Devon was experienced, and he was skilled. He had fought foes from the lowliest of pecking pelicans preying on the hungry, to mercenary leaders, capable of breaching a ship’s hull with a war-hammer and their strength. However, those fights had been with gear, backup, and planning. Yes, pelicans are extremely dangerous, not to mention the mercenaries. This fight that Devon found himself in now was different though. He was at an extreme disadvantage, no weapons nor teammates, and with cold ocean water still weighing him down. This would not be his greatest challenge, not now, not ever, but it would be difficult.
“Alright then, ya heard the cap’n, put 'em up!”, and so they both did. The burly man, Gimbo Norris, may have had the worse form, but it didn’t matter when he had logs for arms and tenderizers for fists. Devon adopted a sailor style fighting stance, absorbing the seawater that soaked him, that would soon soak his opponent. He planted his feet on the floorboards, feeling the moisture from years of doors left open and wet boots. He became attuned to every liquid in the room, categorized them, filtered the pure ones from the ones tainted by magic pollution, and channeled them into his fists. He was prepared, or at the very least, ready.
“Very well, you two seem positioned, so at the moment that I say fight, you shall engage, understood? Ready, fight!”
Norris threw a punch first. Haymaker it may have been, but the air that Devon felt rush past his ear, throwing up his hair, confirmed that this man was a walking battering ram. Devon took a step back, put up his left hand, aimed his right, and lunged. The force and magic behind the punch lifted vodka of the open bottles on the table before settling back down. Devon felt the sloshing inside the casks, the moisture in the air making way for his fist. He missed, by pure chance. Gimbo Norris had stumbled on a loose plank, saving him from a jaw fracture. The saltwater Devon carried in his hand dripped onto the beer belly of the large man. The man surprised Devon with his agility, planting his two elbows on the ground and boosting himself to a stand. The man grunted, “Who built this place, eh? I could’ve secured that board better with me weight!” He steadied himself, and Devon took his chance. With his muscle memory, he used a simple pattern of jabs and kicks. He punched twice at his gut, leaving wet marks. He then threw a side kick, pushing the man back a few inches. He was now dripping with magic saltwater, even swallowing some of it. “Blegh! Could’ve just asked me to drink some. Fine then, no point in dragging this fight out. Unbreakable Fist: Tungsten Steel!” Suddenly, Devon had a metallic aftertaste on his tongue. He felt his veins being slightly pulled towards Gimbo, specifically his hands. He saw the metal taps on the barrels bend, and the rust floated towards him as well. The metal converged and coated his hands, then it hardened, creating a wave of heat and the sound of clashing swords. He now looked like a trained fighter, and all the chances of Devon winning evaporated from his mind. All he could do now was block, parry, and dodge.
To numb the pain, Devon focused on thinking. He was already preparing to cope with bein unable to venture into the Dark Sea, and the closer humiliation of losing a fight. He formed the salt into ramshackle bracers to absorb the blows. He blasted the floor with water to make dashing easier. But no matter what he did, a loss was inevitable. All he had to show for this fight was taking out the seawater from the patron’s drinks and wetting his opponent’s shirt. Wet shirt… sailor style… It came to him in a flash. He dropped his guard to focus his energy on his hands, on his style. He bobbed his head from side to side, dodging knockout punches by a hair’s breadth. The palms of Devon’s hands became filled with salt, dripping water slowly. At the exact moment Gimbo Norris stopped his barrage, Devon took two long steps forward and planted his hands onto Norris’ belly.
“What in Davy Jones’ loc…”
Channeling all the saltwater in his surroundings, including Gimbo’s shirt, Devon blasted him with full force. He got pushed meters away, nearly falling off Sailor’s Lodge. However, Norris caught himself. “Had me doubting meself for a second there young buck, now to finally end this, Unbreakable Fist: Meteoric Strike!” He clasped both hands together into the shape of a mallet, and started to begin his descent onto the ground. However, before it was halfway to the floorboards, an unrelenting barrage of punches hit him, everywhere. Devon had taken control of the water that doused Gimbo Norris and made it move and compress in such a way that salt was focused at the tip of wet tentacles. The crystals that formed cut up Gimbo’s clothes and skin, literally adding salt to his wounds. He collapsed and keeled over, exhausted, defeated. Devon stood, victorious, powerful. Only a mage could have that much control of any element. He had awakened.
“Well well well, welcome to the crew, Mr. Baptiste”