We need to take the "Defenders don't do damage, they just protect others" meme out back behind the woodshed, and shoot it in the face.
If you want a guy who wades into the middle of a battlefield and chops down foes left and right, you want a defender. A striker is going to be lurking around the edge of that battlefield because venturing in will get him killed. The striker might have higher per attack damage than the defender, and might be better at messing up a single opponent, but that doesn't mean that the defender isn't dishing out a boatload of pain.
"This happens every time," said Verdonn, Archmage. "We can't go anywhere nice."
Thul the Silent shrugged. "He enjoys himself. And he always insists on paying for the damage once he sobers up."
Verdonn and Thul ducked under the table as a chair flew past their head. "How many is he fighting now?" Verdonn asked, as he sat on the floor and poured Thul a shotglass of whisky.
"There were six of them, but he threw that one guy through the window. I think there's just five now." Thul sipped at his shotglass. "This is strong! Wouldn't expect it in a town like this."
Verdonn took a drink straight from the bottle. "Yeah! Yeah, strong. Woah." There was a pause for a few moments. "Didn't he throw that one other guy behind the bar?"
"Yeah," said Thul. "But a few moments later he reached over the bar and dragged him back."
"So indecisive. I guess that's five then. Another shot?"
"Just a moment... I got a feeling..." Thul stood up, shotglass in hand. A man in uniform burst through the bar's door, cudgel in hand. Before the guard could say a word, Thul's arm snapped forward, launching his shotglass like a crossbow bolt. It struck the guard in the forehead, and he dropped like a stone.
Thul sat back down under the table, and reached for the bottle. "No sense letting the Watch ruin the fun. Besides, he'd thank me. The headache tomorrow will hurt less than what he was about to get himself into."