RP:The Ring of Gluttony - Afterwards, Krice Makes His Mark

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

After having received the task of finding Jerica from Thistle, Krice had started by investigating the fighting rings in Cenril. After all, if Haut Monde catered to the hidden and sordid interests of the upper class, surely some news of them might be found in said rings.

Not to mention, most of the gangs and other insidious groups in Cenril had been hiring toughs who frequented those rings, lately.

It was, perhaps, coincidence that Krice entered the Ring of Gluttony the same night Katya and Thistle did, though he stayed low until after they left. It was either luck or calculation that Krice also happened to be there the same night one of Haut Monde's talent scouts was.

All he had to do was catch the right man's interest by fighting. Time to crack some skulls.

NPCs Javed and Colten played by Thistle

The Ring of Gluttony, Cenril

Javed felt his second chin wobble as he glared some dirty drunk of a man off the perch that had previously been his seat. It was too much! Far too much to have some strutting cock take the hire that should have been his. And for what? Some vague promise of fighting, as if any of the men and women representing various interests around the city would be here for anything else! Had he not offered her a perfectly valid detail acting as a bodyguard for their workers and the nobles of the city? Certainly they'd had a scuffle between ruffians as they moved people through the dirty streets. Certainly, she'd chosen wrong, and she'd feel the pinch of it in her purse once she found out just how little coin they'd to offer her! But when she came crawling back to misunderstood Javed, oh, things would be different. He couldn't quite make up his mind if he'd be willing to take her, to be perfectly honest, not after that little debacle. He sniffed and snapped his fingers as the rabble around him began another of their hideous cheers in result of the latest victim to the ring. One of his bodyguards leaned in close so Javed wouldn't have to strain himself attempting to be heard. Javed had made sure of it the men who attended him were not untrained buffoons, not like the imbeciles Rory hired. Idiot man. "Fetch me scotch, and use my glass or else I'll have you back on the streets come the morning." "Yes, sir." His bodyguard bowed, backed up a step, and disappeared back into the crowd. Javed huffed to himself: the basement should have been roomy due to the enlargement that had occurred due to the wall between it and the neighboring buildings' basements being knocked out, but the crowd prevented that from happening in actuality. It was stifling hot down there, and despite the bench seats arrayed about the central ring a great lot of louts chose instead to stand and press forward towards the ring. That left quieter, more ruthless sorts like himself towards the back, sitting like civilized individuals rather than feckless morons. Rough cage doors lead to other basements, some of which used to store weapons and armor of fighters before they went into the ring. The insufferable organizer, Fion, stood atop his typical podium comprised of four steel lockboxes, and he used the height to shout encouragements to fighters and crowds. It was boorish, really. Javed was far too important to be wasted in such an uncouth space. He would be sure to have a word with Goban about it. Soon.

Krice was a figure clothed in black, his figure obscured by the folds of his sable robes, his features masked in the shadow of his hood. Deep-red eyes observed Katya and Thistle as they exited with their little troupe of untrustworthy men, but soon enough, Javed's ire drew attention. The cloaked figure remained in his southwest corner, farthest away from the ring and from light, observing all who took in the sight that unfolded before them. Two fighters, equally-matched but hardly stylish or exciting, beating on each other for a chance at the title. Without showing on his face the distaste or disapproval he felt for such an exhibition, Krice held his silence and observed; glancing between the fight itself and Javed.

The bodyguard returned with Javed's drink. He was Javed's favorite. Most of the others had opinions, which was quite unseemly in a bodyguard. This one though -- whatever his name was, Javed always remembered him by the ugly pock marks from some illness or childhood acne -- knew how to be quiet, how to talk. Javed liked useful people like that. He liked them a lot. "Can you believe that woman?" He whined, snatching up the glass, his favorite one, and taking a short sip. He did not slop his liquor over him like some wretched drunk off the streets. It was disgusting to watch them try to put food and drink in their mouths, and that didn't start on the state of the floor. Javed shuddered delicately. His pockmarked bodyguard didn't respond, just stayed slightly bent so Javed could speak without needing to raise his voice. His eyes stayed pinned to the ring as he talked, gesturing irritably with his free hand. "She's been the only one -- the only one! -- to get that fifth purse, and I lost her to Rory. Can you believe that? Rory! As if he was. . ." Javed couldn't finish the thought. His lower lip trembled. He looked sideways at his bodyguard, who silently inclined his head. "Goban comes to me insisting I find him more quality guards since that debacle. She wanted excitement did she? That damned elf woman. If she'd seen the mess that was made of the ballroom floor, she wouldn't have given me her pretty excuses. Me!" The bodyguard nodded dutifully, not flinching when Javed almost knocked him in the eye with his glass.

Krice was a good distance away from Javed and his bodyguard that they wouldn't be able to see him without twisting around, squinting, and searching the shadows--unless they had supernatural senses which would allow them sight of him without the need of human-type straining. As Jaced ranted about one Katya to his bodyguard, the robed figure departed the scene, skirting the fight along the wall. He disappeared upstairs just as the burly, shirtless, hairy-chested fighter knocked out his opponent with a roundhouse punch; to the groans of some spectators and the cheers of others. When Krice returned, he was sans his cloak; dressed in comfortably-fitted black denim pants and a white crew-neck t-shirt; his long silver hair pulled into a loose ponytail tied at the nape of his neck. He passed Javed and bodyguard just a few metres away, stepping to the front of the crowd as the organizer called for more volunteers. No one stepped up, but various pods of onlookers tried goading their male friends to join the fight, to 'win us the gold!' and 'kick that guy's ass!'. Hot air, the lot of them. Krice stood quietly and thoughtfully and stared up at the 'champion' without moving. And therefore, he stood out. Holding himself with dignity and confidence that far outweighed the class of the rabble down here, he was all at once noticeable. He didn't yet offer himself to the ring as the announcer called again for a volunteer.

"The night has yet bloodsport to it, ladies and gents! Who is worthy enough to stand among the men, tonight? Don't tell me the only one with castles was the elf!" Javed looked up briefly, peevishly, as Fion's voice got louder. "Of anyone he could have sent, Goban picked me. Me! What did I do to deserve this?" His voice crawled up an octave into a hissing sort of complaint that Javed's bodyguard weathered without any obvious effort. The crowd was getting rough, the whole of the mass of unwashed bodies thirsting for blood. Depraved. Javed was quite displeased with this side of Haut Monde. Disgusting. He didn't know how Goban could stand it -- but maybe that was why he'd been sent. "Did you know, I think Goban blamed me for that little witch of a woman! As if all the guards at the outing had been my hires! Hah! He's just looking to share the blame, that worm."

Krice didn't look at Javed or his bodyguard, not whilst standing in their periphery, during which time any glances he gave them would be noticed. Wether or not he could hear Javed's continued ramblings remained to be seen. The weaponless warrior stepped forward as the previous victim stumbled out of the ring, and his bloodied arms latched around krice's right one as he snorted blood that trickled from his nostril. The silver-haired man glanced down at that victim, who looked up and grumbled through the bubbling sanguine in his throat, "It ain't worth it, mate. Y'put... y'put your soul out 'dere for a bit o'coin and get feck' all." Krice looked down at the battered and bruised other man and tensed his right arm, a bent limb of solid muscled supporting the lean loser. Lean Loser stood up, snorted again, wiped his chin with his bloodied knuckles, and stumbled away. Krice watched briefly, but due to the announcer's interest in his position in relation to the ring, his attention on the loser was short-lived. With red smeared sporadically across the flesh of his arm and spotting the side of his white shirt, thanks to that clumsy victim of the current champ, Krice ventured forward into the ring, moving with notably predatory steps to halt in front of the other fighter; his back to Javed.

"Ho then, looks like we have a taker good Misters and Missies! Come then, lad, let's have your name before you show if you're worth blood!" The slowing hush of voices as the surly crowd waited for scant heartbeats for Krice to voice his name before they started heckling had Javed looking up out of his inspired misery towards the ring and its lounging champion and newcomer. He squinted, lower lip outthrust. "Does he look familiar to you?" He asked of no one in particular. His bodyguard, knowing better than to actually speak, shook his head. Javed looked sideways, and then frontways. "A white shirt. A white shirt. Here?" Javed barked laughter, and leaned forward. The motion was made difficult with his bulk. "He'd better be worth something, with that getup."

Krice slid his gaze from the announcer to Javed, over the left shoulder, a glance that wasn't obvious but Javed would definitely notice. Krice passed on a look that suggested he had heard the man's musings. Just seconds later he was once more facing forward and introduced himself simply as, " Grey."

Javed was taken aback. Startlement quickly passed to uncertainty, confusion, and finally anger and affront. "I think that runt just glared at me. Did you see that? Did you see the way he looked at me?" The bodyguard remained wisely silent as Javed's snark ran down into grumblings under his breath. Fion appeared oblivious to all as he lifted his hand theatrically. Javed rolled his eyes and settled himself to sulk. "Will this mysterious Grey be able to handle our man Tanner, or will his pretty shirt get colored red? Get fighting, men! Give the crowd some color!" The start of the fight was welcomed with a wash of sound, which only set Javed to drinking more. "I want something out of this sham of a night. Do you see how much time I've already wasted? I'll see Goban hears about this, mark you my words." He pulled a handkerchief out from under his waistcoat, and dabbled delicately at his forehead and cheeks before putting it away. "If that bitch was the only one worth hiring, I will ensure my complaints go above Goban, if that's what it takes!"

Krice focused on the brawny man standing in front of him, a man who was covered in sweat and grime, but looked ready enough for a fresh fight. Upon the announcer's go-ahead, Mr. Brawn lunged forward and threw a right-handed punch. Krice stepped back on his right foot, kept the left one forward, and caught the inside of Brawn's outstretched wrist with a snap-shut grip of his right fingers; followed by a jab to the nose - a tight action, quick and fully front-on. Tears sprung free of their ducts in the champ's eyes and he stumbled backward with a grunt and grumble, clutching his face with both hands - the right of which Krice had since released - and turned away with blood slithering between his fingers. The silver-haired 'Grey' stood exactly where he was when the fight began, barely a new wrinkle in his clothes.

The crowd, at first, wasn't so sure how to react to Krice. They were used to active fights (usually closer to two-men brawls), and after Katya's grandstanding Krice's quiet certainty of himself was like a dash of cold water in the face. The initial cheer at the hit died down, and even Fion's smooth talking petered out. There was an odd, near quiet to the basement, as men and women waited in those seconds for something to happen. "Did you see that?" Javed asked his guard, who at this point was starting to feel the strain in his lower back. Javed abruptly handed the scotch over, which the guard took with some relief as he straightened to see to its disposal. He clapped, eyes now glued to Krice with something quite like avarice.

Krice looked down at his injured opponent who was crouched, still grabbing his nose and moaning in pain. Everything beyond that was quiet. A few seconds into the post-victory silence, Krice turned his head to cast a simple, unassuming glance across the faces of the crowd members to his right. And then the sound of one single pair of clapping hands drew his attention and his gaze fell, lashes descending slowly to their lower counterparts. A second later, he twisted, just enough to regard the single applauding man over his right shoulder with a cool, unmoving stare.

"Finish 'im!" Someone called, and it was a shout quickly taken up, a roar of approval -- the champion hadn't been knocked flat, after all. He still had his feet under him. Javed continued clapping, returning the stare with a polite little smile. His eyes were twinkling in the dim lamplight. "Has our one-round winner been done in, or does he still have some fight in him? Maybe we have a new winner, Misters and Missies!" But the crowd's response was ragged, unsure. They wanted more.

Krice 's eyes drifted off Javed and onto the crowd as they erupted into rounds of goading, followed by a glance at the facillitating announcer, and then finally a look at his would-be victim. The man was still on his feet... Bleeding, but on his feet. Was that the issue? Rather than lose in such a humiliating way, the one-round Champ rushed at Krice with bloodied hands outstretched and blood-covered mouth agape in a guttural scream, charging the silver-haired newcomer. Krice responded similarly to his first maneuver; only this time, instead of his left hand punching at Champ's face, it went around the man's throat, under his jaws, aiding the silver-haired warrior when he twisted at the waist and then bent at the knees to throw Champ down to his back, on the dirt floor. Through a handful of silver strands that flanked his face, the warrior regarded the fallen male with a look that seemed to cease his whimperings all at once. Something in that look, hidden behind those loose strands of hair, warned of repurcussions were this fight to continue. Krice felt movement in Champ's captured left arm and he thus lifted his right hand, releasing the limb. Both of Champ's arms came up in a small gesture of surrender. Krice released him, stood, and turned to walk a few paces away; taking up Champ's previous spot on the floor. Champ stared at his rival, knew the battle was over, and rolled off the field with his right hand around his nose and a limp in his step. Krice stilled with his back to Javed and half his face illuminated by light, the other in shadow, his gaze down; but his body language far from dejected. He was still that cool, in-control man who stepped into the ring not two minutes prior.

At that last rush, Tanner's buddies in the crowd kicked up cheers for him, loyal despite that crushing first blow. Their cheers soon turned into dejected yells as Krice finished the matter. "We have a new champion in the ring, Misters and Missies!" Tanner's buddies helped him away, in all probability to soothe his ills with booze. It was a common self-medication in that part of Cenril. Javed snapped his fingers, and his bodyguard leaned forward. "Yes, sir?" Javed stared at Krice as Fion goaded the crowd to get another up and comer into the ring. "How many new men did Goban want?" The crowd got a little noisier. "Four, sir." Someone had met Fion's challenge, and he stood forth proudly before Fion, tall and slender. An elf. "Paddy," he said, loud enough to be heard by most of the room. "From Kelay." He was the second exile to grace the ring that night, and as one of the bouncers lead him to one of the caged rooms to store his weapons and armor, Fion lead a patter asking the audience if they thought the exile would prove the strength of his people, or fail like Hedda had earlier. There was a roar at that; there were more exiles in the audience, and many who found the idea of elves failing their people in the ring a hilarious idea. Paddy, when he stepped in, was red-faced -- he'd heard the jibe, and he was riled for it. When Fion called for the fight to start, it was Paddy who made the first move.

Krice busied himself by wiping spots of Tanner's blood off his hands with a rag someone from the crowd had tossed at him, pinching the cloth around the sides of his palms and around individual fingers. As the crowd responded to the arrival of a new challenger, Krice seemed rather unbothered by the fact and gave the rag a toss to ground, thereafter looking down at the spots of blood that freckled the right side of his white shirt, just below the ribs; courtesy of Tanner's victim when he slumped into the warrior. Turning now, Krice came face-to-face with the sight of someone who appeared more self-capable even without moving. Elves were known for their agility, and despite the fact that Paddy had eyes that told of an unstable mentality, Krice knew that this opponent would be more challenging than the last. 'How much more challening' was the aspect in question. Krice readied himself for battle the moment Fion announced a start to the fight, and he responded to Paddy with more clinical expertise than what he'd given Tanner. Paddy rushed forward, light on his feet, and bridged the space between the duellists with just two strides. His right foot was his front-foot and he used it as a pivot point, shifting the other foot forward to facillitate whatever action he performed. The first was a jab to Krice's face, which the silver-haired warrior deflected easily with a slap of the butt of his palm to the inside of Paddy's fist, followed by a trio of punch-deflect movements with Paddy punching, and then Krice, and then Paddy again. Each duellist had his own style, technique, and level of ability, and whilst Paddy was no doubt a decent fighter who could hold his own, Krice never once expressed concern the outcome or a loss of composure during. On the fourth hit, Paddy met his mark, his bony fist connecting with Krice's jaw. The warrior spun away from the hit, moving -with- it, and used that momentum to swiftly project his own fist - the left hand - backward across Paddy's face. The impact upon the elf was noticeably larger and he stumbled; just once though, his heritage enabling him to recover quickly. The duellists remained at the ready, staring at each other for just a few seconds before they simultaneously resumed their brawl. The crowd had a fight on their hands, and throughout it all, despite that it lasted longer than the previous match-up, Krice never once seemed like he had passed the reigns of control to the Elvish exile; always in control, always moving swiftly but without strain.

Javed watched, leaning forward, that polite little smile growing the longer the fight lasted. His guards stood around him, inobtrusive and keeping anyone from sitting too close. While Javed had always found Rory's little ass-licker to be annoying, at that moment he would have liked a peon of his own to make observations too. His guards were too well trained, and had become boring because of it. But the fight! Even the frothing masses could tell a good fight when they saw one, and if this new man could hold like the elf bitch had done, there would be no Rory to try to steal any away. Javed had seen to it the snively man from the Thorns wouldn't bother him; they'd always been careful of Haut Monde, and there was an understanding there. This fight, quick paced and controlled, it would appear, by the mysterious Grey. That was the type of man Javed could stomach hiring from the dreadful place that was Gluttony. Certainly, after this, he would advise a new place to hire men from. Hours and hours he'd wasted, and this only the second he'd considered approaching. He sniffed to himself with disdain, but the smile stayed. Eager. Predatory.

Krice and Paddy continued to fight, and the longer the fight went on, the more aggressive and uneasy Paddy became. Krice never lost his composure; after all, he was the one in control. The mentally unrested elf jabbed twice with his left hand and once with the right, hitting air as Krice ducked one, stepped back from the second, and knocked aside the third with the palm of his left hand. As he completed his third evasive maneuver, the silver-haired man lunged forward, a minimal but swift movement that put him inside the field of Paddy's reach. The elf balked, leaned back to recover, but found himself with the outside of Grey's right forearm against his clavicle, hand clasping the right shoulder of his tunic, his right arm pressed to his diaphragm by Grey's left hand, and his legs kicked out from under him by a tight, fluid sweeping kick of the warrior's right lower shin into Paddy's calves. The elf fell to his back with a grunt and with eyes tightly shut, but as Krice bounced backward on his toes and then rested on the heel of his right foot, Paddy scrambled to his feet and tugged at his tunic, huffing as he brushed soil from the backs of his shoulders. He had to look nice for his victory.

Javed's glee was unabated. It was almost as if Grey was toying with Paddy! Some in the crowd saw it too, as they jeered at Paddy, and cheered for Krice. Those at Gluttony were crude and cruel, fickle in who they supported. Sometimes throughout the night there had been slow-minded fighters who'd forgotten that, some sort of betrayal on their dull faces. It was all so dramatic, and boring and filthy and malodorous. If he could bag this one, and confirm his legitimacy as a potential employee of the Haut Monde, Javed could consider himself done for the night. He began to plan the words he would say to Goban, laced with insults under his typical politic veneer. Grey seemed to be a quiet man, besides. Javed liked that. Yes, it would be much better than that showy elf woman with her fractured method of speaking. She would have been hard to train, but this man? Javed thought it would be somehow different. He snapped his fingers, the sound inaudible with all the noise, and he didn't wait for his guard to speak, as was appropriate. "When he has finished his matches, if he wins, see to it you are the first to approach him."

Krice 's face was a blank canvas, but his eyes showed relaxed focus and intent. He came here to win. Poor Paddy didn't have a chance, really. He was ruffled, red-faced, a mess in the head, and had already been embarrassed once before. He was fighting with his emotions, not his head, and it destabilized his technique. He lost the moment he stepped into the ring, anyway, to which Javed seemed privy. The warrior won his second match of the night when Paddy lunged again with an indignant grunt and a flurry of jabs, all of which he dodged, deflected, and parried before taking the elf to ground, on his belly and chin, with a knee pressed down against his rear, one hand keeping his left arm bent at a painful angle behind him, and the other hand holding his opposite shoulder down. He grunted and groaned, and Krice merely waited until Paddy reached beside him, scuffing dirt under his arm, and tapped out. Krice released the elf immediately afterward and stood, taking two calm steps back.

The noise was loud enough that even Fion's voice was drowned out, and he was as loud a windbag as any Javed had ever heard. It was for the skill, however, Javed knew; the gods only knew that the peasantry could only appreciate blood and little else. The man's lack of desire to beat the other man into the ground, to hit him until he went inert or became too dazed to do anything more than stare at the dirt while stretched full out on it, was something that wasn't often seen in Gluttony. Javed knew this, even though he wasn't often punished by coming down into the foul pits themselves. He sniffed. Why had Gobad told him to go here of all places to find talent? Clearly this was why the guards hadn't been a suitable match for the woman they'd almost caught. Perhaps, Javed thought, there was room for someone to be deposed, and a new person step into his place. Not that Javed necessarily wanted to be head of security, but it was a step in the right direction; his talents were more typically appropriated towards the acquisition of the artsy types: musicians, acrobats, dancers -- entertainment. This was not entertainment. It was blood sport. And while Javed was most intelligent in many spheres of erudition, the ability to determine a good piece of muscle from a bad piece of muscle was not where he wanted to spend the majority of his time. As Javed had thought, the crowd had quieted some (Paddy went off somewhere to nurse his wounded ego, apparently), and Fion had filled it with more of his inane babble. And then, ah, then was the next opponent stepping forward. He called out his name in a thick accent (foreigners, Javed sniffed to himself, certainly were a dirty lot), sounding something like Levo. Or was it -- "Livio of the Nazzareno Stables! Will he be able to handle two-time winner Grey, or will he be shown the ring floor!" Livio went off somewhere to divest himself of weapons, and Javed produced a toothpick with which he began to pick his teeth. He wanted this to be over soon so he could go somewhere comfortable and wash off the smell of failure and unwashed rabble.

Krice wiped his lateral teeth with his tongue in response, perhaps, to discomfort caused by the punch Paddy managed to land. It was minor, though, if there at all, because the warrior barely flinched. When the crowd was calm, as before, the warrior stood without movement and kept his chin low, waiting with neither anticipation nor eagerness for the next fighter to step into the ring. When Livio announced himself and made it known that he was ready to brawl, Krice turned to face him, but rather than looking right at Livio, the warrior looked past him. Straight at Javed. He gave a look that suggested curiosity, borne from the knowledge of Javed's interest in him, which Krice could have gleaned from the man's body language alone. Not to mention the intensity with which he watched the fights. Fion announced the start of the match-up and Livio stepped into an attack, mirrored by Krice. The warrior lifted his left hand, catching Livio's punching fist a foot away from his face. Krice was strong, but so too was Livio, and the momentum behind his punch caused the silver-haired man's arm to bend just an inch in absorption of the blow. The other hand came up and Krice jerked his head sideways to avoid it; letting the fist sail harmlessly in the air above and between his head and shoulder. Krice released Livio, took a step back, was advanced upon, and spun into Livio to thrust his left elbow backwards; hitting the man's sternum. Livio grunted from the blow and reached around Krice's clavicle with both arms. The left one slipped as the warrior pivoted away, but Livio's right hand found purchase of the shoulder-portion of Krice's white crew-neck T-shirt. Despite this, 'Grey' was still without evident panic or concern. A simple backward thrust of the shoulder caused Livio's grip to fail and the fabric was pulled free, though not without being stretched enough that it sat wrinkled around the warrior's upper arm. He stepped in, threw an uppercut which Livio snapped his head back to successfully avoid and Krice recovered by leaning in, grabbing Livio's shoulders, and pulling him down forcefully to deliver his right knee squarely into the bulky opponent's solar plexus. Livio gasped, gurgled, but even as he responded to the blow, he was wrapping his arms around Krice's back, and that raised leg, and ran forward a few steps with a guttural roar, driving the warrior off his left foot and into the ground, on his back. Krice flinched - but he managed to avoid being winded - and he recovered by pushing against Livio's chest with the knee-to-foot portion of his leg, doing so with only slight strain twitching in his jaw. Livio stumbled back and rubbed his torso in the interim whilst Krice, with hands delivered to the ground past his shoulders, pushed upward and over, performing an agile, backward handstand to thereafter find his feet. He huffed out a breath, just one, pulled his shirt down, squinted at Livio, and waited for the next attack.

Javed lifted his chin a little. "He keeps looking at me. Did you see that? That Grey fighter keeps looking at me." He snapped his fingers three times, though his guard was fairly hovering in a suspended half-crouch to be near Javed's mouth. Javed didn't smirk, though he saw the posture and was pleased by it. A good peon should present himself so readily. Such was the way of money, and power. The guard put his ear a little closer to Javed. It was good the man was uncomfortable. He -should- be. "I want my cigars." The man hesitated, and then stood straight. He moved around Javed and plucked the cigars out from the man's waistcoat. It was a test, of sorts. Javed was very good at those. He steepled his fingers in front of him, allowing his guard to do the menial work for him as he watched the fight. Eventually the cigar was proffered, and Javed accepted it. His guard provided the light. Soon enough the smoke from the cigar floated up to mix with the other smoke from others who had similar tastes. Or dissimilar tastes -- another reason to never come back to Gluttony, in Javed's esteemed opinion. He clamped down on the cigar. "This one's different. This one I want. Do you hear me?" The guard didn't even look affronted at the menial tasks he'd been assigned. Oh, he'd been well trained. "Yes, sir." Javed smiled. "Good, because if I don't get him, it will be your fault." The guard wasn't looking at Javed, as Javed cut his eyes away from the fight -- Grey had just kneed Livio something fierce, and Javed was getting cocky now about his choice -- and he decided that if Grey didn't work out for Haut Monde, he might just hire him on as a guard. This one was almost too well trained, now. So careful, so boring. Javed looked back in time to watch Grey use an acrobatic maneuver to gain his feet. He grinned, broadly. He was looking forward to this.

Krice was calculating, careful without being overly cautious, and astute. So astute. As Javed steepled his fingers and mused about the fight, Krice and Livio resumed their brawling again. This fight wasn't as clean as his previous battle with the exiled elf. Whilst Paddy had fought with seemingly equal stylistic flare to Krice, Livio was more brawn than style, even -with- technique. Krice was still clean-cut and quick in the execution of his responses, however, indicating that he had a set, internal manner by which he fought opponents, irrespective of their abilities, and changed it up only as much as each individual fight necessitated. His punches were thrown harder at Livio than at Paddy, perhaps to account for the differences in bulk between the two - Paddy lacking, Livio packing. By the end of the fight, after a flurry of movements, punches, and a few well-placed kicks from Krice, he stood the victor with grey-brown soil darkening the back of his white shirt, loose grains in his ponytail, and the vaguest of slumps to his shoulders. Livio was down on the ground, knocked from the world of consciousness by the frontal impact of a fist directly connecting with that space between his eyebrows. Krice looked down at his third 'victim', without malice or anger, and pressed his lips together in a portrayal of contemplation.

That got the crowd's attention. Javed winced at the sudden uproar, even as men entered the ring to pick up the loser and carry him off. Satisfaction purred through Javed as he watched the limp victim -- even now starting to stir, lucky for him or else his brain damage would have been quite permanent -- be carried off. He hoped Grey saw him, oh yes. He hoped Grey perhaps recognized him as being out of place, had some sort of curiosity. For Javed was out of place: the fine cut and cloth that made up his clothing was far too fine to typically grace such a shabby establishment as the one Gluttony squatted in. He had rings slipped onto his pudgy fingers, and the extra weight that only those of station and easy living could afford. Not many in Cenril were capable of gaining that fat, because most in Cenril were wretched things whose sole purpose was to be crushed under the wheels of progress. He sighed happily at the thought, puffing smoke out from between the teeth he bared. He was a rich man, had been rich before he'd opted to join the Haut Monde after they'd sought out his delicate expertise. This was nothing but a distraction to him, a bit of fun. Toying with the lives of others -- that was his desire. And he had just the coin with which to do it. He was intrigued by Grey, so much so that he kept staring at the other man, even as that sputtering fool Fion rattled off his incessant jabber at the crowd, until another victim was spat forth. He gripped the edge of his overcoat with one of his hands, eyes only flicking to the newcomer. Another dockworker, by the looks of him. Javed sneered: the man looked drunk even from where he sat. The short, brawny man was announced as Dolf, and Javed almost giggled in anticipation of the sure takedown. He quivered a little with his excitement.

Krice shook his left hand out to his side in an action that was akin to 'keeping the muscles in that arm loose', or something thereabouts. Despite that he had received a few blows himself, the silver-haired warrior hardly seemed uncomfortable--barely even bruised from the two punches - by different fighters - he'd received to the same cheek. When the latest fighter came on, Krice gave him a two-second once-over and then cast his attention to Fion. " You've lost my interest." Whether because Krice didn't want to fight a man inhibited by drugs or alcohol, or because he simply didn't want to fight anymore, period, remained to be seen. 'Grey' didn't wait to be dismissed before he stepped left to exit the ring.

Javed didn't even have to snap his fingers. His chief guard had already left his side, leaving the other three to close around Javed. He heaved himself to his feet, settled his overcoat about his girth so that it draped in accordance to the latest fashions, unruffled and smooth. Fion lost two seconds to looking back and forth between the two in the ring -- one of them already stepping out. "Misters and Missies, looks like we have a forfeit! But he still won three purses, and showed us some blood! Dolf here is looking lonely, isn't he? Let's see another entrant to the ring! Step up, step up!" The crowd turned upon Grey, as Javed knew they would. Their noise mutated from the nearly intolerable cheering into the sort of hissing catcalls he'd expect from unruly children. He even saw some small objects tossed at Krice. Ill disciplined little rats were, in the end, nothing more than rats. He wrinkled up his nose as he passed through them, eager to be quit of the squalid establishment. Ahead of him, his guard stepped towards Krice, but there was another before him: one of the 'employees' (and Javed used that term loosely) had trailed after Grey to hand over his winnings for the three fights.

Krice seemed completely undeterred by the turn of the crowd. Once, they had supported him. Now, they jeered. Perhaps he preferred that? Whatever the case, the man stepped through the crowd without incident and looked up in time to see Javed stepping away - and the man who stood -beside- him making his approach. Krice slowed to a halt, at which point he received the attention of that 'employee'. Turning his head, he locked those unusual red eyes upon the face of the stranger, and then glanced down at the offered money, before lifting his left hand to take the coin. At this point, Krice lifted the other hand to pick off a crumpled hotdog wrapper off his shirt's right shoulder, leaving behind a small smear of mustard. His lips twisted at the left corner in display of distaste. This place was beneath him. Without a word given to Javed's cigar-getting bodyguard, Krice ventured forward, toward the stairs that lead out.

"Excuse me, sir," the bodyguard ventured, as Javed made his meandering way through the crowd -- there was a man who didn't rush for anyone. "I believe my employer has a proposition for you, if you'd be kind enough to wait upstairs or outside?" He kept pace with Krice; the two men were of a similar height, though he didn't try to get too close. He was in spattering range, after all. Once they made it to the stairs, however, the attention of the crowd had already started turning the other way, back towards the ring. They were drunk, most of them, or under some other type of influence, and they were there for fighting.

Krice passed to the bodyguard a simple, " I'm on my way out," as another drunken fighter stepped into the ring to face Dolf. He raised his big arms and screamed in display of loud, testosterone-fueled gusto, followed by an array of different-type cheers from the crowd. Krice ventured upstairs and outside, onto the street beyond. He turned to move the opposite way to whereever Javed had gone.

The building Ring of Gluttony had set up in was one of the older buildings in the area, not as old as the slums to the south but old enough to have to itself a certain style of architecture that was no longer in use, but not yet to the point of being back in vogue. The dark made it hard to see a color, but the shape was assuredly stone in the patchwork textures thrown by night's darkness and faint light. It wasn't a tall building, given its age; maybe two stories if you were being optimistic, though it was possible it had high ceilings. That, or it would be uncomfortably low inside for people too far above six feet in height. The ground was mud underfoot, though stiffening as it did between rains. The space right outside the door was the sucking, sloppy sort that got into your clothing worse than anything, should clothing happen to drag through it. There was no sign, no light to mark the building. The only man-made light was from a lamp -- glass, expensive -- set just inside the door, and its yellow glow would spill out onto the waiting queue like heaven waited inside, and they were the damned left out in the cold. The street itself was narrow, and not quite so muddy as the well-stirred stuff right in front of the door.

Colten, which was the name of Javed's chief bodyguard and practically unknown except by Javed's other bodyguards, felt the first stirrings of dread. Javed had set up a trap, which was usual for Javed. Colten hadn't expected one put towards him; he'd learned through long and arduous experience that it was very, very wise to not piss off Javed. Disobeying him, or failing to complete an order, was a very good way to put Javed into a very bad mood. Therefore, Colten followed after Krice, his expression bland and his posture very correct and respectful. "Sir," he ventured, staying exactly two paces behind and to the left of Krice. Javed hadn't made it out of the building yet. He was fat, and had the stamina of a dying bullfrog. "Is there any way I might persuade you to speak to my employer? He wishes to hire you, though I will not do him the disservice of speaking for him. A small piece of your time is all I ask."

Krice halted at the door and turned to face Colten, though only after he had put forth his argument. Without aggression or malice in his tone, Krice said, " If your employer wants to speak to me, then he'll have to walk with me. I need a new shirt."

Colten stepped slightly further out, and stood with his hands neatly tucked behind his back. It was the position a servitor or butler might have taken, and it was obvious from the way Colten held it with exactness and grace that it was one he was well used to. "As you say, sir. My employer is not the youngest man, and he is rather slow when it comes to stairs. If you would be so kind as to wait a few moments, I am sure -- " The door opened. One of the other bodyguards stepped out, looked around. Colten nodded to him, and inclined his head towards Grey, "I thank you for your patience, sir." The guard turned back inside, and then held the door open, eyeing those still hanging about the entrance with the disdainful wariness of bodyguards everywhere, the vaguest hint of a threat in his posture. But it was angled out and away from Krice and Colten, and the bouncer who stood at the door. Javed stepped out, the cigar still clenched between his teeth and that polite smile still on his lips. He was cheerful as he stepped forth, a little bit of jauntiness to the way he walked. Colten gave a slight bow towards Javed and then fell into an advance position nearer to Krice. "Ah! I hope I haven't kept you, Grey. I don't know what my man here has had to say, but I'd like a word with you, yes I would!" Colten bowed again, and said, "Sir, this gentleman would like to walk with you in order to buy a new shirt." Javed's smile faltered a little, as he looked at Krice. His eyes widened just a bit, and then he shook his head. "They are heathens in there, aren't they? It's such a shame. My boy, if you'd not mind me walking beside you, I believe I have a proposition for you!" Behind Javed, the other two bodyguards exited the building, and took up their customary positions about him.

Krice 's eyes remained fixed on Colten's face as he spoke, even a second after the door had opened behind him. On the next second, though, the warrior's gaze slid off Colten's face to land on the other bodyguard instead, ever unassuming and frustratingly calm. Colten's gratitude for his patience inspired in Krice a modicum of intrigue and he stood squarely facing the building, his hands down at his sides, his expression neutral. The warrior observed how Javed's bodyguards behaved, as if Javed was a person who held some kind of importance in whatever organization to which he had allied himself. Once the man himself finally stepped clear of the doorway, Krice lifted his chin a fraction and awaited his arrival. The words spoken seemed to get through to the warrior for he listened with noticeable attentiveness, but his response was a practically disconnected, " My shirt has mustard on it. I smell like smoke and alcohol, and the blood of some fool is painted here"--he gestured to the right side of his shirt with a nod--"like morbid leopard-spots. It's bothersome. I need to change. If you can keep up, then I'll hear you." This man was far more educated than the dregs of humanity who frequented Gluttony - or this part of town in general - so why was he down here? Krice turned, walking at his own relaxed pace away from the shabby establishment.

Javed was both pleased and disappointed that his guard had managed the feat of getting the other man to stop. It had seemed like the fighter would just up and disappear into the night as suddenly as he'd arrived, and that certainly would have been the last straw! But none of that showed on his jovial face as he stretched his legs and walked, one hand perched neatly on his overcoat. His fat wobbled as he kept up with Krice, and talked. "Most excellent indeed! You seem to be a capable young man, well in control of yourself. Discipline! That is a trait not seen enough in youth!" He chuckled and nodded to himself, eyes dull in the dark of night. His guards moved smoothly about them like shadows, entirely forgettable. That was a trait he paid well for, after all. "I represent a man named Goban, and I am recruiting for him. He is the leader of a group who is in the business of security. Bodyguarding, and the like. Presently he is head of security for the Haut Monde -- uppercrust engagements, you understand -- and in need of a few more good men who have, ah, such discipline as you yourself have shown, to act as guards both for high society events and for our entertainment. Bards, minstrels, dancers: you know the sort. The city is dangerous, and we must have protectors for them. You understand! What say you?" He spoke smoothly, with confidence. His joviality slowly leaked away into seriousness the longer he spoke: he was discussing the safety of others, after all. It wouldn't do to be chipper about it.

Krice didn't forget about those guards. He was tracking them both with his ears and with intermittent peripheral glances whenever one wandered into the edge of his vision. For the most part, he kept his attention on the road ahead; deserted, lit by moonlight and the very occasional street-lamp. Whether or not he was able to actually track each guard -all- the time remained to be seen, but overall he appeared relatively unbothered by their presence. Krice was heading back toward the less-dirty northern parts of the city, to a simple shop that offered simple garments. He had clothes at home; he just needed a temporary shirt so that he didn't feel so damn filthy. When he got to his destination, he said to Javed, " Wait here," and moved to step inside, without a word given in response to his proposal.

Javed didn't appear to notice Grey's awareness of the surroundings at all, or of his guard. His attention, it would seem, was incapable of being focused on more than one thing at a time, and at that moment he was wholly interested in Grey. So he stayed as the man suggested, and appreciated another individual who realized his own personal business would be so terribly boring to one so well connected as Javed. And certainly, what a dismal little store! Javed shuddered at the idea of even entering its premises, though he supposed any tailor worth the gold would not be open for business at such an abysmal hour. He waited patiently enough, adjusting his overcoat every so often and taking his cigar from his mouth to blow a smoke ring or flick ash to the ground. He started humming one of the little ditties one of the city's esteemed composers had created for the society event last week -- such a shame the man was so ugly -- and waited for Grey to exit the store without so much as glancing at his guards who waited silent and unmoving around him.

Krice took all of two minutes and emerged from behind the dark, old glass windows dressed in a simple greyish-brown shirt that looked slightly peasanty. It didn't suit Krice at all, but at least it fit him. He shrugged his shoulders, double-checked the purse he'd won - that it was secured to his belt - and stepped northward. As his eyes shifted across Javed's face and then off it, the warrior murmured a nonchalant, " Don't quit your day job." perhaps remarking on Javed's singing ability. Or lack there-of.

Javed cracked a grin at Krice's joke and stepped forward alongside Krice. "Oh! I sully dear Esmund's works, I know, but they do have a tendency to trickle into one's head and beg to be released back into the world! Alas, I was born without the skills to replicate such grace of sound, but I have certainly trained myself to differentiate quality!" He waggled a finger in the air, cigar once more clamped between his teeth. "But ah, I wander. As I was saying, there are positions open within Goban's security team for Haut Monde, and I do believe you are the sort to do quite well there. But, I fear I might press my suit too ardently, as you seem the, hmm, quiet type. The kind who does not rush headlong into things! I can appreciate that, yes I can. Only fools rush in, as they say. As you have had a most dreadful night, I would think you to desire peace and time to think -- I certainly would, yes! -- so what I will offer to you is this," and he paused in speech, suddenly, digging through his waistcoat for something. He finally came up with a signet ring, which he jammed onto his middle finger. He waved distractedly behind him, "Paper, please," and one of his guards stepped forward, putting a square of thick vellum into Javed's hand. He frowned down at it, and another guard -- Grey would recognize him as Colten -- took something from his pocket, and soon enough there was a neat circle of heated wax on the square. All this was done smoothly, while they still walked, for Javed did not trust Grey to stop walking. He so hated to exert himself -- so while he continued walking, so did his guards. They were well used to taking small cues from him. One of the guards held the square of vellum while Javed slowed just enough to neatly press his ring into it, creating a clear seal of his personal crest. He took the vellum and hurried to return alongside Grey.

Krice really didn't seem interested in anything that Javed had to say, but when he trailed off, the warrior slowed and eventually halted, turning just enough to regard the pudgy male without straining. He was unendingly stoic, though showed a hint of intrigue when Javed produced that ring and retrieved the vellum from his guard. Krice diverted his attention to Colten, upon whom that crimson gaze softened slightly - with some unspoken understanding - before Javed was once more putting himself in the warrior's line of sight. Krice looked down at the offered object, stared at the seal, and then spoke whilst the vellum was left outstretched and not taken. " What's this?"

Javed beamed. "Should you choose to apply for a position with Goban, and by extension Haut Monde, I ask that you present this to the door guard at that estate. It is my personal crest, and it will let them know that I have taken it upon myself to speak to you, in the hopes that you might be interested in a position there. They will know it, I assure you. But perhaps I get ahead of myself; do you know where Haut Monde's office is located?"

Krice lifted his hand and took the 'crested vellum' once Javed had finished speaking, giving his head a simple shake in response to the query. " Not a clue," he said, glancing down at the vellum briefly before looking back at the pudgy man's pudgy face.

Javed nodded, a newly solemn expression taking over his face as he looked around. He heaved a sigh, "Really, perhaps I do not travel these streets as often as I should. Very well! Do you know where Cenril's oldest bank is? The one along Merchant Street?"

Krice held the vellum down against his left side and cast another glance at Colten. Then he looked at the other bodyguards, even if doing so required him to glance over one shoulder or both. When he answered Javed, Krice's attention was straight ahead once more. " Yeah." Definitely the 'quiet type'.

Javed was back to smiling again. It gave him something of a mischievous air, and it was considered infectious by many of Cenril's high society. The bodyguards, for their part, did not seem to acknowledge Grey's attention, or anything beyond whatever steps they took to see Javed's mute (or loud) requests to fruition. "Well, m'boy, you're halfway there! There is a street not long past the Bank named Memorial Avenue. It is quite a lovely street, well kept. Haut Monde has the great fortune of being located in one of the buildings set behind the Bank, along Memorial Street. It is near to the little well there, with wrought iron gates and has lovely triforiums along its front, and a single white spire. Hard to miss, certainly! A delightful structure, and one that has well stood the test of time and war."

Krice wasn't Cenril's high society, nor Cenril's anything, really. As such, Javed's smile did not infect him, though on the flip-side, he didn't seem turned off by it, either. After Javed gave directions to Haute Monde's headquarters, the warrior tapped the side of his thumb twice on the vellum, thoughtfully, and asked, " I don't suppose I could go there now, could I?"

Javed brightened and dimmed almost in a single moment. He glanced up at the sky, though the space around them hadn't particularly lightened much in the last few minutes. "Ah, I suppose not," he said, and sounded crushingly crestfallen. "They tend to operate as most offices do, dawn to dusk, and whomever might be working there so late at night now would not be in a state to receive visitors, I fear. But! I am most certain that should you go there at dawn you will find yourself a great welcome! I will endeavor to be there, myself, so as to be present should you require any greater form of introduction. How does that sound?" Javed was, himself, quite eager.

Krice wasn't overly eager, but he must have held some interest in the proposal because he had asked to visit Haute Monde now rather than waiting. In lieu of Javed's concluding suggestion, Krice murmured a simple, " That's fine," and nodded to the other man, and then granted one to Colten, before passing an uneventful but acknowledging glance upon the other bodyguards present. Looking back at Javed, the stoic silver-haired Grey murmured a smooth, " I expect to see you there at dawn," and then he turned. However, one step away, Krice turned back and lifted his empty right hand, saying, " You're more likely to snag my interest with women than with coin." He shot Javed a look that portrayed his expecation of a no-nonsense reply - whilst also portraying a subtle hint of some deep-rooted, expertly-contained desire simmering in the red around his pupils.

Javed was, for once, seemingly taken aback by Krice's words. His mouth formed a silent 'o', and a few seconds passed before he pressed his lips together with utter seriousness. "I see. I see, well, yes, we'll certainly have to see what can be done about that." His words were quieter than they had been, but they contained no judgement or derision, merely some distant thought that could be, given his sudden shift in expression, troublesome. "Very well, m'boy, I will see you at dawn and we shall discuss . . .things of interest, as it were, with Goban. I bid you a pleasant night!" And he lifted his hand in some quick wave of farewell, and looked about himself as if he was confused. In the lee of his statement, his goodbye, Colten stepped smoothly up to Javed's side with a tiny inclination of his upper body, one hand behind his back and the other held out down the street in quiet direction. Javed beamed. Oh, they were so well trained. He was quite good at training.

Krice stared at Javed, a hard and unyielding stare that told of his full expectation to not be judged or ridiculed for his choice of payment. When Javed made it known that he was accommodating, and then turned to move away, the warrior's gaze lost some of its hardness and he looked at the ever-helpful Colten leading his boss away. Only once all of the bodyguards had turned with Javed did the silver-haired man do the opposite, pivoting to once more resume moving northward; his pace unhurried, his stride casual and confident.