"Eh Bill. The kid was here first, leave 'im alone." Answered a clever-looking man that hid behind his cloak and straw hat, that sat on one of the barstools just next to Zane. He clearly knew the mountain, and wasn't afraid of him, but judging by their size alone, and the fact that all weapons had to be left outside the tavern, he should've been. Still, Zane applauded courage, even if it was stupid, reckless fearlessness, mostly because he himself had that trait. If the man didn't say it, he would've said it, and thus the boy simply smirked and kept looking in front of him, paying no mind to Bill or the clever-looking fellow, instead moving his hand to signal the bartender. He wanted his mead, and he would get it, even if he had to somehow fight the mountain. Zane wasn't particularly good at fighting, and yet he wasn't afraid of losing either, and he knew that if he only waited and didn't initiate a conflict, the rest of the inn would be on his side. He'd been in several bar fights before, the first time being when he was five, when he broke a bottle of wine on some douchebag's knee, just for throwing a fist at his father. If the skyrider had to guess, he would've thought that not being the fighting type ran in his genes, considering his mother preferred using words over weapons, as did his father.
"Oy. Kiddo. My seat." Bill continued, paying no mind to the cloaked figure who had now gotten up from his seat. It was about to happen, Zane thought as the mysterious man tapped the obvious one on the shoulder, suggesting he wanted his words to be properly addressed. In the blink of an eye, the mountain's fist was on its way to the mysterious man's face, and the man's foot had moved back to avoid getting himself punched. The punch did, in fact, miss, but the argument was far from over. In fact, it had only just evolved into a fight. The second punch was, however, aimed at the cloaked man's gut, and he had no chance of dodging it, so he tried to soften the blow with his hands, which only made the mountain push further, adding enough force in his hand to knock the smaller figure up and backwards. Zane noticed this, and realized that there was no avoiding the fight now that one of them suffered his first bruises. He didn't hesitate, and thus grabbed the yet to be opened bottle of wine from the bar and moved his hand around his body, turning his hips on the chair, only to slam the glass into the back of the big guy's head. If only his hair wasn't dark, there could've been some blood seen, and on this note, several other gentlemen stood up and joined the fray.
Zane got hit several times, once even in the head, before the real show began, and the mountain lifted a barstool high into the air only to lower it straight onto one of the new guys' head, probably making a crack in his skull. The cloaked man couldn't stand for this, so he threw himself onto the mountain, and they both fell on top of a table by which a relatively nice-looking fellow had been sitting. The poor guy really didn't deserve this, in fact, he didn't look like the sort that would usually be in a tavern at this time. Perhaps he needed a distraction from his trial-to-trial life, or perhaps he had just moved there. But before the boy could deduce what exactly had been the case, he could feel himself getting grabbed by the stomach, and being thrown onto the table on top of which two men had already been. How nice of the fellows, to give the nice-looking man, who was certainly from an upper class of citizens, a chance to experience what the commoners went through at least weekly. He would surely value this experience, and tell this story a thousand times over during some gathering with his family.