(League Fiction) Another Slow Serylday

Three men carrying a keg, a door, and a lamppost walk into a bar.

Believe it or not, that was not the first line of a joke.

Sven glanced up from his place behind the bar, carefully placing the flagon he had been cleaning down and slinging the bar rag he had been using over his shoulder. He half-laughed to himself as he watched the trio enter.

“You boys know you can't bring those in here.” He pointed to the sign hung to the left of the door, which held the closest thing the Svenson family had to a creed: the sign read, “No Weapons, No Magicks, No Blood Feuds” in beautifully carved Avarosan runes, while scratched underneath in a spidery script was a very recent addendum, “No personal kegs, No unbreakable doors, NO LAMPPOSTS!”

The sign was one of the few things that survived the last time.

The group grumbled but didn't protest as they unencumbered themselves, leaving their accouterments just outside the door.

They apparently also remembered the last time.

The bar had been in Sven's family since time immemorial, since the time of the Iceborn, before the peoples of the Freljord had fractured themselves into clans and tribes. It was said that after the Iceborn had succeeded in casting the Watchers down into the Howling Abyss they had celebrated their victory under this very roof... of course, Sven knew it was a lie.

He had replaced the roof seven Thaws ago.

Still, there was a timelessness to The Bar... didn't have a name, didn't need one. It was The Bar at The Crossroads, situated within a stone's throw of the the Rakelstake gates, where the Rising-and-Setting Road met the Pole-and-Cross Road. There had always been a Sven behind the bar, the Eldest Son of the Eldest Son, each one the same as his father.

Or at least that's what they said.

“Sven!” Gragas bellowed, always the voice of the group. Jax and Braum filed in behind him, flanking once the three reached the bar. Gragas bellied up, and then lifted said belly to rest on top of said bar, just to get himself that much closer. Jax took to Gragas's left, leaning forward lightly, tensed and yet relaxed at the same time, while Braum took to Gragas's right, flexing and stretching, as if he was preparing for something.

Sven hoped against hope that Braum's preparations would be in vain.

The usuals were poured before they could even ask: Graggy Ice for Gragas and Jax, goat's milk for Braum. As Sven served the three heroes he managed to catch all their eyes at the same time... excepting Jax of course, as Sven was unsure exactly how many eyes he actually had.

“You boys are going to behave yourselves tonight, right?” He asked as he laid their drinks in front of them.

“Don't we always?” replied Gragas, a far from reassuring twinkle in his eyes.

Gragas had as many words for “drunk” as the Frostguard had for “snow”, and during one particular week-long bender he had regaled Sven with the subtle nuances in definition each possessed, though what the barkeep mostly remembered was the exhaustive taxonomy Gragas had laid out, categorizing each state of inebriation by what he was drinking, how much he already consumed, and for how many days he had been doing so.

He decided Gragas was probably somewhere between “Hold my beer” and “Watch this”.

Sven was already pouring a second and third before the Rabble-Rouser had set the first down, seemingly emptier than before Sven had filled it.

“You'd best inspect your cups my friend, this one had a hole in it!”, Gragas said... the Big Man never seemed to tire of that joke.

In contrast, Sven had tired of it quite some time ago.

A moment to reflect now that Gragas had a gallon of beer to work on, Sven tried to decide who it was going to be this time... inevitably, when Gragas and company rolled in, someone would consume enough liquid courage to challenge the champions to a contest of strength, and, for their part, the crew was always more than willing to oblige.

It was a cosmopolitan group at The Bar that evening... the recent hostilities that had flared up between the three great tribes, the Avarosan, Winter's Claw, and Frostguard, had cooled to a cold war, no pun intended, and the most recent Great Moot had re-established the Right of Free Travel across the whole of the Freljord. All three tribes and a couple of their allied clans were represented, and Sven took to the task of whittling them down.

Wouldn't be any of the Avarosan he decided... sure, they could cause trouble just as well as anyone else, better than most in fact, but they were looking at Gragas and company with awe and adoration, not a hint of challenge... they would be more likely to ask for the three for their autographs than to try and break a chair over their heads.

Sven cast his glance to the entry, where there were about a score of Winter's Claw spread across three tables... above all a Winter's Claw valued strength, and lived to test his... “blades sharpen each other” was a common saying amongst their tribe... but they also respected strength, and they feared the wrath of their leader, Sejuani... if she had saw fit to make peace with Ashe and Lissandra then they would not be the ones to break that peace, as uneasy as it was.

Next was the trio of Frostguard that sat in a shadowy corner, sipping their Ionian plum wine and whispering amongst themselves in their secret tongue, which to Sven's ears sounded like shifting ice and hissing wind. They cast murderous glances in the direction of the three champions, but Sven figured at the moment they were mostly harmless... sure, cross a Frostguard and there might be a True Ice blade looking to wake you and then quickly put you back to bed that night, but in a straight up fight the three Frostguard stood no chance against heroes the like of Gragas, Jax, and Braum, and more importantly the Frostguard knew it too.

Having eliminated the three tribes from contention, Sven turned to their allied clans... two Ursine crouched by the fireplace, seemingly content with their bowls of mead, not acknowledging anyone around them. It took a lot to surprise Sven, but he was just that when the two of them lumbered in from the cold... it had been generations since the last of their clan had crossed The Bar's threshold.

He didn't ask what brought them all the way here from the slopes of the Gelid Vortex, and they didn't offer.

Sven found himself entertaining a brief hope that all his furniture would remain intact through the night... the three tribes would mind to their pints and quarts, the Ursine would keep their own council... that only left...

“So you three consider yourselves heroes?”

Of course, thought Sven, it would be the Lokfair.

They had been his first patrons of the day, a Lokfair raiding party two-dozen strong, returning home carrying several large sacks filled with Noxian denarii. The coins must have been freshly minted, as gone was the stern profile of Boram Darkwill, the long-serving but former Grand General... in his place was an older man, bald save for a short-cropped mohawk, his lower face covered with a cloth. On the reverse was a raven holding a rose in its beak.

Sven knew better than to ask how they came across so much Noxian silver.

Still, their money spent the same as everyone else's... if Sven had had any qualms about taking dead men's money he'd have gone out of business a long time ago. He rolled them two casks, took their coin and left them to their own device... the Lokfair boasted and sang of their exploits, poured libations to the fallen, and went about the task of getting drunk.

While Sven was otherwise occupied one of the Lokfair warriors had wended his way through the crowd to stand directly behind the three champions, a little too close for comfort. Gragas turned and addressed the stranger.

“You have us at a disadvantage friend... you seem to know of us, but we do not recognize you.”

The Lokfair warrior drew himself up to his not-unimpressive full height and spread his arms wide, addressing not only Gragas but the bar as a whole, “I am Borgarr-Son-of-Bergmar, Bane of the Iron Coast, Marauder of the Southron, Bleeder of Noxus and Ionia, Leader of the Sack of Grey Harbor.”

As far as heralds went, Sven had to admit it was less than he had expected... the clans of the Lokfar lived to recount their deeds, and, to Sven at least, it seemed a Lokfair warrior couldn't get out of bed in the morning without composing an ode to his accomplishment.

It seemed likely that Borgarr-Son-of-Bergmar had ambitions for the night that were not conducive to Sven's peace-of-mind or equity.

Not getting the reaction he expected from Gragas, Borgar-son-of-Bergmar seemed to feel obligated to press the point, “People call you three heroes, champions... yet all I see are a beached whale, a baby drinking his bottle, and a... thing so ugly it has to cover itself to go out in public.” Borgar-Son-of-Bergmar accentuated his statement by turning to his companions, who howled their support in turn. Sven saw Gragas stiffen, and mentally willed that the Rabble-Rouser would remember his promise to not live up to his name... after a few uncomfortably long seconds Gragas relaxed, reaching behind himself for his untouched third beer.

“Well met, Borgarr-Son-of-Bergmar. Come, join us, and we shall share our stories and our lager.” He said, proffering the beer.

The Lokfair warrior regarded Gragas's peace-offering for a brief second before brazenly slapping it out of his hand. The Bar fell dead silent as everyone gave up even the pretense of ignoring what was happening. As the wooden pitcher clattered to the ground Borgarr gave Gragas a crooked smile, a smile that Gragas slowly returned. Sven closed his eyes, resigning himself to what was to come.

Gragas's headbutt sent Borgarr-Son-of-Bergmar flying.

There was an immediate cacophony as the entire bar exploded into action: the other Lokfair warrior were surging forward before Borgarr hit the ground, while the Avarosan saw the ruckus as a golden opportunity to avenge themselves against the Frostguard and Winter's Claw for having the audacity to drink in “their” bar... for their part, seeing they were outnumbered, the two other tribes formed a hasty alliance, pulling together and using their tables and chairs as a make-shift barricade to defend behind. Everyone armed themselves with whatever was close at hand... steins, flagons, and chairs were pressed into service as makeshift weapons. As the Lokfair vanguard approached Gragas he gave a throaty yell and body-slammed into them, scattering those northern marauders like nine-pins.

Jax and Braum seemed to not be concerned with the melee behind them, still minding to their drinks while Gragas was tussling and cracking skulls. A second wave of Lokfair had managed to reinforce the vanguard, those that were still able to fight that is, and they quickly set about trying to restrain the big man, throwing themselves upon him while Gragas laughed and set them flying like rag-dolls.

The Lokfair were trying to bring Gragas down through weight of numbers but were having difficulty due to his weight of... well... weight. As it stood Gragas was grappling with six of the them, while the rest were being delayed by a cadre of Avarosan drunks who had decided to help defend the Rabble-Rouser... unfortunately, Sven knew it would only buy Gragas a few minutes at the most... the Avarosan were out-matched by the sheer drunken bravado of the Lokfair. They would soon be overwhelmed, and then Gragas shortly after. Gragas understood this as well, and turned his head towards his compatriots to call for reinforcements.

“A little help here!”

Jax downed his Graggy Ice and straightened, looking for something, anything, to arm himself with for the coming battle.  After a moment's consideration he gingerly reached across the bar and removed the bar rag from Sven's shoulder, twisting it several times before he leapt into the fray.

Sven had once seen Jax disable a man with a toothpick.

This was slightly more impressive.

Jax flowed like water, not so much anticipating what was to come as seeming to orchestrate the entire engagement, a maestro at work.  He dodged blows and slipped grapples, while the simple bar rag came alive in his hands, seemingly moving of its own volition... anything that came within Jax's reach became his, and he was not shy in asserting his possession... Jax used his makeshift weapon to catch  and send Lokfair flying every which-a-way, quickly giving the rest of them something more pressing to focus on than Gragas.

The only two islands of calm remaining in the brawl that was fast destroying Sven's bar were around the Ursine, still minding to their mead by the roaring fire, and Braum, who was still just enjoying his goat's milk... seemed there was an understanding that it would best to not disturb either.  Sven, his duty of providing alcohol temporary suspended as his patrons sweated it out, decided it might be time to try and bring some sanity back to the situation.  He managed to catch Braum's attention as he wandered over.  

“You going to stop them anytime soon?” He asked, using his eyes to point in the vague direction of Gragas and Jax.

Braum gave a smile and motioned indulgently to the chaos behind him, “Ah, they like herd at First Thaw... need to stretch their legs.”

Sven's mind was not put at ease.

The Lokfair realized by this point that they may have  bitten off more than they could chew, and decided that a change of tactics was in order... a few of the Lokfair broke from the melee and began grabbing anything not bolted down and hurling them in the direction of Jax and Gragas, hoping to catch one of them with a lucky shot.

Sven thanked the Ancestors he had decided to bolt the tables down after the last time.

Most of the Lokfair's missles smashed harmlessly against tables or the floor, a few broke harmfully against their clansman or anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the way, but a handful found their mark.  Sven saw a plate shatter against Gragas's temple, drawing a thin rivulet of blood, followed by a chair that shattered across the Big Man's back... but instead of taking him out of the fight it just seemed to goad him on more.  Gragas lifted one of the Lokfair above his head with one beefy arm and returned fire, catching two of the snipers by surprise and laying all three low.

Another of the peltasts had made his way through the bedlam to get a clear shot at Jax, aiming carefully as only a drunk could... he let fly with a chair, straight and true, as Jax was otherwise tied up with another Lokfair who was trying in vain to clinch him in.

Jax sensed trouble with less than a second to react. 

Jax disengaged, jumping backwards to avoid the projectile, clearing two tables in the process and landing on one of the long, low benches set up by the fire to help with any chill alcohol alone could not remove.  The bench shifted underneath Jax's weight, forcing him to adjust to catch his balance.  He stepped backwards off of the bench and directly into a bowl of mead, spilling it everywhere.  

Sven sincerely doubted it was a accident.

The Ursine who until moments before was content lapping the mead out of his unspilled bowl looked up, seeming to realize what was occurring around him for the first time.  “Watch yourself cub!” the bear growled with disdain, curling his lips to flash his canines.

Jax replied with a gesture you would think impossible with only two fingers.

The Ursine roared in anger and rose up to his full height, almost brushing the joist of the open rafters.  Jax dodged a massive paw that splintered one of the timbers that held up the previously mentioned joist, and a second that turned an unfortunate table into kindling.  Jax danced away as the bear dropped down on all fours and charged, his friend close behind.  Jax gave them three-from-the-nose as he retreated, which only seemed to enrage them more. 

Those combatants still engaged cleared a path as Jax came through, pursued by the Ursine... they knew better than to throw themselves in front of that train.  Jax continued to dance away, always two steps ahead of the bears... but the Ursine were not the simple drunken brawlers that the Lokfair were... whenever Jax tried to open a gap between them the second Ursine would circle around to cut off his escape, while the first relentlessly drove him backwards towards the corner of the tap-room.

Jax may have been a dancer, but he was fast running out of floor.	

Braum finished his goat's milk with a throaty sigh of contentment, placing his cup daintily down on the bar.  He straightened up and gave his neck a solid crack before turning to addressing The Bar.

 “Make way for Braum!”

  The Bar heeded his words.

With a single bound he cleared more than half The Bar, and with a second he launched himself at the second Ursine, driving his full bulk into the beast's back... the two of them rolled on the floor until a table stopped them, the Ursine hugging Braum tight and trying to find purchase anywhere with his maw while Braum held the bear back with a forearm, the other arm gripping tight to the beast's fur... Sven could see that Braum had experience with bear wrestling, as he deftly maneuvered himself away from the snapping jaws and towards a more advantageous position.

Seemed to Sven that the brawl was just about over...  the Winter's Claw and Frostguard had decided discretion was the better part of valor, and had managed to fight their way to the door and escape into the night, with most of the Avarosan in pursuit... those still left were either too injured  or too drunk to be much trouble, no more than spectators now.  Gragas was finishing up the last couple Lokfair left standing, while Braum continued to wrestle with the second of the Ursine...  he had managed to scramble onto the beast's back, locking in a rear choke hold.  The bear tried to dislodge him by ramming him against the back wall of The Bar hard enough cause dust to fall from the ceiling, but Braum couldn't be shaken, and even as Sven watched the the beast first fell to its knees, then to the floor, unconscious.  Braum climbed off and lifted his opponents head high enough to pillow it with one of the bear's own arms, before gently placing it back down. 

“Sleep well, my fluffy friend.”

The other Ursine was still pursuing Jax, but seemed to be tiring, his attacks hitting nothing but air.  Suddenly, quicker than even Sven would have though possible, Jax slipped inside the Ursine's guard and wrapped the bar towel around one of its massive calves.  Grabbing both ends Jax dove sideways, pulling the bear's leg out from underneath it.  

The beast hit the ground... hard.

Before his opponent could recover Jax was on standing over it, and as the bear tried to gather itself to get back up Jax gently placed a foot between its shoulder-blades and pushed it back down to the floor.

 “I'd stay down if I were you.”

The Ursine decided to yield, lowering itself back to the floor and laying there, defeated... even though Sven could not see Jax's face he could tell their was a smile on it.

 Sven managed to breathe half a sigh of relief that the brawl was over before the second shoe dropped.

 “ENOUGH!” 

The cry rang out across the bar, causing even the dazed and injured to take notice.  The last Lokfair warrior stepped forward, hidden under his massive cloak.  Sven had seen him enter with the others but he seemed a man apart, so much so that even his companions seemed uneasy,  giving him a wide berth... he had poured the libations, but sang no song, gave no boast, merely sat and drank in silence... the stranger shrugged off his cloak, and Sven finally understood why.

 Olaf the Berserker.

Unlike Borgarr-Son-of-Bergmarr, Olaf had no need to recount his own herald... slayer of Lokfarsormr, the great frost serpent... slayer of the Hofsjökull Bruin, whose hide had turned the blades of a thousand heroes... slayer of the Vatna Boar, with tusks that were longer than a man is tall... the champion of Geiranger Fjord, where he slew a hundred Úlfhéðnar and their chieftain, Ragnarr Skin-Shifter, with his bare hands... the man, they say, not destined to die in battle.

Needless to say, his reputation proceeded him.

Olaf's body was a twisted mass of scars, each one a trophy of every fang, claw, horn, or blade he had faced... yet where other men would have been crippled by half as many wounds as Olaf had suffered, he seemed stronger for them... they stretched taut over corded muscle, giving Sven the impression of steel wrapped in flesh, battle-hardened and cold.

 Olaf was no mere man... he was a weapon of war.

With a blood-curdling scream Olaf charged Gragas, who only had a moment to brace himself.  The impact was so ferocious that Gragas was forced backwards, his feet dragging across the floor before he managed to halt Olaf's advance.  The two combatants grappled, Gragas trying to bring his weight to bear against Olaf, while Olaf used his speed and sheer rage against his far larger opponent.  Olaf managed to work his right arm free from Gragas's grasp and gave the Rabble-Rouser an uppercut that hit squarely underneath the chin... Gragas was felled, dragging Olaf down on top of him.

Sven had never seen the Big Man evenly matched, let alone out-matched.

“Perhaps you should take a moment to calm down friend!” Braum yelled as he leapt into the fray, grappling Olaf from behind and pulling him off of Gragas... Braum managing to open some space between them with an improvised hip throw, giving Gragas and himself a moment to breath.  Olaf took a half-second to find his footing, then screamed again and charged.  Braum grabbed a table and heaved, muscles rippling as floor boards groaned, the bolts holding the table down shearing or tearing away... Braum stood the table upright and braced his shoulder against, preparing to absorb Olaf's charge... unfortunately it proved far inferior to Braum's usual bulwark, as Olaf kicked a massive hole in it mere inches from Braum's head. Braum released his grip as the Berserker tried to extricate his leg from the splintered mess, grabbing the incapacitated Gragas under the arms and dragging him backwards as he retreated. 

It might have been the most impressive feat of strength Sven had ever seen Braum perform.

Jax had been watching the change of events from across The Bar with interest, and apparently decided that his intervention was now required.  He chuckled to himself as Sven heard him mutter,  “Well then, looks like it's my turn.”  

Jax engaged Olaf just as he had removed his leg from the offending table, snapping the bar rag across his face twice before before the Lokfair warrior realized had another opponent... the rag continued its snapping as Jax skirted away from Olaf's blows, raising welts across the Berserker's arms and chest... Sven assumed Jax was attempting to enrage Olaf so completely that he would make a mistake, one Jax could exploit... as plans went it wasn't a bad one, but there was one vital flaw.

Olaf's rage was his strength.  

Olaf tried to catch Jax with a right jab, but let it float for too long... Jax struck like a viper,  wrapping the rag around Olaf's arm.

Jax realized his mistake a half-second too late.

Immediately after Jax had tightened the noose around Olaf's arm Olaf heaved backwards.  The Armsmaster was unprepared, pulled off-balance, forcing him in a hair's breadth too close to his opponent... Olaf responded with a reckless left, forcing Jax to give up his grip on the bar rag and rock backwards, dropping his right shoulder to move his head out the line of the blow... as Sven watched, Olaf's knuckles delicately brushed Jax's cheek, causing the hood Jax wore to ever-so-slightly tremble.

It was the closest Sven had ever seen Jax to being hit.

Olaf tore the rag off his arm and ripped it in half, throwing both to the ground while laughing to himself, “Let's see how you do now that you're unarmed Armsmaster.”

On the bright side, now Sven had two rags. 

For his part Jax didn't rise to Olaf's barb, merely bent down and picked up a far more formidable weapon.

It wasn't quite a lamppost, but Sven didn't want to consider the damage Jax could do with a chair-leg.

Sven feared he'd have to step in soon and put a stop to the proceedings, regardless of the consequences, as it had slipped from a wholesome bar fight into something more dangerous...   Braum had pulled Gragas to safety and had gotten back into the fight, attempting to hold Olaf long enough for Jax to deliver a debilitating blow with his chair-leg, but The Berserker could not be restrained... he broke every one of Braum's holds just in time, Jax's strikes glancing off of Olaf's defense.

    Even though the fight had turned in Braum and Jax's favor, all that had been accomplished was a stale-mate.

Despite the fact that he could no longer win, Olaf would not, could not yield... someone would have to die first.

Sven was of the mind that that would not happen.

Motion pulled Sven's attention from Jax, Braum, and Olaf... Gragas gathered himself and stood up, shaking off the last of the chin-music Olaf had delivered to him... Sven resolved himself to stepping in if Grags rejoined the fight, but the Big Man decided to pull a wild card.

Gragas threw back his head and laughed.

“Well met Olaf, first of your line... we could be locked in combat until this bar crumbles around our ears, until Greyor sounds his horn and we are called to the Final Battle, but frankly this is thirsty work... how about we skip all that and proceed directly to the drinking?  It seems your... friends... are otherwise indisposed, so may I suggest you join us and we can put this entire thing behind us?”

Gragas's offer of alcohol seemed to pierce Olaf's bloodlust.  He blinked rapidly a few times, regarding the three champions before him with new eyes.  Braum and Jax eased back, waiting to see what the Berserker's answer was.

“Aye, I can use a beer.” 

The four of them managed to drink every coin the Lokfair had carried in, plus more besides.  Sven did the math and decided that, even after damages, he had turned a slight profit for the night... sure, the shaman would be busy in the morning tending to the injured, but that was no concern of Sven's.

All in all, Just another slow Serylday.