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You turn him around on his descent, slamming him into the edge of a table face first. You follow with an elbow to the back of his head, smashing his teeth into the side of the table, blood and loosened teeth fling out, onto the food of the horrified patrons. You almost want to apologize. He falls to the ground, and you kick his shoulder to turn his battered and broken face to the crowd of punks still standing there.
You can see some of them actually back up. Despite everything, reputation means something to them. You wonder, almost hope, if they'll back off. But you know that's wishful thinking. Fighting one on one, sure, you've proven yourself. You can beat up dumb street thugs. But against an army of armed men, aggressive, intend to kill and dominate? You're starting to feel pretty stupid ending up in this situation.
But the fact the thugs have stopped grabbing at the purses and strutting about like they own the place? The patrons watching you, then the punks, some even smiling, some even feeling like something is going to change around here? That almost makes it worth it. Just standing here in defiance of the punks, of the law of the jungle, something about it is just special.
After a second of worry and silence, the Viking suddenly speaks. He doesn't issue a threat, or even a command, he just puts his arms around two of the punks who looked most nervous, and talks openly and with contempt.
“...There he is. That motherfucker. That <span class="mu-i">Mask</span> guy. That coward who won't even show his face. Are <span class="mu-i">all</span> of you really scared of him? You bunch of pussies, are you really going to let him disrespect you?”
