Faolan stomped down the hallways toward the sour smell of the thieves. Their trail would've been hard to follow for any ordinary man, but they didn't have Faolan's nose. He was still limping a little, but it was clear that some of the strength sapped by the silver had returned. They made their way to a lower deck and directly to the doorway of the men's cabin. He didn't think twice before battering it down with his boot. 

Faolan stood in the doorway, blocking the inhabitants sight of the hall. His eyes swept the room, seven of them, all caught by surprise. Their cabin smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and stale urine. His nostrils twitched with disgust. He heard them calling out, but barely registered what they were saying. He was about to step forward when Lucien brushed beside him and Faolan glanced down, slightly surprised by his sudden boldness. This item must mean a lot to him, if he was willing to face seven men for its retrieval, especially if he had been planning to come alone.

[b]"See!"[/b] One of them shouted in a thick Liverpudlian accent, [b]"I told you the biggun wouldn't flinch at that tiny letter-opener!"[/b]

[b]"No, I got 'im, see!"[/b] The one who had stabbed Faolan chimed in, [b]"There's blood all over the brute!"[/b]

A deep growl issues from Faolan's throat and his eyes flashed with fury as the fell on the man who spoke last. He flinched away, almost as if struck, and took a step back.

The man who had the relic stood, his face purple and both of his blackened eyes nearly swollen shut. [b]"Why don't you come over here and take it from me, poufter!"[/b] And spit on the ground again.

Another one spoke up as they all stood, filling the room, [b]"Yeah! You can't take us all, not with a wound like that."[/b]

Faolan felt Lucien moved forward to engage, teeth bared and fists clenched, but the man knew that the French lad had no idea how to fight. He hadn't developed enough in his movements to have sure footing or quick enough reflexes. Faolan reached out to stop him, gripping him by the shoulder and stepping forward in his stead. 

[color=a36209]"You asked for it."[/color] He said, and lunged into the group of men standing before him. 

Suddenly everything was chaos. There was yelling, growling, grunting, the sounds of pain and fury. Faolan's bulging arms and open hands, poised like claws, slashes through the air with lightning speed. He knocked the first two onto their backs as he entered the frey, but more came to take their place. One man ran from the corner, holding a steel pipe, and hit Faolan as hard as he could across the back with it. The Irishman didn't even flinch. His arm shot out, faster than the eye could follow, grabbed the pipe, and instead of turning the man's weapon against him, Faolan tossed it behind him and it clanged loudly to the floor. Another man lurched forward and punched Faolan in the side, right where he had been stabbed, but he only paused for a moment in pain before backhanding him so hard that he left the ground before crashing into the bunk against the wall.

Blood pounded in Faolan's ears and eyes, and all he saw was flying limbs and red. Adrenaline pumped through him, fueling his swings until he had forgotten why he even came here. He relished in the battle of skin against skin, no dirty tricks to trip him up. They were men, and he was a beast, and he would show them where they stood.