Rooster

Rooster spat.

Feathers tied to leather ties round his biceps quivered in the Kantan evening breeze, a tang of salt carried from the nearby port.

In front of him stood a man. Short, squat, tattooed and leering.

A ring was formed around the pair of them, a ring of other people. Curious. Excited.

Lusting for violence.

Rooster moved first, with a cry of "Ka-kaaaw!" announcing his first strike. His opponents guard came up quickly, scarred forearms forming a flesh square. Rooster bounced off his leading foot and swooped his other round into the mans ribs, being rewarded by a startled grunt.

First blood.

Rooster wasn't sure if it was he or the Other Voice that championed this.

Rooster didn't mind.

As he fought with his opponent, bracing for punches and jumping for leverage, muscle memory gave him flashbacks to his hometown, and the eldritch fire that had become of it. Raptor, the leader of his gang, the Chickenhawks, had taught him to lean into his advantages. "You're loud. And obvious. Use that to your advantage. Give em what they think is coming." she had said, her mouth full of chew-weed.

The Chickenhawks had always done well, held their territory of the rooftops in the old town against the Southside Stalkers and the odd raid from the Tunnel Rats. Life had been good, and satisfyingly violent, and Rooster had been promoted (and given extra bright feathers, which he was very proud of).

Until the Voices came.

Rooster rolled his shoulders to avoid a hammer punch, didn't move quite fast enough and gritted his teeth as it thumped into his chest. He would savour the bruise. Scar-arms was bleeding from his lips, but still managing to leer.

Rooster decided he liked him.

The gangs worked out afterwards that the Voices had all come at the same time. Bestowing each gang with a signature trait (the Snakebrothers started dribbling fire, the Stalkers got strange hollow eyes and shrieking laughter, the Chickenhawks could paint strange eerie lights on their enemies and, well, more feathers) and magic abilities, the gang war in Roosters hometown stepped up another level, every ganger developing new powers and urged on by the new Voices in their heads.

Not that they needed that much convincing.

Locked in a tussle, Rooster had Scar-arms head nearly hammering the ground, if he could just push off this crate to give him leverage. Their combined straining grunts sounded almost comical to the onlookers, looking on greedily, fists clenched.

Soon, too soon, the town was in flames. The leaders of the Easthead Coven were strung up in bits from the bridge, Raptor had cracked one of the Southside Stalkers in half, and the Tunnel Snakes were using their enemies teeth as promotion badges.

The Militia tried to stop them. They succeeded in that a lot of gangers died on the day of their purge. They failed in that the losses were mutual. Years old tribal grudges against their authoritarian hobgoblin adversaries boiled over into a sea of blood, fed by magical means.

Rooster and Scar-arms were apart now, spitting blood on the floor, gasping for breath. A door opened, spilling lanternlight across the murk and lurking bodies.

It was Raptors death that finally brought things home to Rooster. He was technically the Chickenhawks leader now, but there were hardly any left. He was standing over his old captains body, prepared to defend her to the last, as plate-armoured hobgoblin militiamen finally smashed through the wooden door leading to the Chickenhawks last remaining rooftop base. Though bleeding profusely, Bullfinch managed to incinerate the head of the lead hobgoblin before he was impaled on a halberd.

Just as Roosters legs bunched for the jump that would take him and his bloody pigstick into the pack of screws, green clouds roiled over him and the Other Voice, now familiar to him, muttered to him as if in a dream in a language he both did and did not understand. It gave him the name of a person and a place. When Rooster came to, he was in a new place.

He was in Port First.

"Oi! Is that you again you feathery prick! Take your bloody fights elsewhere lest I cave your brightly coloured head in!"

Rooster looked up at Jedd, shaking his fist menacingly, the lantern in his other meaty fist bobbing.

Briefly, the Voice surged into him, gifting the magic again, igniting the straight angled tattoos across Roosters face and body, making the lines across him glow in the murky urban twilight.

Rooster ignored the Voice this time. He stood up, smoothing out his bright russet coloured feathers. He shook out his mohawk (also with feathers tied into it). He turned to Scar-arms and grinned a cracked smile.

"Hey. Nice going, buddy. Same time next week? Oh hey, and if anyone asks...tell 'em Rooster is recruiting."

He turned, the teeth-charms and other visceral jewellery clacking against his leather buckles as he did so, flipped Jedd the bird and gave a last "Ka-kawww, bitches!" before leaving the Cavernous Seashank and into the deep night of Port First.