Penn

Penn
Penn felt his heartbeat rumble between his ears as the room erupted with the slurred shrieks, cheers, and curses of a drunken crowd. During the chaos after a fight, his mind would often wander. He watched the spectators.

He recognized the guard who patrols Beggar’s Row. He’d been bought for a small fee by the fight's organizers. He was a broad, dull-eyed man with a head shaped like a potato. His hair was nearly gone, and his left ear had never fully healed. A beggar, Francis, had taken a bite of it. Penn let out a slight chuckle as he recalled the incident.

He continued his scan of the room and noticed Cecilia, a slim barmaid from upstairs. She had her arms stretched above her, squeezing through the horde of patrons. The outstretched pit of her elbows pushed her wild black hair in front of her mouth. She had to constantly spit it away. Carrying four steins of beer in her left hand and using her right to shove against the sweat covered faces of the crowd, she made her way through the room.

“Penn!,” he heard his name, but ignored it.

He stretched his neck for a better view of Cecilia. When she passed behind a taller man, he set his hands on the shoulders of a portly middle-aged man in front of him and pushed off with his toes slightly, stiffening his arms for balance and support.

“Penn!!,” he heard again, in a slightly more disgruntled voice.

He continued observing intently.

Cecilia placed the mugs on a splintered wooden table and disappeared back into the crowd.

A portly man’s voice rang from below, “Penn!,” spitting as he shouted.

Penn let go of the man's shoulders and took a small step back. The man had a beaked nose and fat chin. He wore a tailored blood red tunic atop a buttoned white shirt with a frill collar. His arms were crossed.

Wiping the spit from his chin, Penn smiled. He had a wide, narrow smirk, and dark, overconfident eyes.

"Rorick! There you are!," he said with an obviously fake tone of surprise.

"I was scanning the room all over for you!"

Rorick quickly moved his hand to the back of Penn's neck and squeezed. A dull pain crept across Penn's neck where the portly man's fat fingers gripped.

"Listen piss-stain, don't screw with me," he said through clenched teeth.

He moved closer to Penn's face. "You will win one. That’s it. You will not win your second fight. I've even made it easy for you. Understand me?"

His clenched teeth actually did make it difficult to understand him, Penn thought. With his neck still gripped by Rorick, he thought about the first time he'd met the man. 5 years ago.

Xolmeth Juggling
In the crisp morning air of Xolmeth, Penn yawned. He had performed the act hundreds of times on days just like this one.

As the morning dribble shuffled through the streets, his cohort began. His throat was hoarse from his trade.

"Bare witness to the amazing spectacle! Performed before your very eyes!"

Every morning, Penn would chuckle at how ridiculous he sounded. But still, every morning, his announcer would advertise, and he would wait for his signal. Penn squinted, and cocked his head, turning an ear in his partner's direction, as if it would help hear him better.

"Was that it? No... He would have-"

Before he could finish his thought, he saw his partner throw a grand gesture toward him.

"Time to begin," he said aloud to himself.

He threw open his coat and pulled four short swords from their sheaths, one by one, until he had two in one hand and, two in the other. The swords scraped against the leather as they drew, making a low, sharp, metallic noise.

He threw one into the air, then another, and another. He juggled the four whirling blades with ease, catching each by its hilt and releasing into the space above him. The few onlookers around his colleague clapped for a moment, and murmured among themselves. Some were even impressed and threw a silver or two into the old tankard sitting in front of Penn before continuing on with their lives.

The act continued, and the slow crisp morning turned to a lively bustling midday. More passerby saw Penn perform, but few would toss in a silver. Penn saw one toss in a button, and he began to wonder if he could use it for anything.

As the sun was setting, Penn's partner pointed in his direction while shooting him a cursory glance. He spoke to someone. Penn couldn't see the man, so he attempted to get a better view whilst maintaining his act.

He slid a foot across the wooden box. Then the other. His eyes couldn’t decide whether to watch his partner, or to try not to die. They chose the latter, and decided to watch the whirling blades above his head. His tongue poked through the right side of his lips as he split he concentrated on shuffling his feet across the creaking wooden platform and juggling.

Then, his box began to tilt.

Penn tried to keep balance, which, at the time, standing on one foot made the most sense. Penn continued to juggle - with one leg flailing in the air for balance, and the other on the edge of a teetering wooden box.

"The o'erachiever his self! Pennie." He hated the nickname his partner gave him.

His partner made a small gesture toward Penn. His current predicament prevented him from noticing. A thin man with a beaked nose stood in front of him. In a nasally voice he introduced himself, "Name’s Rorick. Impressive juggling, but you won’t need it.”

Penn hopped off the pedestal and caught each sword, one after the other. He slid them into their sheaths and glanced at his partner, who was fingering through a heavy leather pouch in his hand.

Penn already knew what happened. His salivating partner had the same dumb look on his face as every other 'partner' he'd had. Penn knew.

"I'm your new business partner, your colleague tells me you picked up juggling in just a few days."

Rorick forcefully slapped Penn on the back as he spoke and walked him away from his pedestal.

Penn’s Dive
Rorick loosed his grip on Penn's neck and began the charade.

"Ladies, gentleman, and all other commonfolk!" The crowd laughed. Penn did not.

Penn made his way to the hallway nearby to prepare for his fight. He removed his shirt and walked to a narrow wooden gate. Looking over his shoulder, he pretended to play with the dirt on the ground.

Penn had been fighting for years. Rorick had him trained for 9 months, and since then, he had a match every day for the following 4 years. At this point, spectators rarely bet against him.

He thought it odd at first - this was the first time that Rorick had asked him to throw a fight. Why? He decided that Rorick wasn’t making as much anymore. Penn hadn’t lost a fight in a while and so only the truly drunk would bet against him. He didn’t like the idea of throwing a fight, but tried to put the idea out of his mind for the moment.

He shut his eyes, focused on breathing, and enjoyed the peace he had before his fights.

Penn's first fight was against a small man who hadn't yet become accustomed to the dull pain fists feel when they strike. Rorick was right, and Penn beat him easily. The crowd cheered and Rorick announced that Penn was the winner.

The second fight was against a local fisherman. Penn stood across from the man; a mountain of meat with the forearms the size of Penn's torso. The man stumbled in place, drunken, with his fists raised high, grazing his temples.

Penn was much smaller in frame, and weight, but, Penn grinned.

The onlookers quieted as the smile crept across his face. His grin was different from his normal goofy smile. It was Wider. Toothier. Those with silver waged on the fisherman began to sweat and murmur amongst themselves.

The drunkard across Penn lowered his fists slightly, then stepped cautiously forward.

Penn raised his hands and began to mime juggle. He whistled the tune, as best he remembered, from when he performed in Xolmeth square over 5 years ago.

Rorick's words rang between Penn's ears. He thought about throwing the fight while he “juggled.”

The crowd was silent. The footsteps of the huge man scraping against the dirt floor of the arena, and Penn's whistling, were the only sounds echoing against the cellar walls.

As the fisherman inched into the reach of Penn, he shot a glance up to his own manager. He was standing above the arena leaning on railing next to Rorick. His manager shrugged and motioned with his head to Penn.

The fisherman turned his head back. His eyes stung.

A cloud of dirt Penn had stashed in his pocket was airborne, disappearing into the man's eyes and open mouth.

Through the cloud, the man saw Penn was no longer juggling, no longer smiling or whistling - his hands were cupped and swiftly making their way to the side of the fisherman's head.

The bottoms of Penn's palms slammed against the fisherman's ears.

Instinctively, the fisherman's eyes clenched shut. He flailed his fists in front of him, striking the air.

Then, his stomach churned. He felt his lungs empty of air and his lunch heading up for a second appearance. The fisherman hadn’t yet realized what happened.

The men in the crowd winced in unison; the first noise made by something outside of the arena. The fisherman’s nerves caught up with his lunch. A sharp pain appeared in his groin.

The man's feet were lifted slightly off the ground from the force of the blow delivered between his legs. Penn removed his fist from the man's groin and straightened himself from a crouched position. He towered over the fisherman, who was now involuntarily hunched, and clenching his traumatized genitals. Penn lifted his left arm and thrusted his elbow into the back of the man's neck.

Only five seconds had passed since Penn began his attack. The fisherman's head bounced against the dirt floor for a moment before coming to a rest.

Nobody cheered. Or clapped. Rorick didn’t announce the winner.

Penn walked out of the arena, and exited the cellar. A smirk returned to his face as the crowd parted.