Came looking for a fight ¦ Maxwell

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The underground club in Berlin had become quite a regular haunt for Lyra. Although she didn't like to hang about in one place for too long, the competitors usually were decent enough that she could put on some sort of show before beating them too swiftly; while the bookies gave her poor enough odds that she could make enough money when she won. She was scrawny and sickly looking. Most of the time it was thought that she wouldn't fare too well in duels against brawnier competitors, especially the men.

And yet most of the time she was able to wipe the floor with them, without putting too much work in.

Of course she did put up a bit of a show a lot of the time, she had to of course put some sort of effort in ; or at least pretend to. It was a must to keep the punters happy, as well as the ring organisers. Be too good and she'd get tossed out, there was no fun in the same person winning so effortlessly all the time. No, risk being too good and it meant cutting off a good steady income for a few days. Without that she'd have to turn to other ways to make money. For now she took a break from the platforms and pushed through the crowd to the bar.

"Firewhiskey" she motioned to the bar tender, before repeating it again, roaring over the noise to try and get heard and noticed in the crowd to get served.

@max

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Once upon a time Maxwell was among the best duelists in the world. Those were the times where he was both famous and feared for what he could do. That was until about five years ago during his prime. His latest self inflicted injury to his arm definitely messed with his capability to fight having to rely on his off arm now until it healed. If there was no permanent damage because werewolf bites could be tricky. Not to mention it was rare that Maxwell was uninjured in some way which dragged him down too. If it weren’t wounds from the full moon they came from being reckless at work and playing hero.

Today was such a day, he burst into the bar still covered in blood that could be either his own or from the criminals he just arrested. A halfway finished cigar burned from the corner of his mouth. He heard someone shout at the bartender for a firewhiskey. “This person gets the gist, one for me too,” he yelled as he signaled the bartender and sat one at a table near the young woman who just ordered the drink for herself. She seemed familiar, reminding him of one of the people from the underground dueling scene. “Tough day at work or just felt like havin’ a drink?”

@lyra