Mordrag burst into laughter at the sight of the young man's displeasure. The boy ran straight for the door, passing so near to Mordrag, that the large Gothi could smell the foul trail left behind. The rancid smell sent the big man into a coughing fit, only making him laugh all the harder.

Not all what you'd expect with this lass! “Lickin my lips to see what else she's got in store! Eh!?” his big mouth proclaimed loudly.

“Ye crazy? Ye dumb bastid, she'd tear ye apart!” Mordrag narrowed his eyes at the response. “Bloody I could do the same, big and slow as ye are!” The speaker was the same tatood man he had seen before. The big barbarian rose up from his chair and leaned over the man, staring down at the brave look in his eyes. Mordrag had predicted punches akin to something from a prepubescent girl. When the challenger didn't back down – or even flinch – it appeared to be time to find out.

“Get your arse in the ring then, boy.” The big man eased his makeshift polearm hammer off of his back. It had a long, bent shaft over half as tall as his massive body ending with a long, thin spike – truly a shard of metal haphazardly embedded in the wood. Underneath the slipshod but sharp extension are two hammer heads, adapted from an actual butchers meat hammer. Though not the most efficient weapon, its appearance and operation were brutal enough. If Mordrag's reach – half again as long as most other men's – wasn't already enough, the range afforded by thrusting or even swinging kept most enemies far away from the brute. If an opponent managed to maneuver themselves within the reach of Mordrag's hammer, they were viciously bombarded with headbutts, high knees and, most wickedly, with punches from big, cloth-wrapped fists adorned with studded iron rings. 

Unconcerned with the barbaric danger facing him from across the ring, the tattooed man pulled out a rusty cutlass, the blade shrieking horribly as it left its ill-fitting scabbard. The combatants glowed orange from the dim torchlight. Mordrag shifted side to side, the vomit-soaked sand softly crunching and squishing under his significant weight. The He wanted to smash that ugly bulbous nose almost as much as he wanted to wrap his fingers around the ridiculous anchor tattoo on the man's neck.

Two tattooed arms waved up and down, awkwardly trying to excited the crowd. One man gave a quiet “whoop” in response. He addressed the gathered vagabonds and ragamuffins, comparatively quiet after Wretha Thorne's earlier display, “I'm Boruss, an' this is my lurvley blade Shelisse!” He turned to Mordrag. “An' Shelisse'll be drinkin yer blood soon ya big... piss... ugly piss!” About as eloquent as Ugly Boruss was going to get. He charged at Mordrag, barely keeping his footing in the sewage beach.

For the first time since he had entered the tavern, Mordrag's behavior was somber if not completely sober. He set his feet and lowered his hammer, lining up the spike extension with the rushing spastic. It was a wonder that the tattooed fool could even see with his long greasy hair flopping off his head and sticking to his face. Just when Boruss was nearing Mordrag's reach, he dodged sideways. Or attempted to. A – surely tattooed – foot in a ragged boot planted to dart away from the makeshift polehammer but sunk into the sand, dropping the man to the ground. Surprised, Mordrag swung down with the tenderizing face of his hammer. Metal connected with bone and a sickening pop shot out throughout the room as Boruss's elbow exploded. Eyes wide with pain, the smaller man screamed and rolled towards the Gothi, flailing arms and legs in all directions.

Mordrag tossed his hammer to the side and dove down onto a ball of fists, elbows and feet. A big Gothi fist connected solidly with a greasy jaw which popped cleanly out of Boruss's cheek. In return, the hulking brute received a quick series of blows in the stomach. One specific knee knocked the all of the air out of Mordrag's lungs. He would have surely doubled over if he wasn't tangled up in sweaty, tattooed limbs. What the smaller man lacked in size, strength, experience and skill, he made up for with energy, and while Mordrag was no stranger to grappling on the ground, it surely wasn't one of his strong suits.

For someone like Mordrag Desertheart, the only way to beat savagery was with more savagery. Steeling himself against the multitude of blows raining in on his chest and neck region, he flexed his neck and brought his forehead down with unrelenting force. Boruss's bulbous nose burst into blood and pus upon forehead impact. Mordrag cranked his neck back and brought it down again. And again. And again fifteen more times until he became aware of a texture like banana pudding meeting his headbutts.

The huge barbarian rose up to his knees and fell back onto the seat of his pants. Though his vision was obscured by hair matted with sweat and blood, Mordrag could see what remained of Ugly Boruss. The greasy man's face could barely be distinguished as human. The Gothi coughed and wiped his face on his arm – smearing the blood more than removing it – before sauntering out of the ring, slapping Rask on his shoulder and buttock as he passed. The big bloody brute picked his way through the crowd before dropping down heavily into the chair next to Wretha Thorne.

“Now I'm almost as purtty as you, eh Sweets?”