Fight for the Dead

[The Cinderella Man]

((Open to two.))

As far as inns went, “The Portable Bulwark” was an almost respectable place, no small feat given the fact that it was stuck in the Docks district of the Corone capitol, between a whorehouse and a loans office. The customers were still scumbags; two-bit losers with no job and barely a pair of coins to rub together, dockhands and yeomen fresh off the deck of some foreign cog, looking to squander what little they earned on their voyage. The air was the usual arid mist that reeked of smoke and bad breath, hanging low under an already low ceiling. The ale was still watered. But it was a decent enough place, where you were rather certain the barkeep didn't spit in your drink or wiped his ass with the bread he served you. Even the harlots that lounged around the bar didn't look quite as raddled as the usual hags that did their business at the docks, though they were still about twenty years and two hundred gold pieces away from decent hookers.

The innkeeper was neither fat nor thin, neither old nor young, an average man with short-cut brown hair and a featureless face you were likely to forget as soon as you took your eyes from it. It was a relatively slow day, with plenty of chairs and benches still unoccupied, so he sat at his stool with a glass mug in his hands, milking the foamy brew one indifferent sip at a time. Sometimes he nodded at words directed at him, sometimes even allowed a courteous grin, but mostly he just sat there with a patience of a man waiting for a ham sandwich.

“I'm looking for someone,” a tall, broad-shouldered man asked the languid bartender, sliding onto one of the vacant stools, swinging the tail of his coat backwards so as not to sit on it.

“Aren't we all?” the barkeep offered a tired answer before he even took his eyes off his brew and looked at the newcomer. He was a big man this stranger, with a rough, unshaven face, a grizzled bastard as tough as a boot sole. Manas would've marked him as an adventurer of some kind, but the man bore neither armor nor weapons of any kind, and his leather overcoat was hardly something a mage or a thief would wear.

“Buy me a drink, honey,” one of the prostitutes breathed into the stranger's ear as she slipped one of her hands on his thigh, her fingers starting their lusty crawl towards the crotch. “and I'll make you forget whoever you're looking for.” She was a horrible looking thing up close, pushing forty with a face covered with enough powder to fill a small desert. His rough fingers seized her wrist sharply and pushed it away without as much as a cursory glance.

“A short man,” the newcomer continued. “Oily hair. Limping heavily. Possibly with a sizeable escort. He would've been looking for a boat...”

“We've got ale, stranger,” the tired man behind the counter cut him short. “Aye, we've got food and rooms and whores, all for sale. You must look for your information elsewhere.”

“I was told you'd have that as well, for the right price,” the muscular man again, stern eyes affixed on the apathetic ones across the counter. The info was good, he knew. When you beat a man to an inch of his life, he usually told god honest truths or really good lies. Beat three of them and hear them speak the same name and you're rather certain you're on the right track. No, Walter Jimes had been here, there was little doubt about it, looking for passage out of Radasanth on one of the privateer ships or foreign traders. Most likely he found one. Good Ole Walt was a sly one, a snake that could slither his way just about anything, using words on some, money on others. He was probably miles away by now, lounging in a cabin of some fat merchant cog, wining and dining and working out his next scheme. Victor needed the name of the ship that carried him away.

“You were told wrong.”

“I will pay you.”

“Are you deaf?! I said...”

“I heard what you said,” the customer said, his left hand disappearing into one of the deep pocket beyond the flap of his coat. It produced a small leather pouch that jingled faintly as he set it on the polished counter. His right moved next, again slipping inside of his coat, but proving to be less benevolent than the left. It procured a black pistol and set it on the counter next to the money.

“Now you hear me. I will pay you. The currency is up to you. Gold...” His hand touched the pistol, cocking the hammer lightly. The weapon shone with an obsidian sheen, the black polished surface reflecting and distorting everything around it. It was easy to read the inscription upon the barrel, the stylish letters that spelled the name of his perished lover. “...or lead.”

The man behind the bar didn't flinch, didn't even seem to notice the gun. His eyes strayed away from the gunslinger and into the room beyond. With a slightest hint of a nod he beckoned his guards. The stranger didn't see them, but he could hear the voices of the patrons hush down to a whisper, making room for the heavy footsteps and the sound of metal against leather. There were two or three of them. Didn't matter. There could've been a dozen, a hundred, an army, the coated man didn't care. He scooped up his money, his left disappearing into the breast pocket of his coat, then laid his right on the smooth handle of the pistol. By then the sluts have scurried away like dogs on a wet day, leaving just the gunman, the bartender and his armed menagerie.

“I wouldn't do that,” the barkeep advised him, in between two sips of his ale. “I'd leave while I still had legs to carry me. If you don't, my boys will feed you to the fishes. You might get a shot off, sure, might even be the end of me. But by the time you turn around, they'd hack you to pieces.”

The stranger wasn't moved by the words of caution. Instead he smiled. It was an ugly, wry thing this smile, borne out of a soul that took way too much battering in some forty odd years of life. It was a smile of a man who didn't give a damn. “You should've taken the gold,” the rugged man said, the index finger of his hidden left hand fingering the trigger of the sawed-off sleeping in a holster at his side. And when he finally woke the concealed weapon, its fiery roar blew a hole in the back of his own coat before launching one of the armed men across the room.

Just paying my due.

[Ivory Evil]

"Spare some change sir." The raspy voice of a man hinted desperation. I couldn't count on both hands how many times I had been approached for money since my arrival to the Docks district of Radasanth, it was beginning to get rather annoying. I turned to see the brittle frame of a white haired man, his arms were outstretched, holding the remains of an old black bag. "Please sir, I've got a family."

"Buddy I wouldn't give you the gunk beneath my shoes!" I retorted with a cocksure grin, gathering what liquid I could from my throat. "Here though, just because you're such a stand out guy!" Without hesitation I discharged the warm mixture of mucus and saliva into his empty sack.

"You bastard!" The man shouted, alerting a couple people passing by to what I had done. To my luck I was in the Docks district, surrounded by sailors and dockhands, who could care less about the hardships of a bum. I even heard a couple people chuckle under their breath as they casually passed by. The scene had become all to common since I had entered Corone's capitol. Beggars, vagrants, and pick pockets were just some of the unsavory characters I had met since my arrival.

I turned away from him and continued my stroll towards "The Portable Bulwark," the inn I would be staying at while in the city. I had come from Underwood to check out the fabled citadel, but I figured I had better go set up my room first, maybe even grab a couple of drinks. An old buddy of mine suggested I check out what inns had vacancies in the Docks area and after some investigation I was turned onto The Portable Bulwark, which seemed to be the most cost efficient place around these parts.

I sucked in the humid ocean breeze one last time before stepping into the smoke filled stench of the inn. I held onto the fresh air as long as I could before finally replacing it with what felt like nails in my nostrils. I fought hard to settle the rumbling that arose deep within my stomach as I crossed through the sea of repugnant faces. It felt as if I was looking into the hideous face of poverty, it was a bit disturbing at first. With haste I made my way to the bar, taking a seat not to far from the bartender, who seemed to be occupied currently by a large muscular man in a leather overcoat.

Like me the man wore no armor and at first sight he didn't strike me as the rough neck adventurer type. The closer I investigated though, I noticed the man had placed something on the table, it looked oddly like a pistol. From my knowledge there were very few weapons like this in Althanas, which alerted me instantly that this guy wasn't a good person to tangle with. It puzzled me though when the bartender, a homely fellow who didn't look like he could even break a sweat properly, began to tempt the man.

Between their harsh exchange of words I took a moment to scan the rest of the bar. It seemed as if the bartender had alerted his guards, because they were now making their way across the bar towards the large man in a hurry. It was at that moment that I realized maybe I had came to the wrong inn, because just then shit went crazy.

At first I didn't quite grasp what had happened. I heard an ear splitting sound and saw one of the guards completely taken off his feet. Looking closer though I examined a hole through the guards stomach that was no less than a foot in diameter. The sound was quickly forgotten though as my ears were filled will the shrieks of men and women alike.

Chaos broke loose, the two guards who were left standing tried to rush towards the man but were quickly intercepted by the panicking patrons who were now rushing to exit the inn. Just as one of the guards was starting to get through I figured it was about time I did something. Weighing my chances of leaving this place alive out, I came to the conclusion that it would benefit me the most to side with the gun totting maniac, after all I liked mindless violence anyway. Before the guard that had gotten through the crowd could reach the stranger, I had withdrawn a small steel dart from my coat pocket and hurled it through the air. Thankfully it the guy right in the throat, instantly a stream of crimson blood flew through the air hitting the back of the leather clad man.

Hopefully he would forgive me for the stain.

[Khariss Sevrath]

Finally, most of the way through his sixth drink, the merchant’s cares drifted away, and a smile crept across his face. He peered down into the nearly-empty mug, contemplating it for a moment before tilting his head back and draining the rest of the cold brew.

Good ale could ease any worry, he’d found. Hell… even not-so-good ale could ease any worry – it just took more of it. He had just seen one of his associates off at the docks, bound for Alerar with a shipment of… of… whatever, details didn’t matter. The point was that his partner sucked – he was a condescending asshole, and Khariss’s cut of the profits was far too small to warrant putting up with him for much longer. So as soon as the boat had made its way away from the quay, the disgruntled man had gone in search of a drink. He’d landed at the Portable Bulwark. It was a dive, not the worst he’d seen, but certainly not the best. It reeked of smoke, ale and bad perfume – although maybe that was because of the brothel directly next door. The interior was hazy and dimly lit. The brew was cheap and stale, the food was cheap and stale, and the women were cheap and stale, but it was convenient.

Yes, that was then, and this was now. What did he care that his job sucked? It didn’t matter now. His smile broadened, and a low chuckle even escaped his throat. His waitress noticed and sauntered over.

“Finally coming around, eh?” the brunette said with a smile. He squinted up at her. He had to admit that she really was a fairly good-looking girl, easily one of the prettiest in the dingy inn – he’d noticed that even before he started drinking. Now, she looked even better. She looked to be in her late twenties, thirty at the oldest. Her top was cut a little too low, and her skirt was cut a little too high, and the combination rendered the inebriated merchant completely incapable of minding his manners.

“I’d come around even more if you’d do me the honor,” Khariss returned, looking her up and down suggestively. She raised an eyebrow and was about to reply before he burst out in uproarious laughter, thumping his empty mug on the table. “With a refill, lady, with a refill! My my, somebody’s got a dirty mind, eh?”

She even had the grace to laugh as she took his tankard and returned to the bar. What a girl! He, of course, watched appreciatively as she walked away. What she was doing in a place like this, he had no idea.

Gradually another sound pulled his mind out of the gutter and back to reality. A newcomer was up at the bar, loudly exchanging threats with the bartender. Khariss snorted; he couldn’t blame the man. The bartender was a lazy, sour-looking fellow, and the merchant had chosen to take a seat at a table rather than the bar specifically to avoid interacting with him. Regardless, things looked to be close to the tipping point. Three guards were closing in on the muscular man, drawn steel very much in evidence. His pretty brown-haired waitress, sensing the imminent violence, ducked prudently beneath the bar. Things were definitely getting ugly.

Khariss was a man of many unique qualities; unfortunately, the ability to keep his nose out of things that didn’t concern him wasn’t one of them. So as soon as he saw the trouble brewing, he began to consider which side to take. He was already leaning strongly in one direction – he’d taken an instant dislike to the barkeep, and he had an aversion for guards that dated back to some of the shadier dealings early in his career.

A thunderous detonation tore through the air. The muscular man’s coat flew up behind him, sporting a brand new hole, and Khariss caught a glimpse of gunmetal. One of the guards flew back like a ragdoll, crashing into a table and breaking it to pieces.

That settled any further doubts in the merchant’s mind.

Feeling a lot less intoxicated now – gunshots have an extraordinary capacity for waking people up, after all – Khariss jumped to his feet, hand flashing to the dagger at his waist. The nearest guard ran by, his attention on the gunman, and the merchant resorted to the simple expedient of pushing the man into a nearby table. He toppled over with a crash, rolling in the dust and garbage on the floor. As he struggled to rise, a knife sank into the side of his neck. He groaned and dropped back to the ground, dead.

Khariss straightened and looked around the room. A stranger had apparently shared the merchant’s outlook on the situation; the third guard lay lifeless, stuck in the neck by a dart. Three sets of eyes locked on the bartender, who found himself very, very alone.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor wheeled around on the barstool, whipping his pistol around in a wide backhanded arc in search of a target while his left brought out the half-spent shotgun and leveled it with the barkeep’s flabbergasted face. Rid of its blank solemnity, it looked almost comical now, drawn into an ugly grimace. The cause for such an abrupt metamorphosis wasn’t just the buckshot that ventilated one of his guard’s guts, but also the second guard stumbling onto his knees, bleeding all over Vic’s good pants and the third one soaking the floorboards with his life blood as well, courtesy of a dagger in his neck and a murderer that loomed over him. Though probably as taken aback by the outcome of this little squabble as Manas the Dull-faced Douche, Victor was much better at hiding it. The grin from before, that wicked half-crescent that stood out like an old wound on his face, was the only thing chiseled in his hard visage.

But on the inside, he thought: That’s bloody Radasanth for you! Throw a rock at just about any direction and you were bound to hit either a hooker or a sword-for-hire. Or both. After all, those two were the easiest trades to pick up. Nowadays, with Corone still recovering from the Civil War, a shabby sword cost about as much as a loaf of bread. Add foolish notions of grandeur and life at the brink of poverty to the mix, and you got a pot filled with delusional folk trying to live, but mostly dying by the sword. People like that were like a stick of dynamite on a hot day; dangerous to themselves, dangerous to the hand that used them, dangerous to all those around them, aching to do their dirty work.

Whether these two actually fit the bill, Victor didn’t know. Didn’t care. Their weapons weren’t pointed at his back for the time being and their eyes seemed to show little affection towards the sleaze at the other side of the counter, and that was good news. Good for Victor. Extremely bad for Manas who found himself three guards short and feeling quite naked in from of the yawning mouth of the shotgun. Sure, he tried to play it cool, tried to keep a calm, even defiant face in front of the gunpowder doom and its grinning bringer. But his body betrayed him, sending beads of sweat down his forehead, sending a twitch at the corner of his eye, sending jelly to his knees. When his fourth man burst through the doors – the heavyset bouncer from the front entrance with a low forehead and meaty fingers wrapped around a spiked club – the innkeeper just shook his head nervously and sent him back on his post.

“Now, about my quarry,” Victor said, settling back on his stool as if he merely returned from the privy. He returned to the shotgun to the fat holster just below his right armpit, but kept his pistol as an unnecessary reminder. The stench of death was already spread around the main room, the sickly barbecue stench of singed flesh and fresh blood.

“Alright, alright, l-look, I don’t really know anything,” the man was finally expeditious at something, knowing that his time left on the face of Althanas was proportionally short to the gunman’s patience. “He...he came here asking around for passage for Salvar... or Alerar, or something and I told him I’m not selling...”

“Bull.” One word. One bullet. The gunshot resounded in the strangely becalmed inn, burying the hot lead deep into the barkeep’s gut. The man fell over, writhing and squealing and losing every bit of serenity he ever had. His gut bled red, his crotch yellow. It was a dirty piece of work, something Victor would’ve flinched at before. But that was before, before the smiles and lies and gunfire. Before Aicha.

“Walter isn’t the clueless kind that wanders around, hoping for a handout,” the gunslinger said, leaning forward a bit so he didn’t lose sight of Manas curled up in a fetal position, cradling his perforated stomach. “He came to you for information. He came to you knowing you’d have it. Now, if you’re quick enough to share it with me as well, you just might make it to the chapel down the street in time for them to heal you. Or you can dawdle and reach it in a coffin.”

It wasn’t much of a choice. “Agh, alright already,” the main gave up with a painful grunt that seemed to make his entire body shiver. “None of my own men were sailing out... honestly. But...but I knew some that did. There’s a warehouse...not far from here... South pier, the Far Seas Traders. Ask for Vannay.”

For a moment, it looked almost as if Victor was about to put another bullet into the barkeep, but then the moment passed and he eased the hammer back with a faint click and holstered the weapon. The second he did, the waitress in the skimpy outfit came crawling towards Manas, the brunette’s eyes filled with tears. “Father!” she shouted out, and then when she saw the gushing hole in the man’s gut. “You didn’t have to shoot him!”

Victor smiled. It was a real smile, not the mean-son-of-a-bitch grin from before but a smirk that made him look ten years and twenty bouts younger. Kids. Their defiance was endearing, endless in its innocence. Ten years from now, when she’s wedded and bedded and spawned about three rug rats of her own, she would look upon this moment, wondering where had her courage come from. And she’ll know that way back then she had nothing to lose, because the only thing she cared about was bleeding his life away. Nobody fought fiercer than a cornered animal.

“Just paying my dues, honey. Just paying my dues.”

Outside, the world was a better place. The sun was warm and high and good, the ocean bringing in the salty freshness that clashed with the smell of stale fish, the people trying to look unaware of the bloodwork done on the other side of the door. A couple eyed them suspiciously, including the bouncer who ran back inside after a quick glance at the three. The others went their way, giving the bloodied gunslinger and his two companions as wide a berth as the streets allowed. Only then Victor noticed that the two that helped him out of his pickle inside were still at his side.

“Well, I guess you two saved me a couple of bullets back there,” he said to them, stepping into the water through with both feet. He scooped up some water and poured it over his faded jeans in a vain attempt to wash out the blood. Some of it colored the water a bit rosy, but the dark crimson stains stubbornly remained. He stepped out of the murky liquid, half-satisfied and stamped first his right foot, then his left, shaking off some of the dampness. “I guess I owe you.”

His wet hands slipped past the hem of the black leather coat so worn it was gray – a motion that seemed to make both men grow taut, their fingers restless – and only produced the small leather pouch. “Here, have a couple of rounds on me,” he said, tossing the money towards the young man that looked a bit too refined to be a scoundrel, but not quite refined enough to be nobility. “Now, I have places to go and unless you want to bloody your hands again, you should go the other way.”

[Ivory Evil]

My afternoon went quickly from being approached by beggars in the streets, to helping out a menace with a gun. From listening to the common banter of sailors and dock hands, to hearing the resounding noise that his hand cannon let loose, and from the looks of it their would be plenty more bodies to come. The broad shouldered man was on a mission, a witch hunt so to say, and everywhere he went there would likely be a crumb trail of corpses left behind. It really sounded like my kind of party.

To the gunman's left was a second man, one who had also taken a life in the bar. To my knowledge he had no prior relationship with the ice cold killer either, but like myself, he had dipped his hands into business that was foreign to him. Both of the guys were bulky son of a bitches, big and brawny. One flick from either of their meaty palms could have done more damage than a sucker punch from my fragile frame. I guess that's what made them so damn dangerous.

The gunman removed from his worn coat a small sack, one that jingled when he tossed it my way. I couldn't help to think that he was paying us off. It was a notion that any other day I would've taken and ran, today however was different. I came to Radasanth seeking adventure, seeking a fight, and thanks to the broad shouldered brute I had gotten just that. Before I could test the weight of the money pouch, I tossed it to the other man.

"If you don't mind, I think I'll be sticking around." A grin spread across my face, revealing the flawless smile beneath my crimson lips. "I figure by sunset we will be wanted men in the city anyway." I fought hard to contain my laughter, but ended up letting out a small chuckle anyway. The bulky gunman was a walking comedy act, despite the rough and deep exterior that consumed him.

[Khariss Sevrath]

Now that the excitement was over, the merchant’s brain reminded him that he was drunk. On his way out of the bar, he stumbled over a rogue chair leg and into the afternoon sun. Khariss stood for a moment just outside the door, squinting as his eyes tried to adjust to the daylight lancing into his head. At that point, he remembered that he had company; the gunman stood in the gutter, pouring water over his pants in a mostly fruitless attempt to wash the new bloodstain out. The second man, a thin, pale fellow, stood several feet away.

The man in the overcoat pulled out a pouch that jingled a telltale jingle and tossed it to the little man, thanking them for their aid and suggesting that they finish the night off. And when the bag was lobbed to the merchant, he faced a long moment of indecision. He glanced back at the bar. Another few drinks would surely hit the spot, and perhaps he still stood a chance with his pretty little waitress…

Then he sighed. There was no way – not after Khariss had killed one of the guards, and certainly not after the gunman had put a hole in her father. How could a man that useless sire a lady that fine, anyway? No, he would more likely be arrested than served if he went back in that inn

Then he remembered something, and he spoke. “Far Seas Traders, right? We want to talk to Vannay?”

When the man in the overcoat nodded, Khariss groaned inwardly. Vannay was the man who had put his partner on a ship set for Alerar. He wasn’t such a bad sort, really; foulmouthed, but industrious and about as intelligent as anybody down on the docks. But events were piecing themselves together like a puzzle, and the merchant didn’t like how well they fit. He put his free hand to his forehead, trying to ease the spinning of the world enough to let him think. It was possible, even likely, that the gunman’s quarry had hitched a ride with his associate.

He finally tossed the pouch of gold back to its original owner. “I’m in, too,” he stated. “I’ve met Vannay a time or two. I can talk to him for you, might save you a bullet or two.” In truth, however, the merchant wanted to keep an eye on this man. He didn’t seem to believe in half-assing a job, and he didn’t seem to care about collateral damage. If the man decided that his target was on board that ship, it wasn’t hard at all to envision it at the bottom of the sea. Khariss wouldn’t miss his partner, but the cargo was another matter entirely.

Yes, he would join in on this hunt. If his theory was correct, then he had his own interests to protect.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor eyed the money pouch that made a round trip and returned to his hand, then the two that rejected it. Crazy sons of bitches both of them, it seemed. Sure, they both looked rather cultivated, perhaps a step up the ladder from the usual riffraff of the docks, but they stuck their nose into his business faster than a sailor, fresh off the ship, could stick his dick into a hooker. And that wasn't exactly normal in the gunslinger's book.

He guessed the young lad fit the illusions of grandeur bill, what with his cocksure smile and his careless body language. There were graves across Radasanth filled with kids like him, smiling their last grin to the maggots and the six feet of dirt. Once upon a time, when the world was a warmer place and Victor didn't walk its face like a man on a suicide quest, he would've told the youth to scram, to go chase some tail or pursue some studies at the local Academy. Once upon a time he would've explained to the lad that this was his own personal vendetta and that the likes of him had no part to play in it. Once upon a time he would've felt a tug somewhere in his gut, a clenched fist yanking on his entrails, telling him right from wrong. Once upon a time he would've been a better man.

Today, Victor merely nodded to the young man.

The other one, despite his lackluster clothing and the half-drunken state that made him squint like a man in a desert, seemed a bit more shrewd. Not a whole lot; after all, he did just stab a guy in the neck for no apparent reason other than to get on the good side of a man he never met. But at the very least his reason for passing on the paltry sum of gold and joining ranks was somewhat justified; he seemed to know of Victor's next target, this Vannay of the Far Seas Traders. Not that it meant much in the long run. Curses and fists were the language of the docks, the negotiating tools that got things done. Victor meant to overrule them with gunfire. Lots and lots of gunfire.

Still, he acceded to the second man joining his little trek down at the Docks as well. Worst case scenario, there were now two extra targets for whoever stepped in his way.

“Fine,” he said, pocketing the unwanted sum of gold. “I'm not paying either of you, just so we're clear. But you are free to loot the corpses all the way down to their underclothes as far as I'm concerned. All I want is information on Walter.” He finished in a gloomy tone, the very name of Walter Jimes almost enough to make him clench his teeth. Then he shoved that little painful shard of memory aside and started to walk farther into the maze of shacks and warehouses that were the Radasanth Docks district.

Pulling the sawed-off out of the holster beyond the fold of his coat, Victor made no effort to conceal the weapon as he cracked it open in order to reload. One of the first things he learned about guns – right after the ridiculous ease with which they made holes in things – was that people feared them. Not the way they feared a sword or a punch in the face – that was a much more mundane, rational fear. They feared firearms the way they feared a lunatic escaped from the nuthouse, knowing the best course of action was to get the hell out of the way and hope their empty gaze didn't stop on them. That was why Victor yanked out the spent shell with a calmness of a man buttoning his shirt, fished a fresh one out of his right pocket, reloaded, reholstered, all smooth as death.

“You two got a name?” he asked his new partners as the proceeded down the wooden walkway. The water sloshed beneath the wooden planks, waves beating at the support columns with endless persistence. A pair of fishermen, tangled up to the shoulders in their nets as they tried to repair them, paused their chatter for a second as the trio passed, eyes revealing a spark of curiosity. A second later the spark was gone, possibly quelled by Victor's bloodied appearance, and they went back to their work.

When neither of his two friends responded immediately, the bulky gunman added without taking his eyes from the road ahead: “Not that I really care. I just figured it would make communication easier. Mine is Victor Callahan.”

And that was the truth. There was a time when he would've spoke softer, acted kinder, smiled more, frowned less, talked more, shot less, but life was like a really lousy farmer. It weeded out all the good stuff and left naught but bitterness and pain and an endless flame burning inside of him, burning for revenge... Always burning. In such a world people were just functions, shadows and faces that came and did what they were supposed to and went away, leaving behind barely a memory. Would he remember these two if they perished during the ordeal ahead? Victor doubted it. Thinking back on the scene back at The Portable Bulwark, he could barely remember the barkeeper's face.

But he remembered Aicha. Oh, he remembered her well.

[Khariss Sevrath]

After Van had supplied them with his name, the merchant decided to follow with his own. Anonymity had its benefits, but stopping bullets wasn’t on that particular list. “Khariss Sevrath,” he introduced himself a bit absently. His attention wasn’t really on the conversation; it was on the shotgun that Victor held so casually in his hands.

He finally admitted it to himself: he was a little afraid of the big man. It wasn’t that he killed men, and it wasn’t the guns – not directly, at least. It was the nonchalant attitude, the fact that his expression never changed even as he blew a hole in a man’s innards. Khariss had killed men before – plenty of them. Every single time, it was a noteworthy occurrence, an event. The merchant would remember the guard he’d killed in the inn, and there was a good chance that he wouldn’t have even killed him at all had he been completely sober. He didn’t regret the murder, exactly, but he did value life.

But Victor? The merchant found it hard to envision the same thoughts running through the gunman’s head. Killing the guard and shooting the bartender in the belly would not keep him up at night. If a situation found Victor and himself on opposite sides of the shotgun, he doubted the gunman would think twice before pulling the trigger. Such a scenario wasn’t hard to imagine, either – he would do whatever he had to do to keep his cargo afloat and undamaged. Khariss found himself wishing he had his sword with him. He favored his knife over the bigger weapon in most fights, but there were times when four feet of sharp metal was better than one.

“You in there?” The sound of Victor’s raised voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he looked up. “I asked you what you know about Vannay.”

Quickly coming to his senses, the businessman shrugged. “He’s not a bad sort. Belligerent, but that word fits this entire area. Seems to be a little smarter than most down here though, but maybe that’s not saying much.”

“How do you know him?” the gunman pressed.

“Business,” Khariss answered shortly. “Sometimes I have buyers in other countries. Vannay can usually get his hands on a ship when I need one.” He didn’t care to go into any further detail than that. Fortunately, the answer seemed to satisfy Victor.

The sound of conversation gave way to the slosh of water and the dull thumps of their footsteps on wooden planks. The bright sunlight glinted off the water to their right, interrupted at intervals by long piers jutting out. A few of the piers had ships of varying sizes tied up. Most of these ships teemed with working crewmen, loading or unloading big wooden crates. Taskmasters barked orders, very concerned that the work get done but unwilling to do much of it themselves. Opposite the piers were the warehouses. More workmen came in and out of the big, ugly buildings, carrying more boxes.

Khariss pointed to a warehouse further up the street. “That’s the Far Seas Traders. Vannay should still be there.”

Hopefully he would still be alive when they left.

[The Cinderella Man]

The young man didn't look like much of a talker, but his companion made up for it. One hell of a merchant, Victor thought as Khariss made his introduction. He wondered if the man did his negotiations in the same manner he handled the situation back in the bar. Good day, and howdy-do, and these are my terms, oh, you don't like them, well, say hello to my little steel friend. The ridiculous idea made the muscular gunman smirk even though he knew the reality was probably far from his twisted thoughts. But there was a calmness to the man that almost made Victor think that such a scenario was possible. He wasn't stone cold, but he was cool, cool as a summer breeze. There was no chance for additional questions, though; (not that Victor had that many, never much of a planner Victor Callahan or stickler for details) Khariss announced their arrival to their destination.

The headquarters of the Far Seas Traders would've been indistinguishable if not for the slanted sign at the side of the warehouse that stated that it indeed belonged to that particular company. The building itself was half on solid ground and half above water, the support columns digging deep into the shoals of the harbor. The wood might've been painted once, but the salty winds and the sands of time peeled so much of it by now that it looked like some beast shedding its skin. The main door – wide enough for three carts to ride through side by side – was closed shut, as was the smaller side door. There was a fenced walkway above the porch that hanged over the main entrance, but the windows beyond it were empty and lifeless. The only face in them was the sun's, reflected at the rest of the world.

“Looks like nobody's home,” Victor muttered, making his way to the side entrance. All around them, the docks bustled with activity; sails snapping in the wind, lines moaning as they were being tightened, captains cursing their sailors and sailors cursing their luck, carts rolling down the cobbles, urchins chasing an old mutt and poking him with a stick, fishermen shouting their wares and vendors shouting harder. Only the warehouse was still, like an eye in the middle of the storm. Victor disliked this silence enough to thumb back the hammers of the twin barrels, but not enough to dissuade him from banging on the door.

Nothing.

“Your friend on vacation?” he asked Khariss, but before he could get an answer there was finally some activity behind the door. He could hear some whispering, some shuffling, then somebody fiddling with the latch, then the creak of the door and then, just for a fraction of a second he could see a glint of something that looked like the far end of a trumpet. And then somebody decided to play that trumpet and the sound that came out of it was the loudest thunder Victor ever heard.

The blunderbuss shot took him straight in the chest, propelling his body some good ten feet backwards where it landed in the midst of empty crates. It didn't feel like being shot at all. It felt like somebody threw an anvil at him and the damn thing stuck to him somehow, applying so much pressure to his chest that he felt like his life was being crushed right out of him. He didn't lose consciousness – all those years he spent in the ring getting himself beaten to a pulp repeatedly finally payed some dividends – but he wasn't exactly there either. Stuck in a world where his eyes saw nothing but star-spangled darkness and where his body desperately sought some way to survive the air being knocked out if it, Victor was left to the mercy of the bastard with the musket.

And even as he realized this, he didn't feel panic, didn't feel angry, didn't even feel the pain so much. The feeling that overcame him was one of relief. The end was here and not a moment too soon.

But then there was a hand on his shoulder, yanking him backwards and down the bumpy cobblestones. He could hear another shot fired, then another, both the flashes and the roar of firearms coming to him as if over a great distance. His mind ordered his body to lift the arm and fire back, but the body refused obedience. It was too busy fighting for air. And then he was in the shade of some side alley, lines of drying cloth above him looking a bit like smiles with crooked teeth. And in the midst of them the face he barely knew. What was his name now?

“Khariss?” he barely managed, as the world around him slowly came into focus. His lungs were still fighting, each shallow breath a small victory. The merchant above him looked concerned, staring at the gaping hole in Victor's chest. The gunman followed his eyes to his own torn shirt, his dazed mind half expecting to see his own ribcage through it. Instead, there was only the glint of a twisted scale shirt. Hah, best investment I ever made, Victor thought, and chortled a laugh.

“Gods, help me out of this crap,” he said to the man above him, trying to squirm out of his leather coat. With him half-dazed and Khariss half-drunk, it was quite a comical sight, but neither of them had time to laugh. By the time his coat was off and his shirt was torn away and the shirt of damascus scales was peeled off, the sounds of ricocheting shots came back full force. With his chest bare, he could see the rough circular outline on his skin, crisscrossed with bloody lines where scales cut his skin. It would stop bleeding, he knew, and then turn into a not so lovely shade of blue.

“Now, that was quite a welcome,” he said, sounding a bit more like himself as he tried to put his clothes back on. Every once in a while, someone from the Far Seas Traders reminded him of unfinished business with a thundering shot. He looked up at Khariss, then at the shotgun, then back at the merchant. He didn't trust the man, not by a long shot, wouldn't trust him even if he didn't kill a man fifteen minutes ago in cold blood. But he handed the weapon over just the same.

“Take this. I'll draw their fire to the main entrance. You circle around and get the door open,” he said, slapping the shotgun into Khariss's hands. But before the man had a chance to leave, Victor caught him by the collar of his shirt. “Don't go running away on me with that thing,” he said to the man, and then when he almost let him go and Khariss made his flanking run, he caught him by the shirt again. “And don't shoot me in the back.”

It was a dumb thing to say. But Victor was rattled, and even if he weren't, he was never the sharpest tool in the shed to begin with.

((Hope you're ok with the bunnying. If not, let me know. I guess we're moving on without Ivory. I was thinking we gun our way past some of the hired guns Vannay posted, then make his way to his office and have a little talk. As always bunny away if needed.))

[Khariss Sevrath]

Thoughts and flagstones blurred by together as Khariss raced around a corner toward the back of the warehouse, shotgun in hand. This was all wrong! He’d done business with Vannay any number of times in the last couple of years, and his men should know the merchant by sight at least – well enough, certainly, to keep from opening fire on him or his companions without so much as a warning. Oh, and there was that too – what were they doing with firearms, anyway? Gunpowder in Corone was very rare and very expensive. These were thugs, the throwaways of Radasanth’s society, unfit and unqualified to hold respectable jobs. Life for the majority of them was a day-to-day struggle, and any valuables they owned were almost assuredly stolen.

There were a few people walking in the street behind the Far Seas Traders, but they all melted out of the merchant’s path after one look at the weapon clutched in his white-knuckled hands. That thunderous blast had changed everything. Moments ago, he had somewhat grudgingly accompanied Victor and the brash kid to the warehouse, more to protect his own interests than out of any real interest in Callahan’s hunt. After the shot, Van had scampered – some people just didn’t have the balls for danger. Not that Khariss blamed him; had he had any sense, he would have done the same. But that same character flaw, that inability to mind his own business, came to the forefront once more. Instead of fleeing with his life, he had pulled his “employer” to safety, borrowed his shotgun and was now on his way to break into the back of the big building.

He practically skidded to a stop at the small, wooden backdoor of the warehouse. Any trace of booze in his system had been forgotten in the excitement as he reached for the metal handle. The door was unlocked, and the merchant eased it open quietly, the shotgun a comforting weight in his hands.

Sunlight shone through the windows to illuminate the chaos that filled the large interior. Crates of various sizes were strewn everywhere, many of them smashed to pieces, and dust was thick in the air. The front door was hidden from view behind some of the rubble, but there was nobody in the back of the warehouse; whatever Victor was doing to draw attention was apparently working. Khariss carefully began to pick his way amongst the rubble, shotgun at the ready. Another bang from outside made him jump, followed by two smaller shots. Out of some obscure sense of loyalty, he found himself hoping Callahan was alright. True, the gunman’s death would have found him in permanent possession of a nice weapon, but hell – he had saved the man’s life, and he was now risking his own to help Victor out. It just… wouldn’t have felt right.

The merchant could see the front door now. It was open. Standing in the doorway was a lone man, staring intently outside; waiting for his cronies to return, probably. Silently, step by step, Khariss eased up behind him. It wasn’t hard - the crewmen around the other warehouses didn’t stop crashing and shouting for anything, not even a gunfight.

As he inched closer, the sneaking man recognized the sentry as one of Vannay’s men. That cleared away all remaining doubt in his mind – for whatever reason, the crewmaster was involved in this. Khariss shifted the shotgun to his left hand and drew his knife.

The thug never knew what hit him; he died without a sound as Khariss’s blade slammed into the base of his neck. Blood sprayed the floor and open doors as the killer yanked the weapon back out of the dead man’s body with a steely slither.

Just then, there was another terrific explosion, this time from much nearer. Khariss looked down the street in time to see Victor speed out of a nearby alleyway toward him at a speed that didn’t seem possible for his bulky, bruised body. Three brutes followed, hot on his heels, and one packed powder down into the wide mouth of a large gun as he ran. The merchant suddenly became very grateful that he had thought to save those bullets.

Dropping his bloody knife for the moment, Khariss stepped out onto the wooden planks of the dock for a better look, cocking both hammers back on the shotgun as he sighted down the twin steel barrels. He prepared to squeeze the trigger.

“Get down!” he roared.

[The Cinderella Man]

((Wrote this while at work, while being constantly distracted, so maybe it's a bit on the sucky side. :P))

He knew this would happen. In the midst of the manmade thunderstorm that rained bullets and splintered wood all over him, Victor Callahan forgot one fundamental thing: people lie. They lie and cheat and look for a way to stab you in the back if for no other reason than just to see you squirm. There wasn’t a good person in each and every one of them, no sugary center beyond the bitter exterior. People were bastards with bastard filling and bastard coating. He should’ve learned that by now, what with how many times he wound up disappointed in those around him. And yet he was still gullible enough to bestow his shotgun on Khariss and now he was charging straight at its twin barrels. The double-crossing son of a bitch did what was asked alright, circled the defenses and came to the front entrance only to cut this little quest for vengeance short. Victor was about to take his chance and fire from the hip, try to outrun the buckshot, when the shout rose above the din of firearms.

“GET DOWN!”

He did. Without thinking about it, without mulling on how wrong he was about Khariss, he threw himself headfirst onto the wooden floor of the docks. The shotgun roared somewhere above him, a sound of some huge tree trunk snapping in half, and when he rolled on the ground to face his pursuit, he could see the splash that one of them made as he landed in the water. The second one was stopped in his tracks, holding for his shoulder, the wide spread of the buckshot grazing him just enough to make him drop his weapon. The third one seemed ready to fire his musket, but Victor didn’t give him a chance. Holding his pistol with both hands to steady his aim, he blew three holes in the man’s chest, sending him stumbling backwards. The wounded fellow seemed to weigh his options pretty damn fast – by the time Victor moved his crosshairs towards where he stood, the man was gone, darting for the nearest alley.

The reprieve they were granted for clearing out the entrance was short, barely a reprieve at all, a mere breather between the rounds. By the time Khariss helped Victor up and they moved out of the sun and into the dusty shade of the warehouse, the lead rain was upon them once again. The main room of the warehouse was pretty much the only room in the warehouse, stretching from wall to wall in all directions and littered with stacks of crates and barrels and burlap sacks. The smell of it was overwhelming, an overly rich mixture of what seemed like spice and sawdust and sweat and a whole number of things Victor’s olfactory senses couldn’t quite recognize. The sun only further amplified it, bursting into the interior through the high glassless windows in thick beams that seemed to cut through the smoke and dust, turning the entire thing into an oven.

Halfway through the labyrinth of wooden boxes stood a two-story wooden shack probably meant for overseers in more peaceful times. Right now, boxes were stacked shoulder-high against the railing of the walkway on the second level, and from behind it at least half dozen men followed a deadly routine: aim, fire, reload. Hidden behind a small hillock made of flour sacks, Victor slid an empty magazine out of his gun and shoved in a new one.

“Bastards have us pinned down,” he said to his companion as puffs of white powder fell all around them. His hand procured a fistful of shotgun shells out of the mess inside the pocket of his coat (alongside a couple of paper wrappers, a smooth white pebble and half a pencil) and gave them to Khariss. He fired a couple of shots overhead blindly, then popped his head over the sacks for just a fraction of a second, but even that was enough to get a mouthful of flour. He sat back down, coughing, his hair white as if he’s a hundred years old.

“We need to move!” he shouted over the gunfire. Yes, but where and how? Victor was never the sharpest tool in the shed and he usually wound up losing a chess game in a matter of minutes, but even he understood the tactical advantage of higher ground. If they made a run for it, they’d be riddled with enough lead to take them to the bottom of the ocean. He fired his gun, looked around, cursed, fired some more, coughed some more, cursed some more, winced whenever Khariss unleashed the shotgun, and then finally noticed something.

“I have an idea,” the ex-prizefighter said to his merchant ally, and before he received any kind of response he made a run for the side entrance. A couple of shots whistled too close for comfort as he ran from cover to cover – he was certain one of them perforated his already deteriorating coat – but soon enough he was at the door. He didn’t go through, though. Instead, he took a couple of shots at the hinges before tackling it with his shoulder. The heavy, iron-studded door didn’t come down after the first assault, but after the second one the top hinge snapped loose and the third one finally brought the whole thing down. Victor holstered the gun, then picked the door up by the latch holders and made his way back to Khariss and the mound of flour sacks. He motioned to the flour-covered merchant.

“Come on, behind me. We’ll make a run for it!”

[Khariss Sevrath]

Is he insane? The businessman broke off his barrage long enough to watch wide-eyed as Victor darted out from their cover toward the door. After a brief struggle, the big man knocked the heavy slab from its hinges and lifted it onto his back before running back to Khariss beneath his makeshift shield.

“You’re nuts!” the merchant shouted to his companion over the gunfire. He was no weakling, but he certainly wouldn’t have relished hauling that hefty door anywhere by himself. Callahan, however, managed it like it was no great task.

“Behind me!” the fighter repeated shortly before taking off toward the shack with the entrepreneur right behind him. Khariss grabbed the back of the door with his free hand and ducked underneath. Together they hid beneath their shield, and the merchant could feel shocks shoot down his arm as shots thudded into the wood and pinged off the iron reinforcements.

“The stairs are to the left,” Khariss recalled from past experience. With a grunt, the strong man turned in the direction indicated, picking his way amongst the dust and wooden wreckage. Every second seemed an hour under the constant hail of lead, but they reached the stairway and a brief reprieve from the gunfire.

Going from roaring blasts to silence was shocking. The pair crouched at the foot of the steps, nerves wound tight as lute strings as they rested for a moment. The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air. The merchant took the opportunity to reload his weapon, frowning as he did so; he had only four bullets left. He’d have to choose his shots carefully from now on. He looked inquiringly at Victor: What next?

With a jerk of his thumb, the fighter relayed his plan. Get behind me. With a grumbled curse, Callahan repositioned the big door vertically so it blocked the stairwell and slowly ascended. Step by step they advanced, and Khariss held his breath as he waited for the silence to shatter. Inevitably it did, the guns blasting anew. One bullet blew a corner off of the door, and the merchant ducked away from the hole, wondering idly just how much ammo the gunmen had.

“Take them out!” Victor ordered tersely, moving slowly now. “Door’s not that sturdy.” Khariss looked at him helplessly. What did he expect him to do? It was hard to return fire when the damned door plugged the entire stairwell – well, except for that one chunk that had been blown out of the corner.

Oh. Right.

The merchant took a quick peek through the new hole to size up the situation. Two men stood at the end of the balcony, and a third crouched in a doorway about halfway between them. All three fired away, intent on stuffing the door as full of lead as they could manage. One man lay on the ground, wounded or dead. The others were out of sight. Probably in that room, Khariss surmised. Turning away from his peephole, he took a deep breath. Then he shoved the barrel through the hole at the nearest target and fired.

An agonized cry rewarded his effort, followed by a heavy thud as something crumpled to the floor. The merchant pulled away. He reloaded his weapon one more time. “Last shot,” he grated at Victor. After another cursory glance, he once again stuck the gun through the space and pulled the trigger.

Not entirely happy with this post, I'll probably edit it a little over the next day or two. Still, game on - again.

I figure there are two more on the balcony, and then two in the room plus Vannay himself. I didn't want to advance too far, since I'm not entirely sure where you want to go with this next.