I've sailed a thousand oceans to be here in your arms.

Brennan had seen far scarier than the imposing man he currently fought. He had fought scarier, uglier, meaner things. Nearly died from far worse. But he had to admit. This still posed a problem, one that he had been dragged into by an innocent face. Pulled right into that makeshift ring and into someone else's chaos, a fight that was not his own. Women were far too much trouble. Always. It didn't matter if they were young like her. It didn't matter that the little witchling struck a chord of familiarity within him. Surely it was only a trick of his mind that he couldn't even blame on the whiskey that barely coursed through his veins.

Yet there he was. Somehow drawing the attention of that bear-man to give the girl a reprieve. He was big, bigger than most but his movements were slow and predictable while Brennan's was far faster with honed reflexes that served him in that moment. He dodged swipe after swipe, ducking and sliding just out of the way before those blows could make contact with him. He couldn't place how many he missed, only that the last one nearly got him. It was too close. He could feel the wind of that sailing claw. Brennan took the only step he could, a backwards step that almost brushed against the boundary line. While some part of him knew he could cross it and leave that ring without another thought. He couldn't. Even cornered, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The bear-man knew he had him.

This was going to hurt.

He couldn't see the redhead make her move, only that something prevented that paw from colliding with his face. Whatever she hit him with, was enough to cause that roar of pain. The sound drove the bloodthirsty crowd into a rabid frenzy simultaneously.

The beast's furred arms flailed, one trying to remove whatever she had stabbed him with, unable to reach where that heel protruded. The Were whirled around to face the girl who had not landed on her feet but on her back, limbs splayed like a newborn fawn as she tried to scramble, crab-walk backwards to get away. She was not fast enough, in fact, she barely made it far.

With the bear's back now facing Brennan, he was able to catch sight of that heel that earned a tug of amusement to the warlock's features. But that was when the girl's eyes snagged upon his own silvery blue gaze... he swore they look almost pleading. He was near hopeless to that cursed look and it was like she knew. Great.

There might be a way to make this work, beyond mere brawn that the Were had in spades. But how certain he was that the girl was unlikely to appreciate his ingenuity. That didn't seem to deter him as he instinctively prowled forward, seizing the opportunity he had been provided with the bear's attention no longer on him. After all, the battle wasn't over until they were down for the count or disqualified.

Only one of those outcomes seemed acceptable to the Irish warlock who swiftly reached for the embedded heel and wrenched it painfully out before dropping it to the floor before.... The move meant to make him hesitate from reaching out to grab the witch. Brennan braced his body, feet firmly upon the ground as he swiftly shoved his hand out, rigid fingers splayed out to make it look like he was going to push the bear off his balance. His affinity rushed to his call, in the form of a strong windy blast that shot out from what appeared to be his palm. The bear-man was knocked to the ground, unable to stop the way that momentum did not relent even as he ended up eating the dirty bar floor. That wind did not relent, nor did it discriminate. It persisted so that not even the witchling could escape it as it scooped her up too, sweeping the both of them across the floor....

The Irish warlock straightened his spine with a cocky grin before his power dissipated.

"I win." The Irishman declared, his silvery-blue gaze observing the stunned faces of that windswept crowd. The bar descended into a strange quiet. He ignored the angered glowering look from the were-bear who honestly sounded like a motor with how much he was growling into the ground, or maybe he was talking.... It was hard to say with that half-beast face.

Brennan moved with an unhurried swagger, only to lower and unceremoniously pluck the heel from the ground that rested near him before smoothly returning to his feet. The moment was long enough to give the pair enough time to realize that they were in fact blown out of bounds. Brennan eyed the shoe that he held, noting that it was partially melted, a sound of amusement slipped beyond his lips as he made his way to the sprawled out red-haired woman that it belonged to. The one that caused this entire ruckus.

A moment later, the stunned crowd erupted, he couldn't tell if it was out of outrage, or to cheer for the victory he claimed by default. No matter, it stroked his ego all the same. He flashed the girl a near dishonest but oddly charming smile even though his eyes narrowed on the wounds upon her features.

Wiping off some of that blood on his jeans before lightly tossing the shoe next to the girl. "Go on, take your shoe, little witchling. He has little need for it." That Irish brogue rang clear within his words that were stained with unshed laughter only sobered by the fact that she had taken several blows.

"Come on, let's get you to the medic. I have some winnings to claim." So he might have had a soft spot for wounded women but there was no way he was planning on sharing 'his' spoils. He rose his brows, forehead scrunching as he towered over the sprawled girl as if daring her to protest before offering her a hand to help her to her feet.

The were, it would appear, admitted his own defeat, taking off in a fit of his own rage. Brennan was near grateful that he couldn't comprehend those words he spat in his direction as he merely watched the girl that clearly was too young for a place like this. "I am waiting for my thanks too." Brennan was confident that the girl would come to realize that this outcome was the best she could hope for.

Brennan O'Connell

a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor