Amycus Pope's page

He is also, however, obscenely rash. He is quick to take offense and settle it with his fists, but Amycus has never killed anyone in a fight, to his knowledge, and hopes to never do so. He has killed animals for food, but never an intelligent being.

In a fight, Amycus leaps into the fray thoughtlessly. He thoroughly enjoys the thrill of the fight, regardless of whether he can actually best his opponent. He will pick the biggest, ugliest enemy and try to go for a K.O. He tends to get annoyed when others try to come to his aid, wanting to test himself alone.

If the enemy is airborne, he will attack with his sling, but isn't particularly good at it, and will complain at length about not getting to punch whatever it is they're throwing at.

Fer me, that spot was when me dad died. It may shock you to know, having met my charming self, that ol' Ashley Pope was a right bastard. On a good day, I like the think I take after me mum. On a bad, day, ol' dad makes his way out.

Before you ask, no, I didn't kill the tosser. Heart attack, see. Dad loved to take a fist to mum, to me, to my brothers. Me twin, Antaeus, 'e was bout the only one as didn't get used fer target practice, on account of 'is intimidatin' stature. Tay looks like a gorilla shagged the hells out of an aurochs. (People took to callin 'im "Ox," though I'm the only one as gets away wit it without takin' one o' them ham fists ta the kisser.)

Me older bruv, Ash Junior, he was the first to stand up to Dad. Took a helluva wallop fer it. Then 'e wailed on me an' Ox jes fer tha helluvit. See, Dad was a pugilist, yeah? Not one o' them zen tossers sittin' on a mountaintop, contemplatin' roses instead of pounding blokes' faces in. Nah, Dad fought inside the ring, usually pubs in the seedier spots of Riddleport (now that's sayin' somethin, love!). All under the radar and all palms greased by blokes to make the Gendarmes look the other way, followed by half a dozen ponces with delusions o’ grandeur pummeling each other into meat. But Dad didn’t get his fill crushin overinflated egos. He ‘ad to take out the rest on our hides. Didn’t even ‘ave the excuse of alcoholism. Never touched the stuff once. Jes’ loved to hit things.

Well, thing about the life of a pugilist is, it takes a nasty toll on the body. He did that scene for half a decade, and it finally called for its recompense, if ye take my meaning. Keeled ova dead mid-swing at Mum’s skull. Junior had a right good laugh at that. Always was a sick prat, my bruv. Ox an’ me was twelve.

Ox an me knew we couldn’t leave Mum in the hands of our brother. Ash always been a bloody monster. Practically a cookie cutter version of our dad. I love me mum, but she wasn’t much more’n a husk by then. Ash said, when he was a tyke, she was diff’rnt. Vibrant. Kept up with Dad an’ then some. Dunno what changed, but it did. Mum was barely alive when Dad died. Ox an’ me kept round to make sure she was safe.

The very concept of “honest work” don’t much exist in Riddleport, so the Pope boys bounced at a casino in the Free-Coin District. Damned if I can’t remember the name o’ the place. Somethin bout honey, I think. Went alright fer a bit, until the owner, a nasty little wererat named Skeever, he found out what our name was about. Made a very polite suggestion – at knifepoint – that we had it in us to follow in ol’ Dad’s footsteps. Ash told him to piss off.

Ash is dead now.

Ox an’ me had more wherewithal, see. So we fought. Sometimes against each other. Nobody taught me how to take a beatin’ like Ox, not even Dad. When Ox swings, bloody girallons duck an’ cova. But names mean somethin’ in Riddleport, bruv. Don’t eva forget it. An’ the Pope name, it meant something. Only in certain circles, mind, but sad fer us, Skeever ran in jus’ them circles. So me an’ Ox, we come up with a plot ta get us outta that circle, fer Mum.

In retrospect, not the wisest plan, but we held out hope fer it. Ox takes me jes’ bout every row. I mean, it don’t take no Cipher sage ta figure out why that is. ‘e looks like ‘e could eat me fer breakfast an’ still have room fer steak an’ eggs, yeah? So Skeever always puts the odds on ‘im. Easy money. Well, we learned none other than the overlord hisself was to be present at the next fight, his majesty Gaston Cromarcky. Skeever prolly talked us up a real big game, the git.

So big money on big Pope. You look like a bright lad, I reckon ya can see where this is going. Bruv gots ta take a dive. But we gotta make it look good, right? Genuine like. Now, let me tell you something bout fist-fightin’ them monks on their mountains prolly won’t tell ye. When the juices flow, ya can’t always think proper. Fight or flight, yeah? Your brain goes all to mush and yer runnin’ on instinct. Proper thought gets b+*$+$!sed right in the kisser.

So Ox is bein’ real careful, takin’ big lumberin’ swings. Haymakers I can read a mile away, kicks like he’s in the bloody ballet, not a bloodsport. But the crowd wants blood, so I take a couple knocks to make it look official-like. But bruv, you cannot comprehend the meat behind those fists. Like hammers they are. Two hits damn near dropped me. Mayhap it woulda been better if they had.

I got to seein’ red. Don’t happen often, but when it does, that’s when the rational bits take load off. I knocked ‘im once, twice, three times in the neck. Common misconception is that punchin’ the throat is an easy kill. Ain’t so. Unless ye collapse the voice-box, it makes life right miserable but prolly ain’t gonna kill ya. Unless ye go a bit mad with bloodlust.

For one brief, truly horrifying moment, I thought I’d become a murderer. And of me own bruv, no less. He staggered back, and bloody well took ‘is time takin ‘is next breath. But ‘e did, an ‘e came swinging. I didn’t want to at that point. One solid hit away from killin’ ‘im there, I was. But there weren’t no other way out from under that gods-pissing ratman. Besides, in fer a penny, in fer a pound, as they say. So one last wallop, right on Ox’s kisser, and he was out cold.

Word was later, Skeever’d got Overlord Cromarcky to put a hefty wager on Ox. They found the little prick’s corpse floating in the docks next day. So through some very honeyed words, Ox gets Cromarcky feelin’ mighty generous, gets ‘im to turn over the casino to ‘im as recompense for sleights. Seein’ as the overlord was in an uncharitable mood toward the late Mister Skeever, he obliged. Ox changed the name – get this – ta the “Winking Skeever.” It’s a bar now. Spent me a good six years tendin’ that bar. Sure, Ox an’ me kept the fights up, but now when we fought, it was cause we wanted it. Believe me, bruv. That makes all the difference.

Mum passed on last year. Never quite right after Dad. I think she took beatings so long, she didn’t know how to live without ‘em. Took to beatin’ her insides with pesh instead. We tried to get ‘er to clean up, but I don’t think anyone was even home half the time, if ye take me meanin. Could’ve been an overdose. Mayhap a heart attack like Dad. Who knows? We went to knocker up in the morning, and she was already cold.

I decided my time in Riddleport was at an end, after that. Ox wasn’t keen on me leaving, but there wasn’t nothin left there save him and his bar. And by then, that wasn’t enough. I needed more. Great big world out there, lots o’ scraps ta be had. Can’t make it ta the fight if’n ye never leave yer front door, yeah?