To Roll A Drunk

[Lucid]

*Closed to Ebivoulya and Lucid.*

A sturdy covered wagon rolled through the center of Radasanth. It bounced over small ornate bridges and jittered across cobbled courtyards. It threaded its way through the daily bustle at the command of a boy faced young man who held the reigns, but whose thoughts were busy elsewhere. He was happy because there were a few extra coins in his pouch, but his employers had stressed to him the importance of his cargo.
He bit his lip as he waited idly for a patrol of mounted guards to pass him at an intersection. A breath of relief gushed from his lungs as the patrol passed, making side deals wasn't something he normally did and it made him nervous.
He made straight for his destination, taking no extraneous roads or frivolous stops. Once arrived, he quickly dismounted and hurried around to the back of the wagon. He raised his fist tentatively, then knocked against the boards as if he hadn't been invited to this deal.

Inside, the meager knocking carried through the cargo compartment where there were several large chests bound by stout chains and sturdy padlocks. There were, however, two chests left in the rear, covered by burlap tarps, that had neither chains nor locks. At the sound of the knocking [actually the lack of motion, cause the kid knocked like a pansy] the lid of one of these chests lifted and a man emerged. He looked and moved at first like a man would if he had been cramped in a chest on a bouncing wagon for an extended time. The driver's voice carried to him from outside, catching him in mid- pelvis thrusting, arms over head, up on tip-toe stretch, "Sir, Mr. Slick sir, we've arrived, we're in Radasanth. You....you can get out now...We're behind the Silver Pub. There isn't anyone around, so um...I thought this would be a good place to part ways..." He waited for a response, then after a silent pause, ventured again. "Sir....are you still in there?"

"It's Rastic you twit, not Mr. Slick." Rastic gave his clothes a quick shrug and stepped over to the chest opposite him. He removed the tarp and tossed it by the tailgate. He lifted the wooden lid and bent down to retrieve his pack. After a quick check to make sure he had all his belongings, he put pack to shoulder and jumped down from the back of the wagon. He picked up the burlap tarp, loosely balled it around his fist and strode around the corner of the wagon. He strode right up to the driver as if he were going to walk over him, but instead threw the tarp directly in the mans face. Rastic heard the start of a muffled yelp of surprise, but the noise was quickly replaced by the sharp crack of Rastic's knuckles crashing into the boy faced young mans temple. The driver crumpled with a thud and splayed out on the cobblestones. Rastic quickly removed the unconscious man of his money pouch and covered him up with the tarp.

Rastic looked around for the first time really since exiting the wagon and was actually impressed by the annoying drivers choice of shady area to unload his ill-tempered cargo. He looked to the form at his feet, 'Maybe covering him with the tarp was a little unnecesary, there really isn't anyone about...' he thought to himself, 'Ah, who gives a shit. This way he didn't see it comin.'
He made a mental note of the name on the side of the wagon, Island Trading Co., theirs was an office he wanted to stop by later. The cargo in the wagon must be something worth stealing if the owners had had it chained and locked so securely. Later, he would find the warehouse, steal the cart, and deal with the chains at his leisure. But he'd have to give the driver time to come around and return the wagon to the warehouse, which could take some time. So in the meantime, he figured he'd go and find a stout mug of ale with the few extra coins he'd just 'acquired'.

[Ebivoulya]

Darkened, shadowy corners were abundant when sought in the right places. Some of them grew so absent of light and life that they sucked the very energy from the air around them. They tended to leave one’s breath soft and warm on their lips in the cold bite of nightfall. That bitter taste of fear, the impending rumbles gushing forth from the very soul of death itself; they all seemed so stale and cliché in times such as these.

The waning sound of crashing waves lulled the senses into repetitious security. Change was feared as well as sought, and the lack of it can make men weak with inaptitude. Senses strung taught, eyes finding naught; darkness consumed all comfort, excepting those with other business.

“So this is it, then?”

Hushed voices swam between the crashing waves, which licked at the soaked wooden piers with their erosive tongues. The swaying of boats cut through the moonlight, casting moving shadows from the giant moonlit sky so full of stars. Two huddled figures discoursed, their ramblings naught but whispers on the wind to the ears of those wise enough to stay uninvolved.

”Yeah, that’s all of it. Got what I want?”

“Of course; here.”

A tightly bundled bag was exchanged between hands, finding itself the victim of a pair of gloved fingers prying at its contents. The shorter figure turned heel and began to retreat into the night, just as he had planned. However, despite his plan the victim of his ploy quickly discovered the contents of his expensive package to be nothing more than sand. With little more than an angered hiss, he tossed the bag to the grimy, wet cobblestone and quickly pursued his ex-associate.

His breaths drew quick, sucking the cold, stale air from around him. A foot flashed in his vision, quickly retreating into another dank alleyway. He was slowly catching up. Assaulting the very stone upon which he stood, he pumped his legs forward, chasing his prey with no remorse, or sympathy. He could see him now, his sick little hobbled form running for his very life. No matter where he ran, he would be found.

Finally, an opportunity presented itself. Just as the little rat darted around another stone corner, his pursuer leapt upward, kicking off the stone wall. His large body fell heavily onto the short little man, and both of them flew into the grimy cobblestone. They wrestled for a second, but soon he was on top of him. He landed one blow after another, and the shady man shortly stopped moving. Chest heaving, he clumsily searched his pockets, reliving his victim of anything valuable.

He wasn’t even armed…idiot…

Now with his gold back, and a little extra for his trouble, he casually strolled out of the suffocatingly dank alleyway. He checked the pouches at his waist, quickly flipping the dark leather hood over his head. Flickering torchlight licked at the grimy stone streets. He knew there was more profit to be had this evening. It was just waiting for the right hand to pluck it up from its oblivious owner.

[Lucid]

Men who fought like jackals and barmaids who enticed like sirens could only entertain a man for so long. Rastics time for pleasure had expired. On his way to the counter he passed by a fishing net hung on the wall and a lobster trap with buoy nailed to a support column. He surrendered several coins to a bearded man with an anchor on his arm standing behind the counter. Tab paid, he swiftly headed for the exit and slipped seamlessly into the dockside night.

The whole evening had been spent warming Rastics innards in the tavern, now it was time for him to find the anonymous headquarters of the Island Trading Co. There was no hurry in this endeavor, a wagon passively awaited his arrival. In the meantime bright stars and sputtering torches threw light enough for him to search by.

He nonchalantly strolled down the cobble streets, his shadow for company, fearing none at this late hour. Here, in the shadier sections of town, the rundown and dilapidated buildings seemed to blend into one congruent flow of taverns and warehouses. Frustration rose in Rastic like the tide as he passed sign after sign to no avail.

At one point, the sounds of a fight broke the rhythm of the steady ocean, but drunks were hardly enough to distract the man from his mission. Rastic threw a glance over his shoulder out of caution and continued on his search. Only a few alleys later the telltale scuffle of footsteps pattered behind him. Another glance offered a glimpse of a shadowy figure, but what was one shadow to another?

The man behind was of no concern, yet one grimy sign stated that Rastic had found the Island Trading Co., and witnesses just wouldn’t do at this moment. He turned to deal with the tail only in time to hear the wind whistle and tug at torch-flame. Rastic assumed the man had ducked into a tavern and turned back to face the two buildings of the Island Trading Co. The smaller building looked more like a shack, the larger across the street and opposite the shack was a typical wooden warehouse situated on a dock extending out on the water. Observing from the shadows, there were no lights lit that Rastic could see. He put out the cigarette he’d been smoking and advanced from the cover of darkness to the wagon doors on the streetside of the warehouse.

”C’mon an tell me it’s my lucky day…” Rastic mumbled to himself. He grabbed a rusty handle and heaved up on the door. There was loud metallic screech as the door opened like a cavernous maw. ”Son’af a bitch, we can’t be having that, can we?” He was about to say more, but then his eyes fell on the wagon, front and center, with the horse stabled right next to it. An evil, contented smirk plastered itself on Rastics face, until the first guard rounded the wagon and rushed at him full speed. Then it fell to the cobbles and shattered.

The guard running, more voices from the depths of the warehouse, and the thoughts coursing through Rastics mind all seemed to move in still frames. The concussion from the guards shoulder impacting against his hip jarred him back to the moment in enough time to tighten his grip on the door handle as he fell backwards.

He landed on his back to the boom of the door slamming shut and the ugly mug of a sleepy, underpaid guardsman. The underpaid guardsman looked down to find a livid thief and his apathetic blade. His eyes went wide as a flash of steel narrowly avoided his belly. Frantic eyes looked towards the door, the guard had expected his buddies to jump right in and overpower the thief. He hadn’t counted on the door closing behind him, cutting his reinforcements off for a few precious seconds. Seconds in which Rastic fought like a wolverine; he cut the distance to the guard, then cut the guard. The poor man floundered in the face of Rastics quick offensive, never managing to draw his sword before Rastic stood before him eye to eye.

There was a flurry of movement. The guard made to draw; Rastic flipped his knife in his left hand, stayed the guards blade with his right and sank his knife to the hilt in the mans neck. Rastic watched as the underpaid guards eyes dimmed and gravity finally won its battle against one more man. He paid no attention to the downed guard but faced the warehouse door, knife in hand.

”There can not be mor’an two others in there…”

SCREEEEECH

”Shit….six?"

[Ebivoulya]

Thick ocean air whistled past cornerstones and torches. Most of the architecture was covered in a thick layer of salt. It almost made the buildings blur into a shapeless haze of grey and brown. The angled cobblestone streets were still slick from an early morning rain, and that wasn't helping anyone. Worse yet, the wind would hardly die down enough for an honest, hard working man to enjoy a pipe full of his favorite herbal blend. His cloaked form was huddled next to a flickering torch. Countless times, he had to relight his lighting stick, before finally he tossed it to the ground and pulled the torch from the wall's grip. Inhaling deeply, his already vague visage was enveloped in an ever-growing cloud of smoke, and he hurriedly replaced the torch while coughing as if he'd just inhaled a horde of insects. Finally clearing his lungs, he managed to keep his pipe lit enough to venture away from the bright, warm grip of the light.

He casually strolled the sickly streets, a trail of smoke floating just above and behind him. After a few failed drags, he turned it upside down and tapped it on the steel back of his armored glove, wiping the ash away with his other hand. He returned his favorite pipe to its place in a pouch at his waist, and turned the corner into another alley. His eyes instantly caught the sight of a vaguely familiar man killing a guard.

...wait a second...is that...

His steps slowed as he advanced into the darkened alley. He could just see the corner of the steel door at the other end as it swung open and six more guards waddled out, bumping into each other in the process. Four of them were armed with swords, and the other two with pole arms. They stayed by the door, while the other four slowly encircled the poor bastard who tried to rob them. That same poor bastard cast a backwards glance while assessing his situation, and it was in that instant that his unknown savior recognized him.

That IS him!

Breaking into a sprint, his armored boots slipped on the wet cobblestone, but still propelled him forward. He leaned to one side as he exited the alley and grabbed an unmarked box with both hands. Lifting it over his head, he hurled it into the group. It flew just above his acquaintance’s head and knocked one of the guards back into the other two who were guarding the door. He reached up and drew the blade from his cloaked back, taking it into both hands as he approached. The three remaining guards all turned towards him, completely forgetting the armed man they were encircling earlier.

"Time to play!"

[Lucid]

Rastic stood over the prone body of the guard as blood pooled around his feet and formed a coursing, miniscule river which threaded through the cobblestones towards its oceanic outlet. He looked from the frying pan at his feet to the oven opening before him. Six figures cautiously emerged from within the depths of the warehouse. Their arms and armor softly clinked as they spread out around the cornered thief.

His face belied nothing but calm, yet his eyes worked furiously to take in all the input from his surroundings. Two guards held their pole-arms awkwardly, if the first was any indication, the security the Island Trading Co. had hired was not well trained; and the men’s unfamiliarity with their weapons was proof. There was a false luster in their eyes as well. Rastic reasoned that none of these men were confident in their own abilities, but rather their courage came from their advantage in numbers. The quick and mysterious death (for they hadn't seen what transpired) of their peer seemed to even drain some of that gusto from their will.

It felt as though hours had passed, but Rastic was completely circled within moments. The pavestones beneath his feet emitted a wet growl as his stance lowered into a crouch, his feet slid out to shoulder width. He paid little attention to the guards before him, assuming he'd be attacked from behind first. Shadows on the ground gave the cornered man the edge he needed. The second one of those shadows so much as flinched he planned to wheel and drive his dagger into flesh like a fury, never slowing till he fell or his foes blood slaked the ground.

His twisted, criminal mind had already played this fight out in his head, but before thought was put to action a distraction entered the scenario. A crate flew from above and behind the group. Its’ descending arc intercepted the swordsman opposite Rastic, where a corner caught the guard in the hip unawares, sending him reeling backwards into and between his pole-armed peers. The crate returned to the cobbles with a clattering crash and a scattering of packing straw.

In a fight for ones life, there is little time to find humor in a situation. Thus, overlooking the fact that two of his opponents floundered on their backs like turtles, Rastic exploded with motion. He leapt over the corpse at his feet, flashed the short distance to the guards, and heaved himself into the air.

Looking for the object that had hit him and finding only straw and empty wooden mugs, the swordsman never raised his weapon in defense. His only warning was a flicker of shadow as Rastic fell from the air, face contorted with fury, knife cocked behind his head, feet trailing behind. A steely glint briefly flashed in the moonlight before it buried itself in the helpless guards’ breastplate with a metallic shriek.

The two pole-arm guards realized their predicament now, but were hampered by the shafts of their weapons over their chests and held down by the weight of their assailant and their ever less lively compatriot lying over the shafts themselves.

Rastic quickly pushed himself off the body of the swordsman and attempted to pull his knife from the mans’ breast. He succeeded only in pulling the limp body upwards a tug before it fell back with the blade still embedded like a grim pillar of death. His two remaining enemies struggled to free themselves; to his left the man lay trying to unsheathe his knife in obvious panic, to his right the guard was making headway crawling out from underneath the two spear-like weapons as he tried to sit up.

Rastic knew allowing the two guards to regain their feet would be a fatal mistake, especially now that he was unarmed and still outnumbered. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder to check on the missing three guards, saw they were engaged, and grabbed what he needed to end the fight quickly.

The dead swordsman relinquished his grasp on his sword at a yank from Rastic who spun mightily to his right. The heavy blade sank into flesh just below the guards chin, wedging itself between two vertebrae. Rastic spat a foul curse at the passing guard for having such a thick trunk of a neck as he cavorted over the tangle of bodies to straddle the lone, remaining guard. The mans’ eyes stared hopelessly up at the adrenaline bound eyes of Rastic; he hadn’t been able to draw his knife in time. Fist after fist fell to the cobbles until the thief could no longer discern a recognizable visage.

Picking himself up slowly, the blood spattered criminal put foot to shoulder and gripped the sword he’d used, freeing it with a jerk. The lifeless corpse jumped and slumped back to the road with a wet smack.

In the packing straw by his foot Rastic noticed an ordinary wooden mug. ”No shit…that was the distraction.” He picked one up and hefted it in his free hand, a quirky smile playing across his twisted face. ”Time to return the favor…” Looking to where his savior was engaged, he picked the back of a guards head and winged the tankard in his direction.

[Ebivoulya]

The first guard to charge met with the half-elf blade on blade, as the other two heckling bastards encircled them both. He glared into the young boy’s eyes with intense ferocity and hunger, devouring his will to fight, or perhaps simply transfiguring it into fear. His arms grew taught, and he threw himself from the prey before him, spinning on the steel-toed, armored boots he commissioned months ago, and slinging his sword towards what was at best a horrible, scared little whelp of a guard.

His blade tasted flesh, but only an appetizer. Skimming across a blue and gold forearm, it leapt into the night, speckles of crimson trailing behind the polished steel. He would not waste his momentum. Spinning once more, the warrior crouched, and his sword swept the street clean of trash, save one leather-ensconced foot that tarried too long. Its previous owner did little but fall over, babbling and screaming while the other two rushed the dismembering deviant.

He gleefully sidestepped a thrust, spinning around his first attacker to bring his Greatsword down upon the sickly rat that ran behind. The massive blade knocked his little long sword to the side, and with the snap of a wrist he caught the momentum of the sword, and redirected it up to drag across the neck guard of the watchman’s breastplate. Sparks sprayed into the iron suit, and an inch or so of the neck guard was cloven by the barbarian’s swing as he ran past his prey. The force of it flung the suit, inhabitant and all, to the grimy cobblestone in a shrill clatter. Already the winding cobblestone was tainted a glorious crimson.

The other able-bodied watchman ran towards him, then feinting a swing with undue confidence, and parrying the ensuing block. Before the lithe guard could swing his blade, a steel-plated heel dug into his face, slamming his helmeted head into the street, and bending the face-guard in enough to break his nose. The half-elf’s cloak was whipped into a swirl, which soon settled as the steel of his sword slid in between the breastplate and helmet of the man underfoot.

He heard chain mail scraping against the torn steel left by his blade, and surmised the other one was standing. The incessant wailing of the man bleeding to death on the ground to his side began to grind down the barbarian’s patience, however, and he took a large step back to stomp on the neck of the worthless husk that dared babble and beg for its life in his presence. Deep ebony eyes remained transfixed on the last standing guard of those who attacked the half-elf and company. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, and it was obvious he didn’t have the skill his recently departed partner had.

“Too bad for you…”

Before he could even attack, a wooden mug slammed into the young guard’s helmet, knocking it clean off, and stunning him noticeably. The barbarian’s limbs fluidly slid into position, distributing weight and force only where it needed to go. Unfortunately for the aspiring Captain of the Guard, the same helm which flew from his dome blocked his sight in the vital few seconds he needed to react. As soon as its reflective silver face dipped below the lad’s field of view, a long, thin line of luminescent grey rushed up to meet him, leaving just as quickly. Oddly, though he could not feel anything amiss, the world around him suddenly tilted to the side, and his vision came to rest on the slime-covered cobblestone street as he watched what was undoubtedly his headless body slumping to the ground in front of him. The world grew black, and every memory, dream, and aspiration fluttered off into the wind like leaves from a tree, repentantly illuminated in the golden haze of autumn.

Ripping his captured gaze from the stone ridden massacre, the sword slinger looked towards the Island Trading Co. building to see his partner in crime the only other one standing. He flicked his blade to the side to get rid of the excess blood, and wiped it off on the protruding shirt of a uniformed corpse. Sliding the sword back into its sheath, the half-elf approached his human acquaintance.

"We should, uh, probably get these guys out of the middle of the road."