"Barroom Brawl" by Colton Hamshire

Velanor swallowed the last of his ale. He drank from his silver mug as always. It wasn’t that he distrusted what tankards the taverns he drank from provided; it was a matter of preference. He kept to himself, stayed quiet and reserved for the most part, but this time he found himself the center of unwanted attention.

Velanor assumed that this town, the small, weatherworn wooden buildings among the rocks and sand of Darka Desert, did not see many half-elves, or at least the three men that bothered him did not. And from the way they treated Velanor the half-elf assumed they welcomed trouble. If so, then it was their lucky day.

The three men appeared to be somewhere in their thirties and covered in filth. They reeked of sweat and the pungent odor of ale mixed with it. Their oily hair, yellow half-rotten teeth, and proneness to belch and cough like a dying animal caused Velanor’s stomach flip. Under normal circumstances, Velanor would have already been labeled as a pugilist, for his heart told him to start striking and never let up. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

Every patron’s attention was focused on Velanor and the three bullies at the bar, leaving the tavern unnaturally quiet. And the fact a rusty sword hung each lowlife’s belt caused Velanor to reconsider the brawl, but that soon changed.

The moment one tried to snatch Velanor’s silver mug and taint the object with his foulness caused the half-elf to forget the three to one odds and to give all the people in the bar a fight to remember.

Velanor, with his uncanny dexterity, jerked the mug away from the man’s hands, and managed to draw a dagger from his boot at the same time. In a flash, Velanor drove the dagger through the man’s hand, pinning him to the bar. The man screamed in pain, but the half-elf cut his cry short by driving the silver mug hard into his face. Sickening remains of rotten teeth and blood sprayed the bar. The man fell unconscious.

The place erupted into shouts of excited cries as the fight began. As Velanor expected, the people cheered for the locals.

The other two men didn’t have to time to react, or to say a word before the half-elf attacked. They both fumbled for their weapons frantically. Velanor rotated on the stool and drove his foot into the nearest one’s chest, sending the thuggish man falling backwards, and crashing into a table. The patrons at the table scattered just as the man smashed into it, spilling drinks and remains of food. The third man, sword in hand, swung the weapon wildly at Velanor, but the skilled half-elf maneuvered to safety and caught the man’s arm over his shoulder. Velanor threw all of this weight down upon the limb, snapping bone loudly, and rendering the man weaponless.

The man yowled agonizingly through gritted teeth, but fell silent before the half-elf’s mug then collapsed to the ground in a comatose heap. The second man gave an enraged growl and shot off of the table, sword in hand. He ran at the half-elf with his blade held outward like a spear. Velanor knew his skill and experience in battle far outweighed the three men’s, and so he waited calmly by the bar as his foe charged him. When the man got close enough and thrust for the kill, Velanor sidestepped and used his enemy’s own forward momentum and bashed the silver mug into his face, sending the lowlife almost flipping backwards before crashing to the floor, unmoving.

Velanor stood above all three of the brawlers, unscathed and victorious. The people in the tavern fell silent, all watching the half-elf with disbelief. Velanor turned around, freed his dagger from its fleshy prison, and then strapped his mug to his belt. He exited the tavern, determined to find a place where he could drink in peace.