New Blood Bracket: Gordie vs. Inkfinger

[Tainted Bushido]

The match begins at Midnight 7/31/2009 and ends at Midnight 8/15/2009.

Best wishes to both participants!

[Inkfinger]

The late afternoon sun shone weak through the grimy windows as Cael Strandssen leaned against his hand, staring at the stack of parchment in front of him. The papers were damp, and smelled like woodrot and whiskey; they were curling at the edges, darkened in the middle, and there were spots and specks of what looked suspiciously like blood soaked through the top three pages.

In short, they were a disaster -a rather sad, pitiful and unmitigated disaster.

And yet, somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to be overly distraught about them; couldn’t muster the emotion to mourn the loss of what had been several months of work. He’d left them in his rented, attic apartment when he’d left Corone seven months ago, in the company of Ingwe Halcyon; left them behind when his world turned into a blur of fighting, ill-fated revolution and the cold, lonely torment of his own country’s cells.

Cael’s eyes blurred at the thought of Salvar. He’d never expected to be there so long. He’d never expected what had been waiting for him there. He’d never expected-

“Hey!” The word -written, not spoken, in blocky Salvic- floated before his eyes, black edged with the orange-red of annoyance. It, his paper familiar, glared at him out of an eyeless face, its tiny, crane-shaped shell somehow conveying annoyance from every folded edge as it hovered before him in a rustle of thin paper. “Stop thinking about it, it only makes you mope!”

The familiar’s unspoken tone startled a laugh out of the scribe. He held out one hand, letting the paper bird land, delicately, on his scarred and ink-stained fingertips. “I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse, soft, husky without sensuality. “I don’t mean to.” And he didn’t, really. It just…happened. There were some things that people just couldn’t set aside like yesterday’s news. This was one of them – and the familiar, for all its wisdom, clearly didn’t understand.

“Yes, well.” If Cael had been skilled enough to give It feathers, they would have been ruffled by now; had he made it eyes they would have been slits. “Do it again, and I’m going to start pecking.” The edges of the words went dark with intended foreboding, and Cael tried not to smile. It settled down in the palm of his hand, and went still; as close to sleeping as the origami construct ever reached. He shook his head fondly, and set the crane down on the pitted top of the tiny table, beside the stack of ruined, half-written articles.

He was in a tavern; a different one than the one he’d always frequented the first time around, when he’d written the words for the first time. This one was older, and bigger, and far rougher around the edges, with enough wards to make his non-existent mage-sight itch. The men in uniforms, and men who looked like they were supposed to be in uniform but weren’t, made his skin crawl, but maybe if he ignored them, they would ignore him. He didn’t want to find a new place to work.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there by the next time he stretched out, squinting at the faded writing in the slowly dying light, but the air smelled like roast meat and wine and fried potatoes over the stronger scents of burning wood and unwashed person. He could feel his stomach clench at the mixture. It was too close to the jail.

What’s the point, he found himself thinking. He was halfway through the stack, papers sorted into three separate piles: one of the papers that he found he could no longer decipher; one of papers that he found could no longer care about, and one of the papers that he felt he could still work on. The third pile, in a strange fit of irony, only held three papers.

And even that stack should go. None of this matters anymore. You’re not that man anymore. Like it or not, going home changed you.

He let out a growl of frustration at that thought, at the betrayal of his own mind, shoving all the papers back together in a stack and knocking one of the four mugs off the edge of the table. He caught it before it could hit the floor, setting it back on the table with a heavy clunk, and stared at the mugs, slightly aghast.

Have I really drank that many? That’s probably why I can’t read some of these… But in his heart, he knew that wasn’t the cause. The alcohol that he could taste in the back of his throat had nothing to do with the letters fading, with the papers warping and blurring. His heart had never been in this job, not like it had been in his work with the rebellion.

He shoved the thought of the rebellion, of dead friends and months of pain, from his head as he leaned over the back of his chair to retrieve his jacket from where it had slipped to the floor. He shrugged it on with a small shiver, fishing a match out of his pocket.

It probably wasn’t the wisest idea, but he struck the match on the table. It flared to life with a hiss and a tiny, warm, golden-orange glow. He stared at the flame for a moment before he took up a paper in his other hand, touching the match to a corner. The paper caught like, well, paper, and soon flames were licking up the edge.

“…how is that a good idea?” He caught the words out of the corner of his eye, and looked down to see It staring in dismay at the burning parchment. He shrugged, just a little.

“’s probably not,” he admitted, words coming just a bit slurry as he grinned at his familiar. He waved the dead match under its beak. “But I gotta get rid-”

“Dammit, Caelric, pay attention!”

“Huh?” Cael looked at the paper – and broke into a stream of cursing. The whole pile was aflame now, and the fire looked to be spreading to the table. “Oh hells.” He scrambled for the unfinished mug, liquid sloshing against its side. The men in the uniforms were definitely staring now.

“Cael, don-”

The words formed a minute too late. Cael had already dumped whatever it had been that he was drinking onto the stack of papers. The stack of papers, subsequently, hissed and popped and-

Against all odds flared to brighter life, glowing blue-white and eating through the table to fall in a heap of embers, ashes and sparks flying into the air, flames dancing merrily beneath the now-ruined table. Cael stared dumbly, the fog that had been encroaching on his brain in the last few minutes now well and truly surrounding his synapses.

“Um.”

“You are impossible.” It spat at him before it fluttered to perch on his head, tiny paper claws fastened to Cael’s short hair, tight and far from the flames. Cael took one last look at the fire and ran for the bar.

“I’m hoping,” he panted out to the first person he saw, “that you have just plain water here somewhere.” He left out why, exactly. They'd find out soon enough, right?

Right.

[Gordie]

'By the great cat in the sky!' Bottle brush thought in alarm as he watched the owner's bar go up in smoke. Without even thinking he had grabbed the fire bucket and flung it at the fire, bucket and all. The flames seemed to be enveloping the paper and the table, changing them into a crisp black pile of ash and charcoal. He also grabbed a pot of water that was boiling on the stove for some of his Scara Brae Vanilla Tea specialty and lept over the bar to where the fire was and started dumping the water on it, soaking everything in the near vicinity with boiling hot water.

The crowd seemed to part as he looked over at the smoking patron, whom had what looked to be an origami bird perched on his head. In a fit of rage, he spend a moment to bring forth one of his daggers, the manifested twin blades forming what seemed to be claws with thier edges on either side of his hand. Pointing the blade at the patron, he shouted. "Why the Hell did you try and burn down the bar! What the hell were you thinking!"

[Inkfinger]

Cael blinked down at the short bartender owlishly, shifting his feet away from the ever-spreading puddle of water bubbling and hissing on the floor. "Wasn't thinking," he mumbled, petulant and annoyed that the simple confession had slipped out. "Didn't mean to, just didn't pay enough attention to what I was drinking."

The words came out blurred by the curtains of fuzz separating thought process from thought process. The one thought that wasn't cut off was the simple, clear realization that his naginata was way over there, and he was way over here.

"Fire's out though, see?" He pointed at the smoldering pile of what used to be a table and chair and a stack of papers, now black and soggy. Embers still glowed in the remains of the floorboards, but the flames had died down. He took a step towards his gear, smiling amiably, his hands spread wide. Hopefully no one's noticed that they're shaking...

"No harm done, right?"

The crowd of people that had parted between him and the bartender was now staring; most in amusement, but a couple in something that looked very much like open malice. Most of those were the ones in uniform. Most of those were the type that were easy to figure out: this was, to their minds, their bar, and he was not welcome, especially not now that he'd almost burned it down, mistake or no mistake.

Look at how perfectly harmless I can be. The alcohol jittering through his bloodstream and brain was persistent; he stumbled a few steps back, grabbing a table to keep from falling flat on his face. Clumsy, innocent little paper-pusher, nothing to fear... Light flashed on mail and buttons and the bartender's knives in a way that would, perhaps, not have been quite so disconcerting if it wasn't for the fact that everything was going wavy around the edges.

Gods above, just stop staring long enough for me to get to my stuff.

"So. I, uh." He cast one long, nervous glance towards his gear, estimating how far and how fast he was going to need to move if the angry bartender moved first. The answer was a few steps too far, and he cursed mentally before looking back, hands pressed together so it almost looked like he was praying.

"Can I just, uh. Pay for my drinks and the table and...leave?"

[Gordie]

'No harm done?' The smallish bartender thought furiously. 'No harm done my ass! If it were any of these other frenetic whelps I'd have not a second thought about gutting them on the spot.' Regardless of the circumstances, when it came to his job, or other specific things, mainly regarding Flames and Wood. Bottlebrush could be down right mean about it. The translucent blade seemed to glow with energy unnatural to this world, it's twin points menacingly daring the drunkard to make the wrong move. Bottlebrush twitched as he stepped closer to the young man. A small grin of malice started to come over his face.

"You want to pay for your drinks and the table? Sure. Now, what about the Insurance your little stunt has caused." The shapechanger's voice seemed to barely hide the traces of venom that laced his words. "And the bad publicity. People arent going to want to come here if the place 'may' burn down, it is just bad policy." The small person glanced around the room to see some of the non-combat-oriented patrons start to get up and walk out, leaving the remainder, of which many were of the Corone Armed Forces, to watch by as thier local bartender decided what to do. They would, of course, only step in if it looked like it was going to go too far. "I'll tell you what, though. You can pay me, if you can pay me in blood." With that, the young shapeshifter leapt towards the drunkard, intent on running him through with his twin-pointed dagger. The glowing energy blade seemed to shift from a Mulberry red into a seafoam greenish blue as it was headed toward the other man's chest.

[Inkfinger]

Cael’s blurry vision shifted from a green-eyed gaze to the dagger that he knew the young bartender had not held mere seconds ago. The twin tips seemed to waver before his eyes. He blinked, blearily, and looked back to the bartender’s eyes. He could have protested that this was a tavern, that people almost always expected taverns to be unsafe, that a little fire never hurt anyone’s reputation and that, above all, he could pay for it in cash right now…

The sudden appearance of a small, feral smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, stole the arguments right out of his mouth.

Great. He’s clearly mad. Look at that grin…

And then the bartender lunged.

The energy flickering around the knife slid from shade to shade like the light that danced above the clouds up north. It would have been beautiful, if the blades weren’t aimed at him.

Cael choked off a yelp and dove for his pack, toppling the table he’d grabbed over between him and the bartender as he did. He barely registered the cacophony of shattering pottery as his dive came up short, his crippled leg, stiff hip and alcohol-fuzzed brain all protesting the sudden movement. He barely registered that the tavern was slowly emptying of pretty much anyone who looked anything close to sympathetic, barely registered that the bartender was following -

He did, however, register the sharp flare of pain where the knife’s blades raked up his side. He let out a hiss of pain, but kept moving.

Look at it this way, the part of his mind that sounded an awful lot like the familiar currently high-tailing it for the door chirped, he’s got a long way to go before he does anything you’ve not gone through before.

He landed in the middle of the floor, hard enough to shock his breath from his lungs, rolling beneath another table. Crimson dotted the floor in his wake as he crawled between the legs of the soldier standing next to his gear, smearing in a thin trail. His mental voice was right. The wound wasn’t bad, not yet, but gods, it burned.

The soldier growled something Cael couldn’t understand and gave him a dirty stare, but otherwise left him alone; moving out of the way. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the bartender, eyes flashing with anger, lunge again.

Cael’s stained fingers closed around the familiar rough wood of his naginata and he spun, bringing the polearm between the shorter man and himself. There was a loud thunk of metal striking wood as he just managed to block the blades from driving into his stomach. He looked from the blades embedded in the handle to the bartender’s eyes, struggling to keep the naginata’s shaft between him and his attacker from his awkward, half-kneeling, half-sitting position on the floor. His free hand went to the twin gashes in his side, coming away dripping and red.

“T-there’s your b-blood.” He stammered, panting, crimson-stained fingers joining the clean ones gripping the naginata. He spoke with the logic available to him; common sense somehow separated from his mind by the moat created by whatever he had been drinking. “C-can I p-pay and go now?”

[Gordie]

(Inkfinger's Bunny approved)

“T-there’s your b-blood.” Somehow, the twin blades of his dagger faltered a little as the, now Naginata-weilding, humanoid spoke, his fingertips dripping with his own blood.

'Blood.' The shapechanger thought to himself. 'Warm, lifegiving blood. The first thing any living thing knows, is how to spill it.' Bottlebrush watched the blood fall from the twin gashes on the humanoid's side. 'More. Must. Have. More' Strange and alien thoughts were assaulting him, telling him to spill more, telling him to squeeze it out of the humanoid. 'Crush, Kill, Destroy.' Peering through the red induced haze was the naginata, his twin-bladed energy dagger embedded in the haft about six inches from the metal head of the pole-weapon. He grabbed the dagger with both hands, and wrenched, trying to send the pole weapon, with his dagger still embedded, into the wall behind the small humanoid.

[Inkfinger]

All reasonable bunnies approved from here on out.

I am going to take that as a no.

He'd been expecting a renewed lunge. Instead, his small opponent jerked on his knife, hard. Between his pushing and the bartender's pulling, he was dragged to his unsteady feet. His head swam, and he staggered again, the butt of the naginata taking out a flask of something left open and abandoned on a nearby table before it slipped from his fingers, flipping through the air, his assailant's knife still embedded in the shaft.

The polearm landed, blade first, in the wall where it quivered with the tingling chime of vibrating wood and metal. The blade, Cael could see from where he stood, had sunk deep into the dark wood. He looked down to meet his opponent's eyes. There was something flickering in the green, something unhealthy and hungry and not entirely sane, something that held the same malice as his smile.

The bartender was now between him and his weapon, and the bartender clearly knew it. Cael's chest heaved with his panting as fuzzy realization continued to play out in his mind. The last knife had, unless he'd been very much mistaken, appeared from thin air. Sure, it was now out of reach, but...

Watch him be able to do it again.

Suddenly, Cael didn't want to be there very much, at all. He jumped back into motion to the sound of jeering whistles and cat calls. He ducked beneath a punch that he hadn't even seen being thrown, lost his balance again, went down on his side in a puddle of still-hot water and still-cool alcohol. Whatever had been in the pitcher stung in the open slashes and smelled like a burning peat bog, adding nausea to the list of pains reawakened by the unsought battle.

He hissed, gritting his teeth, but clung to the back of a chair to pull himself upright. He dragged the chair after himself, like a lion-tamer, trying to keep it between himself and the irate bartender as he looked for something to replace the naginata, at least until he could get it back.

There was a meal still set out on the table next to him, half eaten, the silverware still on the plate, the rich scent of beef and potato still rising. His stomach growled, though whether it was in hunger or protest he couldn't tell.

He ignored the meal, and grabbed for the steak knife, spinning to face the renewed attack he knew must be coming before his fingers even connected with the worn wood of the knife's hilt.

[Gordie]

Bottlebrush stalked the distance between the two of them, like a hunter in search of his prey. He watched as his prey, the drunkard, realized what had happened and fumbled around for something else to defend himself with. He glanced at the naginata embedded in the wall as the energy blade, still embedded in it, started to fade away into nothingness. The young shapeshifter closed his eyes momentarily as the humanoid fumbled around and his hand brushed against a steaknife.

While the Drunkard had his back turned, bottlebrush changed his form, streaking off into the unknown crowd as an orange and black tabby. He similarly laughted to himself to find that when the larger person turned back around, that the shapeshifter wasnt where he was expected to be. 'That's right, little mousey,' Bottlebrush thought with every fibre of his being. 'where's the big bad mean kitty?'

The red induced haze he was seeing through was still egging him on, and he fought very hard not to reveal himself too soon. Instead choosing to toy with his opponent, making him look into helpless places where he would eventually make a mistake, and recieve a twin blade into his back. Nevertheless it was worth it to see the look on the drunkard's face when he whipped the steakknife, it's blade still having hunks of meat and gravy dripping from it, to where he knew an attack would come from, but didnt see him.

[Inkfinger]

No attack came.

Cael took several steps backwards, pale blue eyes widening to scan the crowd, the tables and the booths. The shadows were beginning to lengthen as the light from outside continued to fade and the lights from inside, the oil lamps and candles, seemed to grow brighter to compensate. The shadows made it easy to miss things, made it easy for opponents to hide, but surely he couldn’t have hidden that fast?

And why would he hide, anyways? It’s not exactly like I’m a threat…

The chair scraped the floor loudly as he dragged it along, switching the steak knife into the same hand on the chair’s back. Those watching didn’t seem worried; they, to a man, seemed to have the same expression of… Cael frowned, eying the faces. The expression was something quite like amusement, and that realization opened a new pit in his stomach.

They know something I don’t.

He fought off that thought as he made his unsteady, weaving way through toppled tables and discarded chairs to where his naginata still hung from the wall. The bartender's knife was gone, leaving parallel grooves bit deep into the oak. He cursed beneath his breath, and jerked on the shaft.

The naginata shifted, slightly, but didn’t pull loose; the force of its impact had driven it deep into the wall. He gave it another tug, feeling cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck, and he turned to scan the bar. The bartender was still nowhere in sight, and that made him turn back to the polearm with renewed fervor.

I hate being stalked.

Someone caught his hand as he yanked again, pinning it tight to the smooth wood. He managed a startled whimper as rough fingers traced over the dark brand carved brazen and ugly against his skin. The fight was almost forgotten the sudden spike of primal fear that rushed through his mind.

Too close get away, tooclose getaway, tooclosetooclosegetaway...

“I know what that means,” purred a voice too earnest to be lying, almost too low to be heard, breath hot and damp against the side of his neck. Cael shuddered, painfully aware of his vulnerable position, one hand clutching chair and knife, the other held to the shaft. He could feel the speaker, feel the heat of another living body at his back, and he couldn’t hear anything but his voice.

“Win or lose, once things are done here, I’m coming for you.” The owner of the voice jerked his hand, and the naginata slid out of the wall –

-which is all well and good, because Cael spun, planting a panicked elbow into the man’s throat. The speaker fell back into the shadows, the darkness hiding his features. Cael didn’t care, didn’t listen to his coughing, and didn’t hang around to look for his original opponent. He was already in motion, vaulting the chair he’d dragged to charge, full speed, for the door to freedom.

He was halfway there when something thunked loudly and the floor vibrated beneath his feet. The sound was another table toppling – this one intentional, he realized through sick fear and brain fuzz - to effectively block the door shut. He barely managed to skid to a stop before he would have run right into it.

"That's cheating," he hissed, to whomever might be listening, fear tinging his words. He didn't care who noticed anymore: he just wanted out.