Mark was drunk. It was rare when he did this, but tonight was an exception. He had started his new life as a criminal, and was boasting about it loudly. He was drinking Firewhisky like no one's business. He was downing them left and right, just out partying. It wasn't like he was far from Julie and his apartment, he could stumble his way home no problem.

"So, you know, I totally make completely illegal potions! They're almost sickening, well, many of them are sickening, quite literally." He said. A roar of laughter came from the bar. "I need more firewhisky." He said drunkenly. The bartender handed him another drink. "And I smuggle, oh, I'm a good smuggler. And if those stupid Aurors want to come get me, well," He stood up. "COME AT ME BRO!" He shouted.

"Beyinsiz oğlanın."

Over the black sludge of his drink, Darius glared at the boy -- for a boy he was, barely more than a child -- going on and on at the other end of the bar. All around the oblivious, the bare scattering of patrons who lingered on this slow night gave glares and rolled eyes. A posturing child and one so green. With that sort of attitude, he'd be dead or in Azkaban before the week was out.

As the boy postured for imaginary Aurors, Darius downed the rest of his drink in one swift gulp. It burned like roofing tar. Leaving the empty glass, Darius stood, crossed the length of the bar, and clasped the boy by the scruff of his neck as though disciplining a puppy.

"You," he snapped, catching what he assumed to be the boy's wand hand and twisting it into the small of his back. "Eediot. You are coming with me."

Mark was still laughing at his own terrible joke, before someone had grabbed his neck and his arm. "Woah!" He yelled, as the man twisted his arm. He tried to writhe free, but the man had a good grip, and Mark's wand was in his right back pocket. There was no way he was going to be able to reach it with his left hand. "Get off!" He yelled.

The man clearly knew what he was doing, and that's what frightened him the most. But he was still feeling enraged. I'm a criminal now! Who's this guy to tell me what to do! He thought angrily as he squirmed some more.

Darius would give the boy some credit. If he'd been sober, it might have been a decent fight. But fact of the matter was, the boy wasn't sober. He was drunk off his ass, and that made it easy for the denser, stockier Darius to steer him straight to the bar's back door and into the thin back alley where the trash got put out.

Once the door was safely closed behind them, Darius kicked the boy at a stack of trash cans and released his hold. He rolled his fingers, popping all of the joints, and eyed the younger man with distaste. "Eediot. What do you think you are doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Mark was kicked into a pile of trashcans, starting to understand what was truly going on. "Dude, what's your issue?" He asked, fear starting to show in his eyes. He watched as the man started to pop his knuckles, and the first thought that came to his head was, That man is going to have terrible arthritis someday. Of course, it didn't totally hit Mark yet, what was about to happen.

"Eediot. What do you think you are doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"I'm trying to get a drink, and make a joke, okay? Chill it out! How could I possibly be killed when I'm telling everyone about how much of a threat I am? No one wants to mess with me if they know I'm a smuggler." Mark stumbled to his feet, approaching the back door to reenter the bar. He stumbled around, the alcohol impacting his balance.

Darius gave the young man a very long and very pointed Look. Then he wound back his arm and socked him in the cheek has hard as he could manage. "Eediot!" he snapped again, giving the boy a few seconds to recover before following it up with a blow to the gut. "Moron! Qalınqafa! You think that it matters to anyone here what you say that you are?"

He drew his wand. The knotted black palm bore the scars of clumsy repair, not unlike its owner. He leveled it at the foolish child and glared down its twisted length like the butt of a gun. "This is the realm of dark wizards and murderers, you stupid boy. You believe them to fear the likes of you? You are a child. You do not belong."

Mark felt a punch of resounding force hit his cheek, sending him away from the door. "Augh!" He yelled in anguish, clutching it tightly. He spat a tooth out along with some blood, as he looked back at the man, fear in his eyes. No longer did Mark feel like the larger man. "Look, I think we had a misunder-" Mark started before another punch came to his gut.

He doubled over in pain, looking up at the man. This man held his wand, pointing at Mark. His eyes grew. "You are a child." The man said. "You do not belong." Mark got to his knees. "Please," Mark begged. "Don't kill me. I have a loving girlfriend, and an amazing family," Mark's eyes began to well up with tears. "And a little sister. A brilliant little sister who couldn't bear to lose me. Please. if you'll kill me for my own sake, then don't for her's." He said.

Darius, for a moment, remained silent. He peered down the length of his wand, unblinking, studying the boy as he begged. Finally, he lowered the knotted wand. His weight sank back onto his short leg, out of the combat stance. "Go then," he said, softer, but no less harsh. "Get out, while you can. You are a young man. You still have the chance."

He put his wand away and hobbled across the alley, picking up a trash can that had been knocked over in the fight. Underneath it was a bottle, three-quarters empty, a foggy gray mess lurking in its bottom third. Darius picked it up. Home-brewed. Not the bar's. Some drunk's, then.

He downed it with a gulp, letting it burn all the way to his gut. He wiped his lip and glared at his foolish opponent. "This business, the smuggling, the potions. It is not for men of families. It is the trade of orphans and orphan-makers. Only the worthless need apply. You understand?"

Mark took a deep breath, and smiled. "Thank you." He said as he stood up.

 "This business, the smuggling, the potions. It is not for men of families. It is the trade of orphans and orphan-makers. Only the worthless need apply. You understand?"

Mark slowly moved his hand behind him, reaching for his wand. It's all about being quiet. He thought. This man could go and tell everyone he knows about me. And I don't know if I want that for my reputation so early in the game. It most likely could have been the firewhisky talking, but he knew he couldn't be a little boy any longer. He quickly turned, facing his opponent, casting a quick Expelliarmus, as he smiled. "This is the road I took, I've already made the decision."

Smash!

Darius glanced to the boy's wand, then lazily looked at the pile of glass raining into a corner of the alley wall. He'd been Disarmed, it seemed. But since he'd already put his wand away, what he'd been Disarmed of was the empty liquor bottle he'd just finished.

Still...not bad, for the reaction time. Perhaps the boy had more in him than his drunken stupidity.

"'This road,' you say." Darius chuckled wryly. He hobbled forward one step, then another, keeping both hands out and open. He wouldn't need his wand, yet. Not for this. "What does a boy like you know of roads, eh? Tell me. What purpose drives you this way?"

Mark still held his wand defensively. "I know about roads. I've seen people take roads. Some lead to good places. Others not so good. But whether or not the road seems frightening," Mark took a moment, thinking. "That's not it. 'I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence, two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.'" Mark smiled. "That's the poem."

Mark looked the man over, his face returning serious. "This road is the one no one takes. People are afraid of it. But in the harsh reality of the other road, people struggle as they do good. People starve for giving their food to the poor. And I've seen past that. I have seen the positives of this road less traveled. People survive, and succeed. And they do not have to worry with the troubles of the other road! Things are given to them, as they supply the world with things. Dark things, yes. But things that can do great good." Mark thought this over.

"Criminals take what they want. No one challenges a criminal, and I'm tired of not getting what I deserve! I've done nothing wrong in my life! I've always been good! But no one ever notices the good things, no. They notice the mistakes, the flaws. And who's to say those flaws are bad?" He said angrily.

Mark pointed his wand at Darius, saying, "Orchideous!" A bouquet of flowers appeared, as Mark looked skeptically. "That's not what I wanted." He said.

Darius's eyebrow crept gradually further and further up his forehead, twisting his uneven face. It took all he could not to laugh at the ridiculous, rambling, drunken logic. A life without troubles? Here? And this from a boy who'd begged for his life not five minutes earlier, convinced he'd been about to be murdered by a madman? Ridiculous. The naivete made his blood boil. As if any man with half a brain would choose this way of life!

And now, he'd created flowers! Their appearance conjured a laugh, rough and unrefined like a driftwood carving. Darius crossed the short distance between them in three uneven strides, snatching the bouquet right off the tip of the boy's wand. The other hand, his wand-hand, caught the boy's collar, dragging him in until there were bare inches between them, so close that any spell would damage them both.

"Did it ever occur to you, child, why roads are left untraveled?" Darius tightened his grip on the boy's clothes. His breath smelled like hard liquor and tar. "You are a true fool, stumbling off your cliff without a second glance. This road, it favors no man. It supplies nothing. It gives nothing. Its travelers only take whatever they desire, not from those on other paths, no, but from their so-called companions. The weak -- like you -- give all to the strong. All."

His hand trembled, only partially from the effort of holding the boy still. When he thought of all he'd given up in this life -- one family, two, his homeland, his own face! -- it brought a furious fire to Darius's eyes that hadn't been there in many a year. "Consider this advice from a wiser man: If you have any love for that sister of yours, you will leave this road and never return."

Mark couldn't stand it any longer, this man acting so much bigger than Mark. He was making himself seem so tough, and if he was in his right mind, Mark probably would have accepted it, and then just walked away. But he wasn't in his right mind. And this to him, was not okay.

As if energy magically appeared, Mark pulled himself out of the grasp of the man. He stumbled backward, before regaining his footing. "I AM NOT WEAK!" He shouted, swinging his arms wildly. His hands in tight fists. "I AM NOT THE MAN I USED TO BE!" He shouted, firing his hands around some more. "I HAVE TAKEN THIS PATH, AND I AM HAPPY THAT I MADE THE DECISION THAT I DID!" He shouted once more.

Quickly tiring himself out, Mark put his fists down, and his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. A little owl swooped down, dropping a note from James. In the note, it explained that they were going to play poker, and an address listed. The address, however, was not to James' home. It would lead to where the werewolf fights were being held.

Darius regarded the boy's rage with silent resignation, stepping back so the young man could flail and shout without hitting either the walls are Darius himself. There was no talking sense into him now, not with that much drink in him. Maybe when woke up the next morning, he'd remember something besides a headache and some new bruises. Or maybe he'd forget everything. It was no skin off Darius's nose either way.

A moment after the boy collapsed, an owl swooped in, depositing a letter on the ground. Darius picked it up. It was addressed to a Mark Hunter and bore directions and an address. Darius recognized it from the underground's rumors. There would be no poker game there tonight. But if a friend was waiting...

Well. Darius figured it was the least that he could do.

"Get up," he said, hoisting the boy -- Mark Hunter, he presumed -- to his feet. He pressed the letter into Mark's hand, then slung the young man's other arm over his shoulders. "Your friend is waiting. Come along."

With that, he hobbled the boy out of the alleyway and into the dingy main road of Knockturn, steering him to where the bloodsport was soon to be held.