The deck of dark oak clicked in response to the heels of many travelers looking to make their way to King's Valley. Some were moving to the sides to soak in the morning sun. Some went to meet with the sailors to ask about business. A woman was trolling a line as the frigate lazily rocked against the calm waters. Though some were set beneath the deck, listening in to the sounds above from beneath a thick grate. A few of them were one, that of the tenuously trusted hybrid: Baird, Mors, and Blithe.

    Blithe was doing his typical duty, sprawling and watching every threshold from which they couldn't see beyond. Mors peered through the grate above them, inviting the sun onto his bare neck. Baird got lost in his thoughts once more, his blearing wounds becoming true blindness as his eyes relaxed.

    The clear sound of papers being shuffled and grumbles of frustration spilled down the grate and into the hybrid's ears. They listened to a struggling student make his pleas to the gods with hope of some miracle: to make sense of the ways magic interacts with monsters.

    The stranger above lamented, "Ziev, please! How can these creatures be? It doesn't make any sense. How does flesh meet the realm of magic? How can the complexity of biology be stitched by the chaos of mysticism?"
    
    Baird laughed to himself at the questions. He knew an answer to each question, but he also knew that academics wouldn't be able to use it. Mors looked back to Blithe and wondered how they came to be like this, sharing a shoulder with a boar and an eel for a tail. At least he had his wings. Baird lifted a hand up to tap at the grate, mildly hoping to get the struggling man to see something that could inspire him. 

    But he did say one more thing, ".. Professor? You're on here too?"

---

Let's Get Down to Business

The trip so far had been quite busy for the wizard sailor. In exchange for passage he helped the crew in their duties and sped along activities that were normally more time consuming. His concentration was on a thick rope that was incorrectly knotted high above one of the masts, preventing one of the lower sails from unfurling completely. He focused on the various lines that intertwined in the knot, pulling on them alternatively one-by-one in an attempt to loosen it. He could lift, pull, push and spin objects from a distance with his mind, but he didn’t quite have the mental equivalent of a dexterous pair of hands and the knot was stubborn. He furrowed his brow as he struggled with it. He might have to lift someone into the air to untie it after all, or at the least speed along their efforts by stabilizing them so they didn’t have to tie themselves around a mast after climbing up.

The question from the student pierced his thoughts and he paused what he was doing to answer. At the sound of the word professor, his ears perked up. Is there another professor aboard? His attention had been divided and he didn’t know where the words originated from. He walked towards the grate and stopped just before it, his thick soled boots thudding on the hollow wooden deck.

---

Telekinesis

    From the crowd, it was indeed difficult to spot just one young man calling out to the much more visible blue of Dalanor. He appeared from between two deckhands with what looked like a haphazard ream of sketches in hand. "Sir! I'm Mev, I minor in Psychometry and have gone to several of your lectures on Spatial magic. Love your work! You do fantastic compared to Gideon and his rambles on the 'radicals of the untamed'." Mev took a brief pause before his brow rose with realization, "I know it is sudden, but could I chat with you for a time? Seeing as we are both along for this ride for a good while." 

    Two smart folk from the Academy? What are the odds on a boat to King's Valley. It wasn't any business of the beastman's, but each head had their own version of curiosity. Blithe would wonder at the capabilities of these supposed mages, whether they could threaten the chimera. Mors would wonder at what a lecture on the Space Domain could look like. Baird was hopeful to meet these two intellectuals, perhaps something interesting to learn or be a part of was forming just over their collective shoulders.

    Baird peered up to see the two above, as well as a handful around. He waited for them to handle introductions, hating that he'd have to interrupt to seize the opportunity. Once there would be a break in the conversation, a large hand would reach the underside of the bars once more. With a knock, the metal of the grate sang its discordant clang. The gigantic face of this twelve-foot tall boar-man would lock eyes as the student turned to see what the disturbance was about. Mev's face swelled with surprise, and doubly so once Baird spoke.

    "Care to see a practical demonstration? Not dangerous or anything, I want to help!" the creature said in a rumbling voice.

"Hello there Mev, well met and thank you." Dalanor stroked the sides of his bearded chin in contemplation as he considered the student's proposal. He was curious what business a student of Psychometry had out here, especially this time of year as the fall semester was well underway, but he decided not to pry.

Mev's question seemed innocuous enough, and Dalanor didn't want to disappoint those wide eyes, eager for an answer. Yet he thought about the question longer than he preferred before responding. He wasn't intently listening to the student earlier, but now that he had a face to put to the voice, he began to think it over.

Biology and magic... Fundamentally alchemical, but even in that I am no expert.

Dalanor would never outright turn down someone seeking knowledge that he could help provide, but in this instance he did not have many answers to offer on the topic, if any.

The knock on the grate set his thoughts straight, and he looked down at the chimerical form below. Dalanor smiled at Mev's startled face as Mev took in the sight of Baird & Mors (and Blithe). Dalanor quickly followed up to Baird's offer to assist on the subject.

"Mev, I think the answers to your questions, are right under your nose."

    "'Answers' is a strong word. Wouldn't you know it, though, that the power granted by the gods played a big part in changing me." Making sure there weren't any people going to be troubled by it, Baird fitted his fingers through the grate and lifted the hefty metal piece like a manhole. Sliding it over, he was able to stand up fully. Mors and Baird looked down at the academics by a couple heads, with just enough clearance to accommodate their upper pair of arms to rest across the edges of the opening. The fingerprint-like concentric scars lining the bare skin of their limbs became apparent in the light, along with the lizard scales splotched about the surface. Blithe continued even more fervently watching the lower deck to ensure of no danger, of which his paranoia would very likely be unnecessary on this simple expedition.

    The vulture clarified, "Yeah, don't get your hopes up too high. On the practical side of things, we know very little of magic." The dance of arcane energy used to do the heavy lifting of sewing nerves, knitting skin, layering muscle, latticing bone. Concepts of such are well beyond the boar-oaf and the limited-life bird. Though fortunately the relevant issue for Mev would be properly explained.

    "Hey, I'm not totally lost. I've reached my Associates in Domain Studies." the student would assure. He turned to address Dalanor, "I'm majoring into Maker's Markings & Grafts, the alchemy of permanent flesh manipulation. Specialized, yes, but it really does include strong influence from the still-pioneering studies of reality's fundamentals, especially space." Mev was certainly a spirited and ambitious youth. Already all this jargon and explanation had brought a scratch to Mors' neck and a puzzled look out of Baird. The lost expressions of the hybrid brought Mev down a bit, but he'd at least finally make a coherent point, "Right. How about we start with you, Mr...?" 
    
    "Sickleclaw, Baird." he'd fill in.
    
    "Mors." he chimed.

    "Mr. Sickleclaw (Mev, pleasure to meet you), tell me what brought you to be so... changed." Mev would conclude before waiting expectantly for an answer.

    After tapping at a tusk in perplexity at the question for a moment, "Guessin' you want to hear more about the ritual. Well, for these scars all over my arms and legs-" Baird would go on to articulate how the Sculptors of his village used obsidian knives, a few large gators, and hours of melding and condensing to create such an incredible physique.^[1] He'd also fail to cover up his insecurity at being given so much strength, saying that he still exercises regularly to build upon it.

    "-and that's how it happened, as far as I was conscious for." 
    
    "Hmm. Fascinating! Professor, I must admit that maybe I chose the wrong study, because very little of that made sense to me. What is your educated opinion on how magic could even do that?" The brilliant student suddenly showed a side of helplessness at following along. Baird and Mors as well gazed with curiosity to hear Dalanor's perspective on the means by which the cosmos allows such change.

---

^[1] Bull's Strength

Dalanor rubbed his bearded chin. The gears of thought lurched forward in his mind, searching across the expanse of material that he consumed in his lifetime on Charon, and perhaps drawing a bit of inspiration from a life before that. He thought long about the question, and then about the response, before finally delivering an answer. Though calling it an answer was not exactly the right word to describe his theoretical supposition, which was more creativity than fact.

"Well Mev, to be completely honest with you, I could not tell you precisely. I can only speculate. Civilization has long used different forms of body art and modification in correlation with various rituals and cultures. Many of those do not result in an extraordinary outcome, in the preternatural sense."

Dalanor began to pace slowly across a short distance as he continued, his hands motioning abstractly in the air as he explained.

"I think the power is imbued through the symbol itself, though attempting to replicate it without the proper process and conditions may not get the same result. Even then, it is hard to say if the outcome is easily repeatable. That makes it paradoxical to exist in reality, as it does not pass the prerequisite of repeatability - a fundamental for any alchemical experiment. If attempts to reproduce are improbable using the same process and components and circumstances, that suggests a sixth unknown element that I cannot quantify or qualify. For now, I will concede to simply call that divinity, for lack of a better word. That is, the presence of someone, something or some condition, outside of this realm, immeasurably influencing the outcome..."

Dalanor stopped pacing and turned to face Mev.

"So to sum it up, I believe there are six key components to these magical markings and grafts:"

He held up the equivalent number of fingers with his hands as he counted them off.

"One - arcane energy - these are the foundations of many spells; the symbols and runes themselves.
Two - spacial and chronological - the environment, timing or circumstance when it is applied.
Three - ritual - the process by which is it applied and any ingredients.
Four - skill - of those who apply it, and their quality of execution using the aforementioned components.
Five - alchemical - the composition of those who receive it, and finally...
Six - extraplanar - influence from another realm, varying from none to fully."

Dalanor rested his hands folded at the small of his back and smiled. He smiled not at his own response, but at the thrill of the challenge which Mev faced.

"Again, this is all speculation. The only way you will truly know is to experiment, and even then, you may discover a randomness in reproducibility that only brings more questions. This is a noble pursuit you have chosen for an academic career Mev! You wade into the uncharted waters of an inexplicable frontier!"

    Mev's eyes grew wider and wider until they were dinner plates on his face. The enthralling inductive reasoning piecing the the path in both directions formed sparks in the student's spirit. The anxiety and uncertainty were assuaged on each syllable of the professor's intellectual bridge between the fabric of reality and its interaction with the beyond. Even in speculation, the perspective of someone looking above the box elucidated the lad.

    And that makes two with Baird and three with Mors; their expressions of oblivious ignorance melted at different points when given so much insight into the machinations of divine science. Even as the homeschooling of his mother and father didn't glean much for the matter of magic, Baird nodded along with a certain level of genuine understanding.

    Mev's dropped jaw began to flap words, "Th-thank you, sir! I wish I could say I can absorb all of that so readily, but what about--?" 
    
    Baird erupted into an expansion of Dalanor's oration, as though he had just been handed all the missing pieces to a puzzle, "Yes! The rites performed are not the start of the process of change, rather the middle! The unfathomable cosmic essence of magic makes confluence of several gods who set the stage of evolution at the beginning and the end. Ginma or Selina alone do not conduct mortal hands, it is our interpretive actions of their collective aspects that allows us to request their acceptance of change! Brilliant, professor!" 

    "What he said!" Mors somewhat uncharacteristically chimed in with comical fashion.

    After so many words, Mev seemed to have the much needed epiphany. His face furrowed and pensive. He dashed over to his pile of notes and began feverishly pouring over the information. Even with so much energy, he appended the margins with eloquence. "It is beginning to make sense now. Thanks to the both of you, I may be able to make use of this expedition! I'm to meet with local practitioners to learn of their differing methods once we disembark. Now I am much more confident that I won't flounder shamefully. Excuse me as I prepare! You're a lifesaver, professor!" With a bow, Mev moved to sequester beneath the deck, likely in search of a better working area.

Dalanor smiled and nodded at the compliments, happy that his words could be of help. He was about to step away when suddenly a loud voice struck across the deck of the ship towards his direction.

"You! YOU THERE! In the blue!"

A barefoot sailor with rolled-up white pants and a blue and white striped shirt stomped over. His eyebrows were completely shaved off and smooth, a fact he was not happy about.

"My mates said they saw you do it! I know you did it! Empty yer pockets!"

Dalanor looked at the man puzzled as he stomped up to him. The commotion drew the attention of the crew, some of whom were laughing guiltily.

"By Ziev man, what are you yelling about?"

"Don't kid me! Me eyebrows! T'was you! The blue haired man they said! Only one of them on this ship and that's you!" The man poked Dalanor in the chest and got closer.

Dalanor took a step back.

"There must be some misunderstanding here, look..." Dalanor reached into his pockets and sure enough, there was a razor that he did not put there. His eyes went wide.

"Sir, your mates are playing a prank on you." Dalanor pulled the razor out of his pocket and a few sailors watching gasped while others chuckled and some shook their heads. The angry sailor's face reddened. "Someone put this in my pocket, clearly when I was sleeping, if we think about the order of events sensibly, I'm sure we'll find-"

Before Dalanor could finish his sentence the sailor threw a quick punch that caught Dalanor in the cheek and sent him backwards. He winced and rubbed his eye.

How in Ziev's name do I keep finding myself in these situations...

The sailor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as the first mate came running over and put himself between the two men.

"Oy! What came over you! Why you punchin our mage? He's pretty damn useful around here!"

"That mage shaved me eyebrows with my own razor and stole it!"

The first man looked at the sailors eyebrows and then over at Dalanor who was holding the razor in his hand. Dalanor sighed.

"I did not shave the man's eyebrows and will gladly hand him his razor. Clearly this is a prank, for what or why I'm not sure but there is no evidence I did what is being accused."

The first man rubbed his chin and looked at the razor and then between the men. A small ring of sailors had begun to form up. "Well the cap'n is sleepin so that means I'm in charge and only one way to settle this..." The first mate leaned in to Dalanor and whispered in his ear. "Sorry mate, when they get rowdy like this sometimes have to go with the flow, just roll with the punches aye?"

Dalanor's jaw dropped. Is this really happening?

The first mate addressed them both loud enough for the others around to hear. "Well, rules is we take the fight below deck, and the one being challenged chooses the weapon. That would be you blue beard. Blades or fists?"

The color left Dalanor's face. If he refused to play along he could walk the plank. Behind the red-faced sailor stood another sailor in similar attire rubbing his shoulders. "You got this fool, teach him he shoulda never stepped foot on this boat."

"Blades?! I can't use a blade!"

"Fists it is then!" The first mate cried and a few of the sailors cheered. Some continued about their duties above deck shaking their heads in disapproval while the antagonizers and a few other onlookers headed below.

Dalanor was hesitant to follow. His eyes flashed to Baird and Mors. The two of them - or four of them, depending how you look at it - had only just met. He wasn't sure why he looked over, but his mind was racing as he tried to figure out what would happen next.

    Baird and Mors looked on at the whole encounter with brows raised and eyes narrowed. However this all happened, it looks like Dalanor is stuck between no-dock or a scarred face. He didn't seem unfit, but guessing by the desperation in his eyes when looking their way, it can be assumed he isn't much of a brawler. Fine enough! Baird has to teach a child soon, he can show a grown man a few tricks!

    The chimera nimbly lifted their whole body out from the lower hold. The intense shift of weight bobbed the vessel a tad. With a thud of their hooves onto the deck, the eel-tail that is Blithe wriggled around in search of any possible threats at the sudden relocation. Seeing Dalanor, he flicked his pectoral fins before returning to guard duty.

    Baird spoke with a quiet gusto, "So you got yourself a fight, huh? Oh yeah, this is Blithe. Let me help you! Consider it pay back for that insightful speech ya gave." As he said this, the boar would crouch into a fighting stance and throw a few swings to demonstrate his prowess.^[1] 

    Mors explained the idea further, "That sailor fellow didn't seem so.. cerebral with his approach to fighting. Watch this, you come in for a swing and we'll show ya what to do! Ah, one moment first." 

    Kneeling down and dipping their heads below deck, the hybrid would bellow out, "Blue will be down in a minute, be patient." The sailors grumbled audibly. Naturally, none would speak out and risk being set up to duel the monstrosity instead.
    
    In a short while, Baird would attempt passing on a few one-off counters to Dalanor. They would go over the motions and adjust his stance a couple times with each one. Though these techniques wouldn't deter someone with talent, a sailor who probably only got into drunken fistfights at port won't see them coming. An elbow strike if he went for a straight, a reverse if he went with a haymaker, and a kick if he went in for a clinch. Baird was optimistic that this would work for the time being. 

    Mors, maybe less assured, would offer a little extra, "Blithe will be watching from a porthole window. You give the signal and we'll give you a boost." The boost in question would be a patch of ice^[2] forming under the brow-less brute. The wet floor made for excellent catalyst. Hopefully no one would notice the eel spreading the spell from behind the crowd, should it come to that.

---

^[1] Unarmed Skill [Exalted]
^[2] Ice Over

Dalanor's face lit up. Normally the prospect of fighting lessons is not something he would pursue with vigor, but the conditions he found himself in today made for a very effective motivator.

He nodded and listened intently to Baird & Mors instructions, mirroring the motions in the air. His lack of grace while shadowboxing made it clear that unarmed combat was far from his forte, but he put in a solid effort.

After the impromptu training session concluded, Dalanor made his way below deck. He glanced back once, wondering if Baird & Mors (and Blithe) were inclined to watch more closely by squeezing through to the passage below or down through the open grate to the fighting area.

In the area directly below, a circle of sailors formed, most hanging back against the outer walls of the ship or leaning along support columns which braced the beams holding up the upper deck. 

The browless sailor stood in one corner, his blue and white striped shirt removed, revealing a hairy well muscled chest and torso covered in scars from blades. A few unruly looking comrades stood close by him. It was the first time Dalanor noticed they all had the same tattoo of a chili pepper on their forearms. One of them rubbed the shoulders of the browless sailor, whispering in his ear. The browless sailor shadowboxed the air with the strength, speed and agility of one who was used to many consecutive days of climbing, pulling and tugging heavy rope lines. His feet moved with the balance and precision granted by veteran sea legs.

Dalanor walked to the opposite side, taking off his long hooded coat and hanging it over a beam. He pulled off his own shirt, not for intimidation, but because he didn't want it to get torn or bloodied. He was well toned, with visible abdominals and tight pectorals, but his strength was likely miniscule by comparison; his muscles were half the size of the browless sailor. Dalanor owed his physique to a lean diet and long endurance runs, but these primarily fortified his constitution more than anything else. He could have used his light weight and agility to his advantage but he lacked the skill. His legs and back were strong relatively overall, but the question would be if he could made proper use of them.

"No boots either!" One of the onlookers shouted. Dalanor pouted and pulled off his leather boots and wool socks, stuffing the socks inside, then set them under his coat and shirt.

He stepped opposite of the browless sailor who was chalking his hands and fists. The first mate stepped into the center of the circle to describe the rules of the fight. 

"Alright, here's the rules. No headbutts, gouging, biting, scratching or hits to the back of the head. No hitting a knocked down fighter. If you're downed, you have 30 seconds to get up to your feet or you're declared defeated. If you get back up, that ends a round, and you're allowed a short break to patch up, take a drink or wipe the blood and sweat from yourself. At the start of a round you step up to the scratch, that's the chalked line right here where I'm standing. The fighting area is these four posts and if you go outside of that you forfeit. Everything clear?"

The browless sailor nodded and walked towards the line, muscles flexing, hands covered in solid white chalk. His face was determined. His overall unarmed brawling skill as a sailor was likely not significant, but this was the type of man who looked for any excuse to fight, and he was clearly pumped. Long voyages at sea had a different effect on everyone, and on him there was clearly pent up animosity.

Dalanor also nodded in understanding of the rules. A small piece of chalk rolled to his feet. He picked it up and repeated what he saw the browless sailor do, and chalked his hands and knuckles. Dalanor walked up to the line. The murmurs among the circle of onlookers on both sides was mixed, but odds were not in his favor. His heart raced in his chest, but he tried to keep a focused and fixed expression and hid the concern from his face.

The first mate held up a hand then stepped back from the fighters to the outer edge of the invisible box between the posts which formed the fighting ring. He chopped through the air and called out.

"Fight!"

    The excitement was vibrant through the audience, ready to watch this bookish know-it-all get a clobberin'. Was it mean? Was it fair? Who cares! Once out at sea, it was those who know sailing who made the law around here. Unless you think you can ask for a handout from the deep ocean water, that is. Blithe curled from over the starboard of the ship, squirming through a lidded port as to seem like an innocuous onlooker. Baird and Mors were able to stretch out on their shared belly to watch the fight from above. The men on the upper deck awkwardly and confusedly stepped over the barrel-width body of the eel as it anchored over the edge.

    "Go get 'im, Hurk!" yelled the gleeful cornerman. The punitive pugilist now named Hurk circled about the chalk-laden arena like a honey badger. With the grace of a self-taught and seldom-practiced madman, the sailor wound up a fist like readying to pitch a fastball. Cheers quickly rose as many recognized the stance as one he often took. Likely most fighters of the type to have jaws a bit translucent went down in spectacular fashion from the blow that followed. Starting off strong!

    Baird could see the strike from a mile away, and knew Dalanor might not know what's coming next. Just as the steaming sailor couched his fist, the boar would make a callout, "Uppercut! Lean back--right hook!" Hopefully the sharp wit would make a difference in this moment of high emotions and equally high tension. Just at the 'hook' in his cry did Hurk shoot the called shot like a cannon!

Dalanor was light on his feet, but Hurk was fully energized and his better footwork quickly brought him in close.

Hurk swooped in to make the uppercut. Baird's guidance reached Dalanor's ears at just the right moment, granting him the proficiency to anticipate the attack that otherwise would have likely sent him reeling.

As the uppercut sailed through the air, Dalanor heeded Baird's words, leaning back just in time to narrowly avoid the fist and return with a quick right hook. The hook caught the browless sailor off guard and Dalanor's bare knuckles connected to the side of Hurk's mouth with a pop that sent his jaw to the side.

Dalanor shook his striking hand out for a few seconds, unused to the feeling of landing a bare handed punch. Hurk stumbled backwards from the unexpected blow, crouching and raising his arms instinctively in reaction to the hit. He worked his jaw back and forth for a few seconds and smiled with blood lined teeth.

Dalanor, unsure of what to do next, established a telepathic link directly with Baird & Mors [1]. It was the first time he ever attempted to communicate with a collective consciousness. He hoped for the best.

(("Baird, Mors... and Blithe if you can hear me too... this is Dalanor. Thank you for assisting me. If we communicate this way they won't be able to hear your strategies. I will only hear the thoughts that you project to me. Do you think with your guidance we can take this guy down?"))

---

[1] Message

    The crowd let out a smattering of 'ooo'-s and 'awe'-s at the retaliation. Despite the sounds of typically disappointment, the energy of the sailors grew even more excited at the evidence of a real fight! Hurk's own look of revelry showed no loss of confidence in his chances, however.

    Without moving his mouth, Dalanor's voice was heard in Mors' thoughts. The meaning of his message would pass to Baird and Blithe with a small delay. The sensation was not terribly foreign to the vulture. There was a time when he was something that peered into minds, but it was always to tear people down rather than communicate. This productive and novel aspect of telepathy gave him a glee to experience.

    [Ha! This is incredible! Trust your instincts, don't hesitate, and this will work out! Probably! Alright, I'll try to gush later. Baird says Hurk is going to rush you down, go low and sweep the leg! Keep up the pressure!] 

    With hands gyrating in the air in a bid to confuse, Hurk darted forward. He'd release a series of jabs towards Dalanor's face and chest, this tactic overwhelms lackluster defenses and softens up the target for bigger follow-ups. The weakness that Baird would try to exploit is over-commitment and little adaptability. A strike to the legs may trip up the assailant's forward momentum or force them to switch to defense unexpectedly. The monstrous spectator hoped that his new friend could figure out a follow-up, it was simply not viable to describe what to do once they in the thick of trading blows. Fortunately they have the three counters if the sailor throws out a surprise from within that limited scope.

Dalanor smiled at hearing Mor's advice.

[Ha! Fantastic! Sweep the leg, got it!]

Hurk's jabs flew towards Dalanor's face but he quickly ducked and attempted to deliver how he imagined sweeping the leg would work. What happened instead was a loud smack as Dalanor's foot hit the side of Hurk's thigh and glutes.

The strategy was solid, but the lackluster delivery backfired. Hurk's face turned red and he grabbed Dalanor's leg with one arm and pulled him towards him as he leaned in with a sharp fist that connected square with Dalanor's face. He lost balance and flopped flat onto his back. The back of his head hit the deck and sent his vision spinning. He tasted the strange metallic taste of blood as it trickled from his nose to his lips.

Hurk was parading around the arena with his fists in the air, his mates jeering from the corner. A blurry form was hovering over Dalanor's face.

Ughh, what just happened.

"7!... 8..." The blurry figure looked like a replicant divided four times. Four fuzzy hands raised and lowered as the ghosted images of a man counted. "11... 12..." Dalanor blinked rapidly, his vision began to meld together, finally forming the picture of one hand, one man... "14... 15..." It was the first mate.

The first mate! A countdown! Or... count up?! Either way not good!

Dalanor propped himself up on his elbows and scrambled to his feet, stumbling backwards into a post and leaning against it.

"That's round 1!"

The first mate called out, then walked over and put a hand to widen Dalanor's eyes and examine each pupil. Someone from the crowd nudged his arm - a flask - Dalanor waved it away. His head was ringing but his vision stopped spinning. He ran his hand across his nose, streaking blood across his forearm and grimaced.

[Guys... I don't know how many rounds I can go with him. I'm not sure I can take another hit like that.]