped teeth flying through the air in a flurry of blood. Immediately the man brought his fist around, his eyes widened and bloodshot in anger. Caleb's cheek caught the blow, he gritted his teeth in pain, moving with the blow to minimize damage.

Caleb immediately threw a jab at the man's solar plexus, he could feel ribs splinter and crack as the blow sent a shockwave of rippling fat in all directions. The man keeled over in pain, and Caleb saw a perfect opening, with all of his force Caleb clasped down on the sides of the man's head. Obliterating his ear drums before he brought up his knee, smashing it against the man's face.

The man flew back with astonishing force, slamming against the stone floor and breathing very faintly. Caleb cracked his neck, standing over his defeated enemy with a heart full of pride. The crowd exploded with cheers, as Caleb raised up his fists as to defy the Gods themselves. "Heh...heh." Caleb reeled around, the man was getting up, ready for more.
Caleb couldn't believe it, his eyes widened as the pig-faced man stood and cracked his neck. His face was smeared with sticky blood, he licked the substance off his lips, grinning a broken and bloody grin. "I ain't done yet." He spat, Caleb readied his fists in preparation.

R'alle nodded at Isnar. " I think it's worth checking out." R'alle then watched the fight. he couldn't help to think. What did he mean by change history? R'alle hoped Isnar would want to go. He looked at the old man. The man seemed to be watching the fight like everyone else. But R'alle knew Isnar thinks a lot. He sometimes tries to guess what the man is thinking. One time he guessed the man was thinking about horses and war. He would never know unless he asked the old man. R'alle thought for a bit, and decided to wait to ask about Isnar's personal life. He was really curious. His thoughts flowed through his mind. Was he an adventurer,Soldier in a huge war, Bandit king who lost his arm in battle, maybe even a king in a far away land.

"I think it's worth checking out." R'alle said. Isnar was glad to hear this, the old man wanted to go. "What time would be appropriate? I think after Caleb finishes this fight, we should head out. I don't know where the docks are, but it appears that everyone else does. I say we follow them and pretend we know what we're doing." Isnar joked. His eyes never left the ring. Isnar was surprised, how long the fat man stayed conscious. But Isnar remembered an old quote from someone, who he remembered as his friend. Never underestimate the perseverance of a drunken man. Isnar grinned to himself, but it turned to a frown as he remembered who said it, his father. Isnar immediately restored the grin, remembering all the good times he could remember with his father. Now that I think of it... I can only remember one good time I had with my father.

Dalious finally found his way back to the fighting room. A bloody fight was happening, with the crowd on its' feet jumping from excitement. He wandered past the fight room, not particularly caring for the smell and the noise this night. He entered the Ragged Flagon and ordered up a round of whiskey. He overheard an elf talking about the ringleader to another, something about changing history. Dalious listened in more intently as he enjoyed his drink.

A couple of hours had passed and Savile still had the majority of his 500 Septims he earned from his fight. He was drinking some mead because he didn't wanna go to the docks with Skooma running freshly through his veins. At last, he got up and began to walk towards the dock. He had went there a few times and on occasion it was the site of some Khajiit beatings. He was hoping the Khajiit wouldn't be there this time, he wanted to avoid any confrontation with them. Skooma dealers were not kind people.

As Savile approached the dock, as his luck would have it, the Khajiit approached him. Normally they would have only beat him, but this time they had their swords drawn. "Savile, you no longer skip your payments to Khajiit! Today, Khajiit kill you!" Savile was quite worried he couldn't defeat the 3 Khajiit but he decided he would risk death instead of running away. Something about the fight had restored just a small sliver of his barely beating heart.

The Khajiits slashed at Savile but Savile made a quick move to the left and dodged the attacks. But unfortunately, in his drunken state, he hadn't noticed the house directly in that location. He hit the house hard and fell to the ground. "Savile you drunk! This is why we make Skooma and let others drink it." I won't die that easily. Savile kicked the Khajiit square in the chest with such force that he flew into the lake. "Help! This one can't swim!" He went under and the water began turning red. He was nothing but slaughterfish food now, and the other Khajiit were NOT happy with this.

The enraged Khajiit slashed at Savile's face. Savile leaned back and dodged one of the blades; however, the other blade just barely scraped his face. Blood began pouring out the wound. Savile launched forth and punched one of the Khajiit with all the might he had left and the Khajiit instantly fell to the ground, dazed and confused. Now, it was just a one-on-one fight. "How... How can you? You are just a poor Skooma addict with no life! You are nothing. You are Savile, the DEAD."

"I may be addicted to your cursed Skooma and I may be near emotional death, but the day I give in to a Khajiit is the day I finally and truly die." Then Savile grabbed the Khajiit by the wrist and flung him into the wall. Savile picked him up and kneed him in the chest. He threw that Khajiit on top of the other one who was nearly knocked-out. He stood outside, waiting for the darkness to fully set in when a guard walked by and asked, "What happened to your face?" "Was attacked by a firefly." And then Savile remained standing, the darkness beginning to approach.

Even though he was moving, the pig-faced man was struggling to stay on his feet. With the first step he took toward Caleb he stumbled forward, clearly in a daze. Caleb cracked his neck, smirking as he did so. Never had he felt so alive, so ready to finish this sucker. "Finish the lout off!" He heard the crowd cry, lusting for more violence.

Caleb took a deep breath, everything became muted except for the drumming of his heart. Blood pumped hard through his veins as he reared his fist back, before smashing his knuckles into the man's nose with all the force he could muster. He felt bone and cartilage give way to the tremendous force his punch was packing, a spray of blood which splashed against Caleb's chest, gleaming with sweat.

The pig-faced man's head snapped back, and he collapsed instantly, unconscious. The crowd roared in applause and Caleb held up his fists, he was not smiling, his eyes were narrowed and his brow furrowed. He had conquered, he had taken what was rightfully his and destroyed any opposition. Conquer, destroy, win. Were the words bouncing around in his brain as he was showered with septims, the crowd had taken a liking to this new contender, and he was definitely becoming famous within the ratway.

Isnar saw the bloody sight. It was extremely sickening to see the man's face. Isnar covered R'alle's eyes and led him out. "Hope you didn't see that. We're going to the docks now." Isnar said, following a small crowd of people. It was about a five minute walk, and Isnar wanted to make conversation with the small khajiit, but was unsure of how to start it off. Isnar was silent as they walked.

Black-Crow couldn’t believe his luck as he watched the Imperial stand victorious, quickly downing his mead he stood up and went in search of the Khajiit he’d placed his bet with, waiting for his winnings he could see the Khajiit looked extremely annoyed “Must of bet on the nord” he said with a chuckle. The cat’s eyes narrowed even more as he handed Black-Crow his winnings, he’d obviously heard the man’s comment. Adding the gold to his now fat coin purse he slid the sack back into a hidden fold in his cloak and went to seek the young Imperial out.

“Hail friend, you just made me a fair bit of gold and I thank you for it. That was one hell of a fight; you got a lot of skill. By any chance are you planning on going to this meeting at the dockyard? I’m new around this city and do not know my way around yet…” Black-Crow spoke with honesty; even during his time in Skyrim when he was younger he had never ventured to this region before.

“Should be interesting to see what the Nords got planned, I mean anyone who could set all this up has to have some powerful connections.” He said while gesturing with his hands at the bustling fight club. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask you your name…” Black-Crow said with a friendly expression on his face; “Mines Black-Crow but you can call me Crow, most people do.” Which was true, ever sense he had been exiled from the Foresworn he had mainly went by Crow after being yelled at because “His name was too damn long!” as his captain had so gently put it.

As Caleb gathered his winnings and began toweling off he was approached by a patron of the Fight Club. He smiled as the stranger complemented him, and asked about the dockyard and his name. Caleb had to struggle to listen to him, however. Everything was a blur, adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and he still was feeling the jitters. "Yeah, going to the dockyard. That's right, name's Caleb by the way. I'd shake your hand, Mr. Crow, if mine wasn't covered with blood." He said with a sincere smile as Caleb toweled off the grime and sweat and threw on his shirt.

Together they discussed the fight and what could be in store for them in the dockyard, Caleb held a rag to his still bleeding nose as they made their way out of the Ratway and into the nightlife of Riften. The pain wasn't as bad as it was yesterday, Caleb felt like he was getting used to it, not to say it didn't hurt. "So, what brings you to Riften?" Caleb said to his newfound compatriot as they made their way down the streets, toward the docks.

R'alle and Isnar both followed the crowd. There was a small group of people huddling around, staring at something. The old man and R'alle walked over and saw two khajiits. One khajiit was lying on the other, both beaten pretty badly. Isnar looked down behind him and saw blood in the water, along with a pair of ragged trousers, floating in the small lake. Isnar found this interesting, but thought that R'alle would be hurt, seeing his own kind, beaten to a pulp and killed out here. Isnar let R'alle see, but soon put a hand over his shoulder and led him to their destination.

Savile had only been standing around for a few minutes when he saw familiar faces approaching. "Hello Isnar, Khajiit, nice of you to come. Please, come stand." Savile had spoken in what he thought to be a kind voice but others could easily interpret it as sarcasm." Savile then wiped the blood off his face with his hand "Would you happen to have any cloth Isnar? This blood just won't stop."

Black-Crow was happy to have some companionship, he’d been alone ever sense he’d said goodbye to his crew in Dawnstar. “Well that’s a rather long story; I’ve spent the past few years sailing with some Khajiit out of Elsweyr. Had a pretty good setup but our captain decided to take a risk and sail to Akavir, I wanted no part of that nonsense so decided to return to Skyrim.” He said with a serious look on his face. “A friend of mine Jas’ker filled my head with many stories of this town and the fight club, figured it might be worth a shot to make some gold and connections.” He said beginning to smile once again.

A light breeze picked up bringing with it a slight chill, Crow slipped his Rapiers sheath back within his cloak and pulled the dark black material over his shoulders. “How about you? Been fighting here long?”

Caleb had heard of Akavir before, it sounded like a strange and mystical land. In a book he read that snake-men once came from Akavir and battled the Empire, which he thought was interesting. However the book was missing pages, and the poor boy never got to finish the tale. “How about you? Been fighting here long?” Crow asked as the two headed down a set of wooden steps which groaned under their weight, the stairs lead down into the sprawling dock complex Riften was known for. "Lived here all my life, just started fighting actually." Caleb said, sparing the harsh and heinous details until he got to know Crow better.

Hanging around the docks were beggars and lowlives, which the two paid little attention as they made their way across the rickety wooden planks. To the right, fishing boats and ships bobbed in the navy blue waters of Lake Honrich. What was once a beautiful area had been turned into a filthy, polluted trash-bin. Filth and litter drifted in the waters, and the smell of rotting fish was thick in the air.

The condemned building was out of sight, secluded from the rest of the docks on a clearing of land where ship parts and garbage were dumped, it was a very skinny building, constructed entirely from wood which was beginning to rot. Others were here, most likely waiting for others to arrive before knocking on the door. "So, this is it?" Caleb sized up the building, it was remarkably unimpressive.

“Not the most impressive of structures” said Crow staring up at the rickety warehouse before looking around at the faces of the growing mob. “Looks like everyone who’s ever ran afoul of the guards here; and then some…” as he continued surveying the crowd he was shocked to see the old man from before standing with a very young Khajiit, and a gaunt Dunmer with a bloody face near the buildings entrance, leaning against the nearby railing he extracted his pipe and packed a small bowl for the wait.

Staring out at the polluted waters surrounding them he shuddered at the sight "Now this is criminal..." he thought to himself thinking back to the crystalline waters of the open sea. “Do you know much about this ringleader?” he asked while blowing several smoke rings into the cool night air. “When he entered the fight club he seemed almost godlike to these people…”