#dude: ptotyr

[dvngeondudes]

open to: all! plot: pyotyr is a new fighter in a foreign city’s pits and won. your muse was the only one who bet on him to win the fight. pyotyr asked to deliver your winnings personally. 

The satisfying adrenaline of Pyotyr’s rage got his blood pumping in his ears and pushed him on as his fist connected again and again with the flesh and muscle of his opponent. It was almost enough to make the barbarian hard in his torn cotton pants that barely clung to his legs anymore. He felt a fist land on his gut, and took the blow, swinging an elbow around to crack against the other man’s face. He let out a roaring howl as the other stumbled back.

All at once the noise of the room came back to him, the cheering, the jeering. The smell of blood and ale, of the dirt muddy under his feet. Before the other man could recover, Pyotyr’s knee slammed into his nose, jerking the man back and up, and that’s when the final blow, a fist to his jaw, knocked him to the ground. He had won and the crowd was angry and excited and impressed.

One man. One man had won the king’s share of the bet in his favor. And Pyotyr wanted to see the one who had had so much confidence in himself. He was barely cleaned up. A bucket of water dumped over him after the fight, still wearing the tatters of his pants. He was led through the tavern, to a table near the wall, heavy purse in his palm. 

“Your winnings,” Pyotyr tossed the coin onto the table, looking at the other. “I wanted to meet the man who had the smarts to vote on Pyotyr.” He grinned, some of his teeth still bloody. “But please, call me Tyr.” The barbarian asked, slumping into the bench across from the other. “Congrats. Buy me an ale?”