Late Night Antics

[Lord Anglekos]

Closed to Whitlen.
Nightfall, and the residents of Radasanth had already sought the comfort of home and the safety of shelter by the time Eric got there. The moon was bright and illuminated the way forward for him this night, and he was glad when he saw the words on a sign that seemed to glow with almost heavenly light as they beckoned to him. "The Rabbit's Foot: Inn and Pub", they said, and with a sigh more akin to a man dying of thirst who'd found water he pushed open the door and stumbled in.

Inside there was your usual assortment of barflies and insomniacs, complete with grumpy-looking bartender standing over the motely bunch with his scowl in place. There weren't as many people as Eric'd thought there were be, which was a bit of a relief, as he didn't want the brutish sound of a room full of conversation assaulting his ears, but there was one group that, true to pub nature, had gotten drunker than they should've. They sat together in a small group, an assortment of soldiers and mercenaries by the looks of them, and had gotten several of the remaining waitresses to grab a few drinks themselves. If not for the fact they weren't undressed and not having sex, it could have been an orgy right there in the middle of the room.

Eric rolled his eyes and looked around. There weren't many other customers; in fact, the only other one was a small redhead cupping a cup of something at a table far away from the racuous group. Her hair blocked Eric from seeing her face, but he got the sense she was thinking deeply on something. If that was the case, he sympathized; he knew what that was like. Closing the door behind him he nodded at the bartender, who simply scowled back and grunted "Whaddya want?"

"Something quick and light." He replied, setting a few coins on the counter before him. "And a room, if you've got one."

"We do." The bartender snorted and pulled out a key from beneath the counter before handing it to the swordsman, who accepted it with a nod. While the man was away getting the drink, Eric watched one of the men stumble drunkenly over to the red-haired girl with a smile on his face that Eric recognized all too well. Uh oh. Here comes trouble. He thought, but continued to watch first.

[Whitlen]

Ugh... What a long day... Whitlen Hadley, artist and blossoming adventurer, had only arrived two days prior in Radasanth, and was heartily disappointed. Despite the large crowds of potential buyers, she had only sold one piece that morning: a painfully executed portrait of one of the ugliest women she had ever seen. Making her look attractive, of course, was part of the deal. Thankfully, it had paid well, and she could live off of it for a few days at least. Still, she hadn't accomplished much, and her night terrors still haunted her despite her best efforts. On top of everything, she had broken one of her favorite paintbrushes tripping on a manhole, and been manhandled by at least a dozen half-drunk men, each more horrible than the last.

Shortly after sunset, Whit decided to give up for the day and head for her current "home", a little hole in the wall called The Rabbit's Foot: Inn and Pub. The fare was decent and affordable on her bare-bones budget, and so far there hadn't been any bedbugs to be seen. The clientele was less than desirable, but there were a few adventurers around town that stopped in from time to time, giving her hope that she could find something interesting to do.

As she pushed her way through the door, several faces turned toward her, immediately making her self-conscious and uncomfortable. Whit mentally checked that her wrappings were still holding fast, reducing her effect on the men in the room. Check! Lifting her cornflower eyes, she scanned the room for an empty table, and was pleased to find one a good distance away from anyone else. Tucking an unruly strand of fiery red hair behind her ear, the girl glided to the innkeeper, double-checking that her room was still paid up, and ordered a cup of warm honey mead to sooth her frayed nerves. That settled, she gave him a coin and headed for the table and tried to ignore the leering faces all around her.

Finally seated, she set her pack down at her feet, slightly obscured from view by chair legs and her own. Within a few moments her drink arrived, delivered by the blonde, curvaceous wench Whit had come to refer to as Sourface, mainly due to the barely concealed look of loathing on her face around other females. Not in the mood to deal with her poor attitude, Whitlen glanced up, tightened her mouth in a slight smile, and immediately looked down at the mead.

"Bitch..." she heard as the wench moved off. Soon, though, she was back at home serving - or servicing - her male clientele, loving the attention.

After a while, Whit was able to drown out the din of the increasingly raucous room and focus on her own depressing thoughts. With her head down, she fiddled with her lip piercing and pondered such things as: Where should I go tomorrow? I wonder if I can get a hot bath tonight... Are my paintings really that bad? Perhaps if I did some drawings instead? Oh who am I kidding. Nobody in their right mind would buy art from a girl, especially me. Lost in her world of self-effacement, she didn't notice the smiling drunk wobbling toward her until he was close enough to smell.

"Hey, baby, lesh go upshairsh and have shum fun," he declared, his rank breath washing over the redhead as he reached for her chest.

"No thank you, sir, I have other plans," she replied, her tone polite but firm, her blue eyes clear and hard. Apparently, he did not like that answer, because his own eyes hardened with fury, his face contorting with it. Without much more warning than that, he grabbed her by the hair, twisting it so that she would have to face him. Once, tears would have welled in her eyes and she would have begged for freedom; things had changed for her early in life. Instead, she leveled a cold glare at him, balled up her fist, and punched him as hard as she could in the groin.

Her hair was quickly released as he moved into a fetal posture and dropped to the hard wood floor.

"Touch me again, I dare you."

[Lord Anglekos]

Crunch.

Inwardly, Eric winced as the redhead sank five hard, practiced knuckles into the most sensitive area a man carries, and true to nature's intent, the drunkard fell to the floor with a satisfying thud and a groan of pain. His companions, content with the blonde waitress who seemed to like "sharing" herself and her fellow employees, laughed at his pain, and with some effort he resisted from joining in with them. To be honest, the expression on his face was quite comical, and even though he knew that had their places been switched he wouldn't find the situation so funny, it didn't stop him from chuckling quietly over where he sat. After all, the man had gotten what he'd deserved.

However, the drunkard was made of tougher stuff than a direct hit to the storage junk could put down, it seemed, as he managed to climb to his feet with a snarl. Eric wasn't worried until the man pulled out a thick, serrated knife from a sheath at his leg. "Fuckin' bish!" He shouted, and it was then that Eric decided that things had gone far enough. Grabbing the wooden stool he was sitting upon, with a grunt of effort he sent it flying through the air. There was a moment where time seemed to slow down, then another satisfying "THUNK!" as the wood got aqquainted with the man's face. Upon impact the stool broke; it must not have been very strong wood.

Fortunately, the drunkard's head seemed to be as thick as his muscle, and instead of truly hurting him the man blinked, stumbled around with a few mutterings of disbelief, and collapsed to the floor once more. A few of the ones who had gotten so drunk they couldn't think or walk straight again found the situation comedic and laughed at his unconcious form: The rest simply glanced from Eric to the man and back again before going back to their business, which seemed to involve feeling up the slutty blonde and her co-workers.

Eric was feeling pretty good after what he'd done until someone tapped his shoulder. He turned to find the bartender standing there, his scowl increased tenfold. "You break it, ya buy it." He growled, and Eric's grin slid like mud off his face. Grumbling irritably he reached into his bag and pulled out his purse of coins before handing a few to the man, who grunted in satisfaction before setting down the swordsman's drink. Without glancing at the redhead whom he'd "saved" (he figured now that she probably could have taken care of herself, dammit...), he pulled up a new stool and begin sipping at his drink wearily. He wanted sleep.

[Whitlen]

Certain she had made her point, Whitlen turned away from her victim, intent on returning to her mead. Apparently the brew was getting to her, because she should have known better. No sooner had she resumed her position when a muttered curse behind her caused her to stiffen with fear. Before she could turn around, however, there was a hideous crash of wood splintering against human flesh. Fully facing the drunkard, the girl was horrified to see the remains of a barstool littering the fallen figure. Frozen, she waited for his chest to rise and fall before remembering to breathe again. During that moment, she noticed the glint of light on the broad knife's edge, and realized how close she had just come to death. What the...?

With uncertainty etched obviously on her countenance, she looked around the room for who could have done this. Her eyes lit on a young man at the bar just as he was shelling out payment for the broken weapon of circumstance. Shock washed through her in waves that a stranger would not only save her life, but pay for his own heroics on her behalf as well. Rattled, she felt the sting of tears welling up and took a deep breath in an attempt to suppress them.

In only a moment she had collected herself, but still could not fully comprehend the man's motives. After all, it had been her fault for tempting the drunken man in the first place, hadn't it? Obviously her bonds were not tight enough, to her reasoning. Still, she had to speak to him, find out why, and apologize for causing the fuss in the first place. I really need to lay off the mead! She could only be grateful that the felled man's friends had not decided to take revenge on her - yet.

With the unconscious grace of an athlete, Whitlen crossed the room, dodging grasping hands and pointed leers along the way. With a weak cough, she attempted to draw the man's attention, and her tongue fiddled nervously with her lip piercing from inside her mouth. With her left hand she swept an ever-errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Excuse me, but I'd like to repay you. For the barstool. I mean, it was my fault..." she stammered, her voice beginning to quiver a little as she spoke.

[Lord Anglekos]

Eric sighed. The brew he was drinking was good, but he'd been right; it still couldn't compare to the promise of a good bed and night's rest, which was a damn shame. This stuff would've been better in the morning, when he was wide awake and not stumbling all over his feet in weariness. Ah well...life was full of little mistakes. He'd grab his key, head up, and get some sl--

But as he turned to go to Heaven, which at the moment involved a mattress and bedsheets, he saw the crimson-haired girl he'd "saved" from the drunkard standing there with a nervous expression upon her young face. Now that he had a front seat view, he could see why the other man had gone after her in the first place. While she didn't have the thick curves of the other women in the room, her lithe physique moved with a grace that sensuality that took others years to achieve. A pair of generously-set lips sat upon her face, and while they were a little large it didn't detract from her beauty; rather, it gave her a look of lush overindulgence, and he had a good feeling she would make a great pouter. As it was, he noticed the silver ring embedded in those lips, and as if bidden to the thought, he saw her tongue fiddle with it inside her mouth. Whether from nervousness or an attempt to seduce him, he didn't know, but if was the latter it was working pretty damn well. A pair of eyes as blue and clear as the sky on a summer day stared at him with slight apprehension and thoughtfulness, and he tried not to stare back. However, as he watched, she coughed weakly and said with a slightly wavering voice; "Excuse me, but I'd like to repay you. For the barstool. I mean, it was my fault..."

He blinked, and at that moment realized something else about the girl; she was weak. He didn't know about physically, as he'd seen her drive her fist without hesitation into the now unconscious man, but emotionally and/or mentally, she was weak. Probably another thing that had attracted the drunkard in the first place; she gave off an aura of being "prey". Almost snorting at the comparison he'd made in his head, Eric addressed the girl as calmly as he could, trying to give off an air of nonchalance. He didn't know how well he could, though, as tired as he was. "It's no problem, miss. You were in trouble, and I acted." He gave her a small, indulging smile. "Besides, it's not your fault, so don't think it was. He was too drunk to think straight." Before she could respond, however, he sat his drink down and grabbed his yew bow, which could easily be mistaken for a walking stick as it was unstrung, and the key to his room. "Good night." He said to her and the barman, and without another word headed upstairs.

Upon entering the room, he found a small, humble abode waiting for him, complete with bed and a small bathroom. He sighed with happiness as he sat his bag, quiver, bow and sword by the bed and, without bothering to take his cloak or armor off first, collapsed on the bed. Tomorrow he'd have to seek out that recruiter he'd heard about in Dheathain, but for tonight all such worries were long gone away. The red head would probably be gone by tomorrow morning, which was a shame as he'd like to have gotten to know her, but...

...and without another moment's notice he was fast asleep, dreaming of screams and war.

[Whitlen]

Something in his eyes nearly caused her to turn and run. Dark and intense, they seemed to sear into her flesh for just a moment before she gave her pathetic speech. Just as quickly, though, that look seemed to cloud over, becoming unreadable, before changing into something akin to ... pity? or maybe condescension? The girl couldn't tell, but she could feel the creeping heat of embarrassment crawling up her neck to color her cheeks. To add insult to injury, he gave her some martyr jive about helping her for help's sake, and then walked away. Whitlen tried to be angry, but the spark fizzled and died before it could come to full fruition. He is just a stranger - he doesn't know you. Probably thinks you're just some pathetic girl. And you know he's right! she thought to herself as his footsteps faded up the stairs.

With a sigh of disgusted acceptance, Whit flicked her tongue against her lip ring, making it dance a little, before stalking back to her table. Hefting her possessions, she decided that she, too, was ready for bed. She left a coin on the table for the barmaid, knowing she didn't really deserve it but not caring, and headed upstairs to her own room. So absorbed was she in her own whirlwind of self hate, she didn't feel the heat of the drunkard's gaze on her retreating back as he woke to see her leave.

Closing the heavy oak door behind her, Whitlen leaned her lithe, athletic body against the wood wearily. The day had really worn her down, fraying her nerves almost to the point of breaking. Sliding the bolt home in the lock, she tossed her bag on the small bed, then lit a candle in the far corner of the room. The light flickered merrily, dancing on the walls, at war with the shadows. With little fear of being watched, she tore her clothing free, leaving her in her panties and a swath of tightly wrapped bandaging around her entire upper torso. It took the better part of ten minutes to get it all unraveled and rerolled for later use. The process revealed a much more curvaceous body than she allowed the world to see; she could not bear to corrupt the world with such a horrible temptation as that. After that, she pulled a bucket of cold water from the corner, a sponge floating on the surface, and a bar of soap from her own pack. Trying not to think of the day's events, she slowly and deliberately washed every speck of filth from her body and hair. The scent of lavender gently swept over her senses, calming and relaxing her body and mind.

Clean at last, Whitlen dried off and wrapped herself with course towel provided by the establishment, and rummaged through her pack. Finding a long, plain white shift, she tugged it over her head, divesting herself of the towel once she was totally covered. Satisfied, she hung the damp towel from a bedpost, then moved her pack under the bed. She was just about to climb in and try to sleep when there was a soft knock at the door. What the...?

Suspicious, Whit opened the portal only a crack, peering out into the hallway. Before she could get a good look, the strong smell of vomit and stale beer assaulted her senses, causing her to gag and release tension on the door. Fear shook her to the core, and she tried to shut the door, but it was too late - the opportunity had already presented itself. The drunk man took the opening and shoved the door open hard, the force of it knocking the wind out of the stunned girl as it slammed into her chest. Eyes wide, she struggled to breathe as she stumbled back a couple of steps and put her hands up to her throat instinctively.

Feeling a hand clamp tightly on her right wrist, she felt (and smelled) the warmth of his breath on her neck as he whispered "yes, pretty one, you should be afraid" in a husky whisper filled with barely restrained hate. Unable to defend herself as her body still had not recovered, she was a limp rag in his control. Pushing her backwards against the open door, he used her weight to close it with a loud click. Her breath started to come easier, and she tried to struggle away from him, but with a suddenness that frightened her, the feel of cold steel bit into the skin of her throat, and she could only hope that he had sobered enough not to accidentally kill her right then.

"You'll not be escapin' now, lovey. I'm'a get what I want, an' yer gunna give it ta me." The candlelight danced over his hateful features, adding an almost demonic gleam to his eyes. With slow deliberation, he dragged the blade downward, cutting the top of her shift to expose cleavage. Horror welled in her heart and tears burned her eyes as she tried to gain self-control and figure out what to do. Her instincts screamed for her to escape, but she just couldn't get her thoughts straight enough to figure out a plan. Too much of this reminded her of what she had learned about her own shortcomings, her wickedness, and she could only feel like she had brought this on herself somehow.

Having sunk into her own dark hell, she realized that life or death would mean nothing if she didn't at least try to stop this from happening. With the resolve of a tiger seeing its own death, she did what she did best, her knee coming up hard into his genitalia. This drew a pained hiss of stale breath from her attacker, and the tip of the knife dug into her flesh just above her left breast, drawing blood. She was used to pain, and was able to face it without flinching. What surprised her, though, was that he did not fall down or pull away in the slightest; indeed, she only seemed to have strengthened his resolve.

"You'll pay fer tha, ya cockteas'n bish!" he slurred loudly. Grabbing her by the hair, he lifted the knife away for a moment, then bashed her head repeatedly on the heavy oak of the door. Stars clouded her vision, and she had a difficult time staying focused. Without warning, the man dragged her a few steps, then tossed her bodily onto the small, lumpy mattress she had been eying only moments before. As he climbed over her, straddling her hips and pressing the knife back against her throat, she had an epiphany: the Master was right...

[Lord Anglekos]

He didn't sleep for long; his armor and restlessness eventually got to him. The nightmares usually drove him to sleep for only a few hours at the most, anyways, and he wasn't surprised when he looked at the clock upon the wall and saw that he'd only been asleep for an hour or so. Stifling a yawn and slowly undoing the straps upon his breast place, he looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn't surprised at what he saw there; a young man with slight bags under his eyes and a weary look upon his face, his body slouched as if he carried the entire weight of the world upon it. That young man wore a slightly wrinkled black shirt that had conformed to his body over the months and a pair of dark blue pants that, like the shirt, had seen too many days. Maybe he should get a change in wardrobe, if he was going to continue on like this. He sighed and grinned slightly, even though there was no one to see that grin but himself. Well, he chose this path, and for every path there was consequences. And here he was, about to become a soldier once more. What was it with him and war? Was death that prominent in his life that he had to seek it out? Shaking his head at the thoughts he took off his gauntlets, greaves and cloak as well.

Well, at least he'd gotten a little sleep. Maybe he'd tried to go back a little later, if he felt tired enough. Scratching the slight amount of hair that penetrated the skin of his chin and jawline and stumbled over to the sink in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. No, no sleep. He had to wake up. He didn't want to return to the nightmares again. Not unless he absolutely had to. He checked his back in the mirror and saw that his two hidden daggers he obtained in Dheathain were still there, silent within their scabbards that crisscrossed over each other. He'd never used them, but it was reassuring to know they were there nonetheless.

He sat on the bed once more and ran his wet hands through his hair, slicking it back slightly and darkening it until it looked black in the dim lighting of the room. What to do now? He could go down for another drink, perhaps; the bartender was probably still up, that grumpy bastard. Grinning at the thoughts going through his head, Eric strapped his long sword to his side once more and stroked the hair on it's hilt sadly. He stretched and yawned once more as he opened his door and walked down the hallway to the stairs.

Upon entering the bar section of the inn once more, he saw that the group of ruffians and their wenches were still there, singing a racous song that echoed throughout the room. He was glad that the walls in the place were so think, or the singing may have woken him up itself it was so bad. Rolling his eyes at their behavior, he pulled up another seat at the bar and nodded at the bald man attending it.

"Yew again?" The man grunted as he continued wiping down the counter. His upper lip curled as he spoke, and Eric thought to himself that the man must be part orc.

"Yeah, me again. I couldn't sleep." He sat down a couple of coins on the table. "Same stuff as before."

The bartender nodded and went to get his drink, but not before grunting; "Just don't break annaything this time."

Slight anger flushed through the swordsman, but he contained it as he clenched his fists. Getting into an arguement here about ethics wouldn't do either of the men good. Looking over his shoulder, Eric expected to see the drunkard still sitting there, snoring away, but to his surprise the spot where he'd been was unoccupied. As the bartender came back with his drink, Eric also noticed that the redhead was gone. Trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, he asked; "Where'd the girl go?"

One eyebrow raised at the question. "She 'ent upstaihs to 'er room."

Panic flooded through the warrior, but he had to make sure. "What about the man I knocked out? Where'd he go?"

" 'E went upstairs as 'ell. He didn't 'ave a room, but eh, not mah business."

He didn't bother hiding the fury and panic in his voice now. Leaning forward he grabbed the other man and pulled him over the counter, spilling the drink in the process. At the sound all the noise in the room died as Eric became the center of attention. "How long? How long ago did the girl go upstairs? Tell me!"

The bartender blinked. He obviously wasn't used to being manhandled so. "Er...uhm...she went up showt'ly aftah yew did."

"And the man? What about the man?!"

"Ah didn't see 'im leave until about an 'our aftah her."

Relief flooded through Eric. He could still make it in time. If he hurried, that is... "What's the girl's room number?"

Courage seemed to flood back into the bartender at this, and he shoved the swordsman away with a snarl. "Ah don't answah to any'un that treats me like that."

Anger ripped through Eric now, and he didn't bother to try and contain it now. It was too great to simply put a lid on. With a swift movement he jerked one of his prevalida daggers out of it's sheath and pressed it to the man's throat, making his back up against the wall with eyes wide. "If you don't tell me her room number, I'll slit your throat here and now." He snarled into the bartender's face, trying to be as convincing as possible. He was bluffing, of course, but he needed that number and he needed it now.

White-faced, the bald man gulped and stammered, "S-s-seventeen. She's in sevent-t-teen." Eric saw his hand reaching for one of the bottles poking out of the cuboards, but didn't care. He'd gotten what he wanted. Without saying anything else he sheathed his dagger and ran up the stairs, drawing his long sword as he did.

Ten...eleven....twelve...Eric flashed by them all as he ran, trying to reach the room as fast as possible. Then he saw it; number seventeen, and lo and behold, the door was ajar and Eric could hear slight grunts and groans coming from it. Gritting his teeth as his anger consumed him, he opened the door just as the drunkard straddled the redheaded girl, knife to her throat just as Eric had done just a minute ago to the bartender. Gritting his teeth, he took his sword in both hands as he stalked forward, seemingly unnoticed by either of the occupants of the room. With murderous intent etched upon his face, he raised his weapon and struck at the man's unprotected back, seeking to impale him in one blow.

[Whitlen]

Whitlen could feel moisture pooling on the lumpy pillow cradling her head, and knew she was badly injured, possibly with a mild concussion. She couldn't move, couldn't fight - she didn't dare for fear that his knife would bite her neck. Having divested her of the rest of her clothing, his eyes moved over her bare flesh, leaving her feeling as violated as she soon would be. As he shifted, grunting loudly, in the attempt to ready himself for the horrific deed he was about to inflict on the young girl's helpless body, he must have seen something in the flickering light, because he suddenly shifted his weight and his attention completely. As he swept the knife away from her throat, he drew blood, but not enough to cause her any significant loss. Having blocked the attempt on his life, the drunkard jumped from the bed, releasing her relatively smaller form from his bulk entirely. His lanky frame obstructed her view, but she could hear the grunt of exertion and the sound of metal on metal as he caught the weight of an attacking sword on the same dagger that had nearly ended her life. He struggled for a moment with a man that seemed vaguely familiar to her pain-fogged memory.

Even in this state, she had a strong instinct for survival. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, she searched almost frantically for a weapon. The dim light highlighted a brass candlestick standing alone on the nightstand to her right. As quickly and silently as she could, she twisted her body, allowing her to pick it up, then slid out of the bed herself to stand just behind her assailant. With deadly intent, she lifted the shining object over her head. At that moment, he made a backward thrust of his elbow, presumably in preparation for an attack rather than to stop her, and it caught her hard in the ribs. Pain exploded in her right side, and she dropped the would-be weapon to the hard wood floor. The resounding thump was echoed as she dropped to her knees next to it, clutching her ribs with tears of agony spilling over onto her cheeks.

This has to end...

With a shaking breath, she ducked out of the way of a stray foot, and another more potent object caught her gaze. A horrible idea struck her, and she didn't take the time to think it through, simply acting out on it. Gripping a broken spike of wood that had apparently fallen from her bead at some earlier time, she drove the rather pointy end of it into the side of his ankle where it was most tender. Blood spurted at the initial blow to his unstockinged flesh, speckling her own pale hand and face in a hideous display, then flowed in a stream over the wood. A guttural scream tore from the man's throat, but was cut short by an even more horrific gurgle as hit throat was slit by the welcomed intruder's blade.

Relief washed over her, and she held a bloody hand to her chest in a failed attempt to slow the strained beat of her heart. Her head pounded from the unpleasant encounter with the door, and as the adrenaline wore off her hands began shaking uncontrollably. You're alive, Whit. Breathe, it's okay, she thought to herself. Trying hard to steady herself, she checked the wounds on her throat and chest. Neither was deep enough to scar or need stitches, but they would need to be cleaned up. Touching the back of her head, she confirmed the damage there, though, and guessed she would be unstable at best for a day or two, and might need medical attention. Around her, though, the floor was darkening into a sticky mess as the the unnamed would-be rapist emptied his life all over it. With alacrity she didn't know she could master at this point, she half-leapt to her feet, scrambling back onto the bed before it could overtake her.

Lifting her eyes, she skipped past the bloody mess beneath her to meet the face of her savior. Recognition finally dawned on her as the pale flicker of candlelight illuminated his features. Surprise and doubt waged war in her wide eyes as she relived the scene from earlier in the evening. "You, you're the man from downstairs... How did you know? Why..?" She stammered, incapable of skirting her own surprise and rampant insecurities long enough to properly thank him.

[Lord Anglekos]

A spurt of blood, a flash of steel, and the girl's attacker fell to the floor in a heap of stinking flesh and ruined clothing. His life forced leaked from his body and through the floor boards, and he knew that the drunken occupants down below would soon have an unwelcome surprise dripping upon their heads. Eric glanced at the girl, who was now stuttering with surprise and caution, and noticed that now her clothing was off there was a much more shapely body lying underneath. Dammit, stop that! He yelled at himself inside his head and sheathed his bloody weapon back within its leather scabbard. "You're wounded." He stated simply as he noticed the cuts upon the top of her breast and base of her neck, and anger flooded him once more. If he could he would have slain the drunkard once more just upon seeing those. "You'll need to get cleaned up..."

But before he could continue on, a shout from downstairs came through the thick walls of the room and reached his ears. "Blood! Someone call the city guard!" It yelled in alarm, and there was sounds of scuffling as people began running around (or trying to). Eric winced as he realized his little display with the knife before probably had alarmed the bartender as to his intentions, and looked at the frightened redhead once more, her blue eyes wide. If they found her here with a murdered man lying on the floor and his blood all over her...his expression turned to a grimace as he realized what he must do. "Get dressed." He commanded her gruffly, trying to ignore the curves that had not been evident before. Dammit Eric, ignore your penis before it gets you killed! He reprimanded himself again as he stepped into the hallway and began walking out the door of her room.

He went quickly to his own and with haste put on his equipment and gathered the rest of his weaponry together. He'd saved her from rape and possible death, and now look at him; about to go on the run from the authorities for committing murder. The bartender and the rest of the occupants had already seen his face, so he'd have to get out of site...and, unfortunately, bring the girl with him. He hated that she had become an accomplice in this and that his morals demanded that he "save her"...again, now that he thought about it in retrospect, the people of Althanas were a tough lot. He'd seen her jab the wooden stake into the man's leg himself, and the way she'd dealt with the man earlier with her fist had suggested she had practiced doing so before, and didn't doubt with what. Damn his ethics and morals.

When he came back to her room he saw the door was closed, and he knocked upon it before opening it up. "It's me." He said bluntly, and saw that the man's body had been dragged into the bathroom by the trail of blood. However, the girl was nowhere to be found, although he heard water running behind the door to said room. A bad feeling crossed his mind and he went up to the door. "Are you in there?" He asked before opening it up.

[Whitlen]

Were she a weaker girl, Whitlen would have flinched at the anger in his blue eyes as they flashed over her bruised and bloodied body. Though she restrained the physical reaction, she flushed involuntarily, a rush of disgust at her wicked curves making her feel nauseous. He must think I'm some kind of harlot. Or he's wishing he'd never helped me. I can't really say I blame him. In the back of her mind she heard his gruff command to get dressed, and she nodded obediently, her eyes cast down to avoid his as she raised her hands to cover her breasts. She barely felt the sticky blood there, and the pain no longer registered. The fact that there were shouts for the authorities didn't hold a candle to this. She was almost relieved when he left the room, and she quickly closed the door - softly - behind him. For a moment she indulged her self pity and leaned against the grainy wood surface, feeling the cool material against the soft flesh of her back. Closing her eyes, she willed time to rewind, for her body to be different, to not be shunned by everyone so out of hand.

With a resigned sigh, she returned to her present situation, determining a course of action. Clean up, get dressed, move the body. The water from her earlier bath was still there and, while not pristine or even warm, was better than the bloody mess she was currently sporting. Using the same soap as before, she quickly scrubbed away every last vestige of crimson she could find from her hair, face, arms and torso. Feeling invigorated by the chilled rinsing, Whitlen dressed her knife wounds with a length of linen she usually reserved for her extreme version of modesty, and then pulled a short-sleeved silver-gray camisole and flowing black trousers from her pack, slipping them over her body hastily. She simply did not have time to spare for the ritualistic binding of her breasts, and would have to ignore the unfamiliarity of the fabric on her flesh. The wounded flesh on the back of her head had at least stopped bleading for the moment, and she found that she was not nearly as dizzy or unbalanced as she had surmised.

Still barefoot, she padded over to the body of the man she had helped kill. Self defense or no, she would remember every pockmark and scar on his face for the rest of her life. He had come so close to stealing the only part of her that had yet to be violated, her last remaining mark of untouched womanhood. Setting her generous mouth in a hard line of determination, she grasped the corpse by the wrists and dragged him into the water closet, muscles burning at the unfamiliar exertion, sweat beading along her forehead. Maybe I should have done this before I cleaned up... Smirking a bit at the wry thought, she sagged against the nearest wall, emotionally and physically drained.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the small rusted mirror on the wall to her side, the girl screwed up her face at her disheveled appearance. I have got to do something about that hair! Padding softly back into her bedroom, she grabbed her bag and slipped her feet into her black leather slippers. Dancing around the blood smears all over the floor, she retreated back into the water closet, dodging the corpse, and went about the task of combing and braiding her hair. By the time she had finished, there was a small black ribbon holding the tight rope of hair in place, and only a few loose tendrils of fiery wisps framed the huge blue eyes and pale skin of her face. Intently examining her handiwork, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Are you in there?" he asked, right before he opened the door.

She collected herself quickly, not wanting to unjustly misplace her feelings on him. The room wasn't very big, and the body of her assailant took up much of the space, leaving her crammed behind the door as it opened. Scooting her body from behind it, she answered him with a quizzical look. "I'm right here. What's going on? I heard those shouts... Am I going to be in trouble?" The thought hadn't really entered her mind until it spilled over her lips, which twitched slightly as she swallowed the fear that suddenly made it hard to breathe. Leaning heavily on what wall was still available, she trembled a little with barely acknowledged shock.

[Lord Anglekos]

The girl had a lot of fear, he thought to himself, and mostly that fear was not misplaced. If the guards came and saw her with the body and the blood all over the floor, she would most likely be blamed for the crime and executed for it. And besides that dark fact, she'd nearly just been raped, then saved by an almost complete stranger. Hell, neither of them even knew each other's name, and yet here the two of them were conversing and helping one another as if they were friends. Had he been in her position, Eric doubted he would have been as friendly. Stepping back out of the bathroom, he tried to give the girl some breathing space; she seemed to need it. "We both might be. I pulled a...stupid stunt downstairs, so the bartender's already got reason to dislike me. That plus the blood might involve you more than you like." He glanced towards the door and listened to the noises downstairs. It didn't seem as if the guard had gotten here yet, but...

He turned back to the girl and beckoned her forward with one gauntleted hand. She came forward reluctantly, and he noticed her legs shaking slightly. Wincing inwardly he spoke again. "I doubt the guard will listen to our tale, too; corruption runs rampant around here, and the bartender downstairs..." He grit his teeth as another problem showed itself in his plan. If he went downstairs, the patrons and fellow companions of the man he slew would probably try either to be "heroes" or avenge their fallen comrade. In either case, he didn't want to take innocent lives. There had to be another way out....

And then he spotted it. Striding over to the window, black cloak flaring out behind him, he grabbed his sword and smashed it, sheathe and all, against the flimsy glass. Needless to say the window shattered, and there were a few exclamations of surprise below from the nightlife. He looked down; it was about a two story, maybe three story drop. Survivable, but it could cripple either one of them, and he had no rope. Wait, yes he did. It was right on the bed itself. Grabbing the sheets and the blankets he quickly tied them end to end before tying the last to the bedpost itself in a tight knot. As she as he made sure it was tight enough, he threw the makeshift escape rope out the window and looked out to see how far it went. It didn't go all the way to the ground, but it was long enough. Turning back to the redhead, he saw that while he'd been busy finding a way for them to get out of here relatively unnoticed she'd gathered her supplies and pack. A small smile crossed his lips: Smart girl.

He held one hand out to her in invitation. "Until we can sort this out, I can and will protect you. Will you come with me?" He had a strong feeling she would say yes, but who knew? He'd already been surprised by her once.

[Whitlen]

Whitlen nodded with understanding as the man recounted his own part in the night's events. Though she wasn't sure of his motives, she had begun to believe he was sincere, at least, in his desire to help her. Or shock was settling in - she couldn't be sure. Regardless, she admitted to herself that, if he offered to go with her, she would not say no. A small, repressed voice in her head whispered that she hoped he would, for both their sakes.

Drawing in a long, shaky breath, she regained as much composure as she could, stilling her wobbling knees, her shaking hands. The pounding in her head was harder to deal with, but definitely not the worst pain she'd ever faced. She still flinched at the loud crash of shattering glass as he readied their escape route, her ears roaring in protest as agony spiked along her skull. As the man cleared the rest of the shards from the window sill, Whitlen gathered up her things, deliberately facing her fellow escapee as she did. A soft, black wool pea coat, she decided, would do well to both conceal any proof of her old scars and serve as a barrier from the slight evening chill.

In a swift, badly planned series of motions, the girl slipped into her jacket, extricated her long braid from the woolen confines, bent over, grasped the strap of her bag, and hefted it over her shoulder while standing up abruptly. The last part caused her vision to blur, tilted the room, and nearly caused her to vomit as nausea punched her square in the stomach. Realizing her predicament, Whitlen stood stock still, concentrating solely on regaining her balance and breathing. The air was still somewhat rank, with hints of lavender accented by blood and the stale beer/vomit combination sported by the now decaying corpse taking residence in her rented commode.

A gentle breeze from the window, at odds with the current surroundings, was refreshing, and helped her regain composure before her accomplice turned back to her. Offering his hand, he made a brief but solemn speech, much as she had thought he would, about leaving together. Having previously realized their situation, she simply smiled up at him, allowing warmth to reach her clear blue gaze as she met his. Extending her hand, she clasped his, which seemed huge in comparison.

Instantly she realized how unaccustomed she was to simple human contact and felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. As was her habit, she flicked her tongue against the back of her lip ring, her eyes dropping to stare at their hands touching. His skin is so much darker than mine, she thought disjointedly. Her smile faltered; she let her arm drop away, severing the connection. Feeling awkward, a lump of something awful in her throat, Whit practically ran to the window, nearly forgetting her pounding head in her haste to retreat. "We'd better go,t hen. They'll be here any second."

As though on cue, the voices they had already been hearing were suddenly closer, louder, and accompanied by footsteps in the hallway. The moment of awkwardness dissolved instantly with this new threat, and Whitlen met his eyes again, fear and resolve reflected clearly in her level gaze. Turning, she gripped the makeshift rope firmly and began the climb out the window and down the side of the building. Please, please, don't let go! And don't let them catch us!

[Lord Anglekos]

She smiled and said nothing, but clasped his hand in agreement. He grinned grimly back, and was about to pull her to him and bring them both out the window in one movement when suddenly something flickered across her face. Fear? Anxiety? Lust? Surprise? Something that mixed in with those emotions, he decided, as her face flushed with heat and she let go of his hand as if it had been not a human appendage but a vicious serpent. He felt the stirrings of anger once again. Dammit, woman, I'm here to protect you, not hurt you! He grumbled inwardly, and was sure she would back away from him and refuse his request. However, she surprised him with her next words and her speedy rush to the window, climbing out ahead of him. She still was willing to go with him? Then why...why had she looked at his arm and...He shook his head and cleared those thoughts. The thing that mattered was that she was willing and apparently able.

Voices shouted angrily outside the door, and a fist pounded upon it in heavy repetition. "Open up! We'll break down this door if we have to!" It grumbled with an unfamiliar tone, and Eric figured it was probably one of the local guardsmen. Just perfect, he thought to himself. "Open up, and things will go easier!"

Yeah right. He held onto the makeshift rope and glanced down to see that his redheaded companion had made it to the ground safely, dropping the last feet feet in a slight crouch. Smiling slightly to himself he climbed out and began making his way down as well, trying to make as little noise as possible as he listened to those beyond the door.

"One...two..." He heard, then suddenly a booming crash as something large broke through the wooden frame and fell to the floor. There was a few moments grumbling and rumbling as footsteps trouped in, then a moment's shocked silence before; "Well, where the blazes are they?!"

"They must've e-escaped," Stammered another voice, and Eric cursed silently as he recognized the voice of the bartender he'd threatened. Of course. "Dey were definitely 'ere just a couple moments ago...There! The window!"

Crap! Eric pulled heavily on the rope, hoping it would undo the light knot he'd made up in the room, and it seemed Lady Luck was favoring him this day for it did. Within half a second he was falling, the rope with him, and he landed in a crouch by his companion's side. Standing and testing his legs, making sure they hadn't been injured, he turned to her and fixed her with a sharp look before turning to the gates of Radasanth. "Lets go."