Flip side of the coin

[The Cinderella Man]

((Closed. Check the recruitment (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=216) if you want to join.))

“Gotta love these big cities.”

Victor’s face, slightly bloodied and minutely swollen in the region of his left eye, managed a sarcastic smile after this thought. About five-feet-something of him was sitting at the foot of a shabby concrete fountain, his shoulder blades touching the ledge as the rest of him swung backwards and beneath one of the two abundant streams of clear water. The icy goodness poured over his smirking face, drenching his short hair in an instant and proceeding down his back. It was a hot summer day in Radasanth slums, the sun was burning a hole in his skull, the air was bitter from the dry dust, he just got rammed by Alain “The Mule” Foster and only in a city as big as Radasanth this particular image was something nobody noticed.

They literary threw him out of the arena about a minute and a half ago, together with fifty gold pieces, his bag-o-stuff and blood still pouring down his nostrils like a goddamn tide. “You’re good-for-nothing, Padre!” and the measly fifty gold pieces was all the gratitude he got for the bare-knuckles boxing match he put for a bunch of rich bloodthirsty aristocrats, fifty gold pieces for being a piece of meat that “The Mule” massacred on the smelly piece of canvas in a warehouse that smelled like a mortuary on a hot day and no coolant in sight. Fifty gold pieces... It would get him through the week if he’s careful. That was what life was for him now. Just making it through the day, the week, the month... Just making it through.

Once his improvised shower was done and he retrieved his saturated head from the jet of water, the slums greeted him with the same glum desperation that he left for a moment of watery bliss. Crummy buildings with crumbling plaster facades, leaning cottages to which even the roof was too much of a burden to carry, an occasional abandoned manor with shattered windows and vines climbing the walls, dirty roads and dirty children playing on it, kicking a deflated ball that now looked more like a dusty helmet, desperate people with desperate faces in a part of the world forgotten by the gods. Beggars weren’t noticed here by the normal people. Beggars were the normal people.

It came as no surprise that nobody noticed Victor, not even with the scarlet tomato soup pouring out of his nose and he floundered, trying to find the way to the fountain. Minding your own business was the art that the people followed like a religion here. Feigned realization of something forgotten, empty look focused on a point somewhere ahead and nowhere at all, strutting with an exalted expression, striding at a busy pace as if you needed to be somewhere five minutes ago, those were all the tactics used to evade the situations you didn’t want to take part in. Everybody used them. Hell, Victor could practically patent the frowning I-have-something-on-my-mind look. And right now he was glad that they existed, giving him a moment of solace in the midst of madness that...

“Padre? Are you the one they call Padre?”

God, how he hated that stupid nickname. Padre, The Architect of Destruction, they were such foolish names for something he never was and probably never would be. He was no more of a holy man nowadays then he was a destructor of anything. But people needed a picturesque name to cheer... and curse.

His head swung sideways wearily, causing a myriad of water drops to break free from his head and rain upon the thirsty dirt as his eyes fell on the inquirer. She was ghost of a woman, her face so scrawny her skin seemed to be hanging from her cheekbones. She wasn’t an old woman, in her early forties at the very most, but the slums took what little youth was in her and drained it out of her some time ago. Her eyes were fatigued, dying embers, her dusty hair hidden by a dark piece of cloth. Her dress was of a bland blue hue, the cloth seeing a couple of hundred washes too many for certain. If she had seen better days, they were long forgotten and buried by the dust of the Radasanth streets.

“Yes.” the prizefighter responded, struggling back to feet and using the ledge of the fountain to pull himself up.

“I’ve seen you in the arena. You fight... good.”

Yes, he thought he recognized her from somewhere. Then again, when somebody is beating the life out of you, you tend to see your own grandfather in a pink tutu amidst the crowd. But he remembered her now. She wasn’t in the crowd though. She was the one that cleaned the canvas from the blood between the rounds. And even she could tell that he fought like a bum nowadays.

“Thanks.”

“I’m guessing you were a holy man once, a man of the cloth?” she asked with a hidden hope that Victor couldn’t quite explain at the time.

“No. My father was.”

Yes, that’s where his nicknames were derived after all. From his father that was a holy man and an architect and the best damn man who graced the earth. Amen.

“But you have faith?”

“Sorry, lady. I’m fresh out.”

“Oh.” she said disappointedly, as if he just managed to sink all the ships of her hope. Her eyes fell to the ground. She wanted something alright, and she was jabbing her way through his defense, trying to find an opening for a knockout. “I... I was hoping that you could help me... with a prayer... for my daughter, you see?”

“There it is. The K.O.!” the bitter part of his mind spoke with a vile grin. The rest of him, the goddamn moral goody-goody twoshoes part of him had its attention piqued.

“She is all I have and they took her... Just took her.” she sat at the edge of the fountain, her wrinkly hand passing through the crystal water in the rusty basin. “Nobody speaks about it, but Tanner, the self-proclaimed King of the Slums, is taking people from the street and selling them as slaves. And he took my precious Ilona yesterday.” she spoke with genuine woe, tears streaming like renegade diamonds on the sandy dunes of her facial features. “And I was trying to find people to help me to... to get her back.”

“Why don’t you go to the authorities? They would surely prosecute anyone that does this.” he asked, his voice cold and almost uninterested. This woman needed a hero, somebody with a shiny sword, a horse, a set of brass balls the size of coconuts, the whole nine yards. And she could provide the damsel in distress.

“They can’t touch him. He has an uncle in the government or something. So I’m trying to find people that can break his evil reign.” she spoke, her eyes on the water, her figure hunched and old.

“So I’m supposed to do some heroics and save your... Ilona, was it?” he said sarcastically with a grin as he picked up his bag and swung it over his shoulder. It hit the back of his bruised ribcage, making him wince at the bolt of pain.

“No, not just you. I managed to get a few others as well. I just... I don’t know what else to do. She is so... so precious to me.” and she wept again, sobbed as the tears of helplessness poured down her cheeks once again, melting their way through the iron casing around his heart. He damned his parents in situations like these, damned them for making him grow a tree of consciousness on their roots of goodness. His hand clutched her shoulder.

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” he said. Her face sprung up, her face shining like the second sun on an already hot day. She hugged him tightly, like a woman hugs her husband that just returned from the battlefield. After a couple of moments of this awkward closeness, she spoke the details to him and instructed him to go to the cemetery tonight. There the others would wait for him and they could start playing knights and knaves. He only hoped that the others would know just how the hell the game was supposed to be played.

***

The night was marvelous. He was lying on a large black piece of cheap cracked unpolished marble, as lively as a corpse as he gazed at the celestial display above. He loved the night sky, loved it not only for the grandeur of the twinkling stars, but for the feeling of being so minute in something so vast and endless. A night sky could put a man into his place, no matter how cocky he is. He hoped that tonight the sky would put him right where he was now, in the middle of a cemetery, meeting a group of people that was supposed to do something good.

[Osato]

Radasanth was nothing less then the rumors had suggested. Osato was greatly pleased with what he was finding. The city was massive, the city alone easily twice as large as the entire island of Yerria. Around every corner there were more and more people that were either in trouble or looking for it. And at the heart of the city was what the young sell-sword could sense as opportunity.

“Watch were your going kid!”

But for some reason, the young soulless had found himself in another tavern. It seemed an amiable enough place, and the hard souls and cut-throats of Corone were at least not in it this time. Osato’s smirk rose as he was handed a thick mug of something, quite honestly he did not know what it was. His hand rose from the table, grabbed the cup from the large tavern-keeper, and pulled it towards him.

“What is it?” He mused as he watched the light brown froth shift with motion. “It looks like mud.” But the keeper had already left, leaving the boy to stare confused and amused into the dark liquid.

“‘At’ll put ‘air on yer fookin’ chess boyo.” It was a dwarf that was talking to him, again. This one, being the first dwarf that the young man had ever encountered, had impressed on Osato that dwarves had bad mouths and an alcohol tolerance higher then anything else alive. “Tis a miss’ of all kinssa drin’s, ‘Ought itda be bet… better nodta ass.”

Apparently though, Till Ridgeback was not one of those dwarves with the high alcohol tolerances. Either that or he had drank far to much. “Well then, I suppose I’ll just be careful with it, huh?”

“Yesssser,” he responded before dipping his face into the mug before him. Mr. Ridgeback was far from drunk, he was close to unconscious. His thick red beard was dripping with some form of ale, eyes were nearly glazed over from alcohol, and a dab of froth hung on the tip of his nose. Osato shook his head as he watched the gruff man, nowhere near attractive to the young sell-sword, blow bubbles into his mug.

“Could you help me?! Please?” Osato was almost scared out of his boots. He spun around in his seat, looking a woman in the eyes. She was disgusting by all means. Osato’s vain streak hit him like a hammer. There was nothing that could have stopped the grimace and twitch of his upper lip as he looked at the ghastly woman. She was not near old enough to look so ugly.

“What is it?” the sell-sword replied curtly. He continued looking at her, but not really at who she was as much as his own shallow interpretation of her. She was pale, her age seemed to giver her jowls (or maybe just a hard life in Radasanth), and her clothing was far from alluring. Osato could not help but allow a hand to run across his skin tight, sleeveless shirt. He felt the rippling muscles of his chest, and continued to watch the woman.

“They took her,” she continued, obviously unperturbed by the young man’s terse response and tone. “Or more aptly, he took her. That’s why I wanted to ask you to help. I saw your sword, and your physic. I could see it in your eyes that you were a strong warrior, and thought that what I could afford may be just enough to convince you to join a group of people helping me.”

Even while she was talking the boy’s mind was drifting. Thoughts were like the wind, skipping across his conscious before drifting away once again. At the core of them all, the single tamed wisp that Osato had been able to control, was the worst though. “Will I ever look like that?! I would rather die first.” And it was not with concern or hope that he thought that, but with pure unadulterated dread.

“My Ilona was taken by that horrible man Tanner, the King of the Slums, or so he calls himself. She was all I had left, all that life left me after so many hard years of life.” Osato let his eyes drift to the mug of… whatever that had been brought to him earlier. Even with the ramblings of the drunk dwarf at the forefront of his mind he was considering drinking it. “You, sir, are my only hope.”

“The name is Osato, by the way,” the young sell-sword said. He smirked at her, against his own thoughts, and looked into her faded eyes. “Why haven’t you told the watch or garrison, or whatever it’s called in Radasanth?”

“They can’t do anything to him. He has ties to the government, and it’s all so complicated. But at the heart of it I just need strong people who can help against the menace. Not only to save my Ilona, but maybe you can get enough information or anything else and be given the reward put on their group.”

Reward perked up the young man immediately. If there was money involved and people to fight he was definitely in. He stood, dramatically of course, and let his drall (open half-skirt) flutter with the emphasized momentum. “I will accept this mission for you,” he said as he shifted his sword along his belt. “Just tell me where I have to go and meet these others…”

[Culix]

The sky was indeed beautiful that night. An unending ocean of ebony, punctuated by countless glimmering specks... The silvery moon shone brightly among the stars, as though the centerpiece of the heavens' arrangement. The sky's lantern bore the shape of a crescent that night, which some might have claimed hid a symbolic meaning. As a child named Jannin had every intent to do something before its sister rose, one might safely guess that the sliver represented how much success the boy was likely to have.

The lad set foot in the Radasanthian cemetary and calmly scanned the area. Many youths who looked his age would have been petrified by the thought of entering a graveyard as the witching hour neared. Jannin merely thought it a somewhat unusual meeting place. Had it been a burial ground in the recently undead-cleansed Raiaera, he might have been a tad more cautious, but he knew he was visiting a simple memorial park; no zombies would be popping up from their headstones that night.

As the boy strolled his way through the cemetary, he began whistling a cheery, but out of tune, melody and thought about his reasons for the evening saunter. Just keep your eyes on the prize and everything'll be fine. That old lady will get her daughter back, the Prince of the Slums'll be just another pauper, and you'll walk away with whatever's giving him the power to stay in charge. Jannin had heard about Tanner earlier that day from a discussion by two local men who'd been discussing him by a street corner. The moment one of them mentioned the rumor that he got his power not from a government relative but from a magical artifact he'd come across, the boy stopped in his tracks and became intensely interested in the topic.

Ever the subtle one, Jannin had broken up their conversation and demanded they point him to Tanner's "lair." Without a word, they exchanged looks, frowned at the intruder, and then walked off. Refusing to be slighted, the boy trailed by their sides, peppering them with requests, demands, and insults to no avail. Eventually, he felt a tap on his shoulder and ceased his tirade, turning to see a sad, middle-aged woman. "Young man," she told him, "You're very brave to want to take on the King of the Slums for our sake." It then clicked in Jannin's mind that seizing the object he'd decided Tanner had might have the side-effect of removing the man from power. However, he was unable to act on this new information before she went on, "But I can't stand by and watch you throw away your life like this." At this, he snickered. Then chuckled. Then burst into a full-blown guffaw. "Me?" he asked, terribly amused, "Throw my life away? Ha! Just tell me how to reach him and then watch how fast his dirty little kingdom falls."

"My..." she said, sounding a tad surprised, "You're certainly spirited. And I'm sure you're not going to take 'no' for an answer, either. Hmm... Perhaps you could..." The woman looked lost in thought for a moment, raising one of Jannin's eyebrows. "Young man, passionate or not, I couldn't live with myself if I sent you to Tanner's alone. You'd probably be sold into slavery, like... like my daughter, Ilona..." She then paused for several seconds, breathing deeply, as though to keep from becoming emotional. "But..." she continued, sounding a bit sadder than a moment before, "I think you'd be a great help to a few others I've asked. They're planning to sneak into his stronghold tonight." In response to his uncertain expression, the woman added, "You'll still be able to stop the King of the Slums. How could a few others hurt?"
"Well..." he answered, trying to find a chink in her logic's armor, "I guess you're right."
"Good," she nodded, still with a sad look on her face. "They're meeting tonight at the graveyard. One of them will tell you all how to reach the King of the Slums." The woman clasped his hands in her own and, with a tear slipping down her face, whispered, "Thank you."

As Jannin neared the end of both his recollection and his horribly whistled tune, he also neared something that seemed a tad peculiar in a cemetary: a body lying out of the ground. Lazy gravedigger... he shook his head, How hard could it possibly be to go through the back-breaking labor involved in singlehandedly digging a big enough hole, so that the corpse won't have an easy time of crawling up if a necromancer happens by? He then noticed that the man seemed to be breathing. ... Alright, then, he thought, reassessing the situation, Kudos to the gravedigger for not burying someone alive. "Err... Hello?" he asked the man after a moment, shortly before he began cursing himself for, yet again, failing to make a dramatic first impression.

[Bohemia]

There was maybe a hundred thousand excuses he could shove down his own throat at the moment, easily enough to choke himself with. Maybe an hour ago, he wouldn't have banished the thought, but now he didn't think he had the motor skills to pull something like that off. Bleary eyed, he stared down into the puddle his shoes were sitting in, jaw slack and completely motionless. A brown bottle of beer sat between his ankles, though a quarter of it now was just rainwater. He was alone again. With July here, Althanas hadn't been such an awful place. When the monsters came out, he could just jump behind a bush and let the slayer deal with them. He hadn't even begun to, and couldn't even begin to understand this world that he was in now.

The sky above, she seemed to share in his sorrow, and do his crying for him. The boy refused to; since fourteen, when his great grandfather died, he refused to cry. Society's fault. He either got violent, got foulmouthed, or he drank. So as the clouds passed over head, spilling a lake's worth down onto the sprawling city of Radasanth, and the world watched as the furious youth fell into the warm expecting arms of the hopps and barley. The rain had fallen all day, turning the cobblestone streets to a thin stream. His shoes were soaked, maybe ruined from all the water, and if one were to pull up his pants leg, they'd see the flesh from the ankle down was turning a faint shade of blue. Still though, Jon didn't move an inch, despite the fact that there wasn't a dry part on his body. His clothes were soaked, absolutely drenched from the rain.

July had said that when he got back, he'd meet him right here, in front of this tavern. But he hadn't seen hide nor hair nor fur of the Wilmhearst Slayer since he'd gotten back, and that was nearly a week ago. No word at all to Horace, the tender here, he simply vanished at daybreak from the inn across the street. Sure, he could have been called in by his family for some sort of emergency, some demon or uppity vampire, what have you, but one would think he'd have been back by now.

" 'Ey kid, maybe you should come inside, what with it being some kinda flash freak flood and you probably dying or something out here." Horace stepped out onto the porch, his jaw prominent even in this bad light. Once, he'd been ruggedly handsome, but as time wore on, the man was just rugged. For all the time he'd been here, he couldn't remember one occassion when he'd actually seen the tender open his eyes. He hadn't ever seen him grab the wrong bottle of booze either, or trip for that matter. Horace's stomach hung out somewhat from over his belt, pushing out the apron he wore to try and keep his omnipresent shirt relatively stain free, but the man was still strong. He remembered a few days ago, watching the tender lift a a pretty big man right out of his side and toss him out of his tavern with one arm, after he was harassing some poor girl. "I can't," Jon mumbled, refusing to look up from the puddle, which reflected the dreary grey skies from above.

"Eh? And why not? Ye stuck to the porch?" The boy shook his head slowly, and was silently for a few moments. Then suddenly, he moved, not to get up; his throat convulsed as though to swallow something, and then he pitched forward, puking all over his shoes. "If'n I stan' up...I'll fall righ' offa the worl'", he muttered through a mouth burning with the taste of bile and fishsticks. It was at that point that Horace noticed the boy's hands; they were clenched tightly to the boards of the porch, his knuckles white from exertion. The tender rumbled over and pryed them loose, and stood Jon up, who immediately lost his balance and fell face-first onto the flooded street with a huge splash. When Horace grudgingly pulled him up, before he drowned, blood was running down his face and dribbling from his chin from a nose broken on the cobblestones under the shallow stream that the road once was.

"All right kid, just stay here, I'm gonna go get some towels or somethin' fer yer mug..." Trying to steady the boy out, the tender inched away, and predictably, as Jon's head lolled back, his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor like he was full of rocks. Growling, he yanked the boy up by the bunches of dripping shirts he wore and dropped him into a seat at a table with a quiet old woman, whose mug of ale had gone untouched since it had been given to her, compliments of the house. At first, Jon tipped a bit in the chair, but righted himself, and after a few moments, when the tender was satisfied the boy wouldn't just drop out of the chair and be forced to lay on the floor, he left to go get bandages and cloths.

For a few minutes, Jon just stared vacantly into his lap, completely into his own world. Then, the alcohol that had dulled his sense began to recede into his mind, and the throbbing pain in the middle of his face suddenly came to bear. He groaned loudly, and cussed something entirely nonsensical under his breath, several times, hands feeling like they were trapped in oven mitts clumsily padding at his nose. For a while then, he simply sat curled over the table top, mumbling as he poked at his broken nose, each prod illiciting a fresh shock of pain, bringing him back to awareness at each minute. Soon enough, he could hear something aside from the pounding of his own blood in his ears; the mournful whispers of the sweet looking old lady stting across from him. "Oh...my Ilona..."

"Guh?" He looked up, squinting, trying to see through his swimming eyes. She didn't connect at all; so to say a constantly shifting form from the water and alcohol still obscuring his vision. "They took her...my sweet little Ilona..." Jon growled, recognizing the pull and twist and turn of his upset stomach, and the tug of pain in his heart, a sense that seemed to be developing slowly here in Althanas. It was something he couldn't help; he had a soft spot for the better half of his kind, and Althanas wasn't much of a place for them to live in. It seemed like everyday he heard news of another girl being raped or found dead in the woods from a couple of gossipping people while leaning over another bottle of beer. The old woman moaned again about Ilona, and Jon scowled. "Get to the point lady," he snapped, in no mood to dance around the topic. "Who the hell is Ilona and what buttfucker took her?"

The old woman hesitated, shocked and amazed at the young man's acerbic, bothered tone, stuttered for a moment, and recovered. "T-tanner, the King of the Slums. He's been kidnapping people from the worst places of town and se-"

"He kidnap any woman?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"So, these girls. How are their racks?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, their sweater cows, lady lumps, fun bags. Their boobs."

"Ohhh...their breasts? They're umm...fantastic."

Jon slammed a hand down onto the table as though in agreement...and promptly tipped over in his chair, slamming down onto the floor. "Sonuvabitch!" Yelled Horace from the back room, and he thundered out quickly, grabbing the back of the boy's chair and uprighting him. The sudden motions, in such rapid succession, caused Jon's stomach to revolt, and vomit washed over the table, brownish with a faint shining object in it; a nickel from earth. "It was a dare," Jon mumbled, and let Horace wipe the blood from his face, but when he grabbed at his nose to push it back into place, Jon suddenly forgot that he was drunk at all, baring his teeth in a feeble attempt to bite into his wrist, legs flailing and hands slapping furiously at the tender. Horace ignored him and with one swift jerk, Jon's nose was straight again, but the boy wasn't done yet. "Ooooh, motherfucking goddamned cock slathering penguin fucker Bob Saget sonuvabitch!" He screamed, looking irritably up at Horace, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Aye, tha'll sober ye up, kiddo."
_____

Unlike most Althanians, Jon hadn't been on the world long enough to forget about Earth. He'd seen too many horror movies to simply waltz through the cemetary, wary of a rotting hand bursting through the ground and grabbing his ankle.

Still, he had to admit he was enjoying himself, at least for a bit. The night sky was amazing, a billion stars spilled out over a velvety dark blue sky, the moon yellowed as though by age, a sliver of a sharp crescent. The night was one of those times he enjoyed himself, not because of those fruity kids that thought they were vampires, but because it made the amish hard to see who had just decimated their mail box with a wooden bat.

His staff lay strapped across his back, and his boots clunked loudly as they knocked against almost every headstone he passed. the vestiges of blood from, his nose had been vigorously washed from his shirt, and were finally dry. He'd had to run around the town in clothes about four sizes too large from Horace's closet, which hadn't been entirely dignifying. Luckily, one of the tender's maids had succeeded in pulling the smell of alcohol, blood and vomit out of all of it.

"Motherfucker, there's no one here," Jon grumbled as he looked around, standing in the middle of the graveyard. He didn't even bother to look down, to where Victor lay, and Jannin stood, more than a foot shorter than the boy. "Assholes tricked me, prolly gonna end up down some zombie's thr-" His foot collided with Victor, and he fell over him, tumbling and knocking his head into a gravestone. "Ai, mumb funk rah...sonuvabitch! The walking dead!" He leapt to his feet, stumbling a bit from the blow to his head, brandishing his staff, eyes looking around wildly. "Get away, I know karate, motherfucker! You're mother was buried in a balsam casket!"

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor fell asleep and given the horrendous day that preceded the meeting in the morbid location, it didn’t come as too much of a surprise. The wake up call was a harbinger of the day to come; a firm kick in the ribs and a curse of a local constable that found no compassion for Victor’s lack of finances that made him sleep on the bench on one of the countless squares of Radasanth. The prizefighter thought of asking for another five minutes, but the guard’s black club and the itchy fingers around it advised him not to mess with grouchy people that could beat the living crap out of you and get paid for it. He staggered to his breakfast at the nearby well, and with the water still gurgling restlessly in his empty stomach he ambled away gracelessly.

He couldn’t have been mistaken for a bum because he pretty much was one - albeit a slightly more presentable in his relatively clean clothes - and he did what all the bums did; trying to find a way to waste the long minutes of the tedious day in which everybody else paced around him while he seemed to walk at the speed of a crawl. The life was out there, passing by him like an endless body of water, and he stopped being a part of it somewhere between Delilah’s last letter and the ring of the bell that designated his first loss back in Scara Brae. He scraped enough money for a two days old loaf of bread (and got a damn good deal on it too), got his usual share of queer looks and finger-pointing of the holier-then-thou folk up in the government district, got kicked out of the local cathedral by a plump monk for falling asleep in the last row, got his ugly mug uglier in the fight with “The Mule”... The usual stuff.

After all of that, the cold stone of a random grave seemed like a queen’s bed with velvety pillows and the thick darkness was the baldachin that enabled him enough solace to doze off. Only he didn’t doze off. With his body finally calm and the pain numbed by the soothing coldness of the stone, the fatigue crawled in like a thief in the night, replacing his consciousness with a deep slumber even before he got to properly marvel the dome above.

He dreamt of her, of course. He dreamt of holding her. She was in a black scaly dress and the surroundings paled until there was nothing but the two of them. He dreamt of telling her some cliché mush, something about looking at the night sky and how, for every star above, he found a reason why he loved her. And he dreamt of running out of stars.

And then the reality kicked in. Something caught his leg, stripped the canvas on which the perfect image was painted, and replaced it with muttered curses. Victor flinched, almost jumped into a sitting position, thinking the time rewound and it was morning again and the grumpy guard was gently waking him up. He missed the ribs this time, hitting the leg, but the curses fired at him seemed on the money. His eyes ascertained that the environment was completely different.

At his side there were two figures. One of them – the one that spewed curses better then a band of sailors – held to his staff as if it was the last straw that would save him from the peculiar situation. He seemed in panic, like a rat that got stuck in a glass box, and he was knocking on the walls with his foul mouth. The other seemed far less of a threat, an unimpressive teenage kid that snuck out of his room window and got lost on his way to... wherever the kids today went after dark. But at least he wasn’t as edgy as a guitar string.

“Whoa, whoa, easy now.” Victor spoke as he regained his footing, his back insisting not to move so abruptly but the situation demanding otherwise. “I may be tired, but I’m not dead yet. Now, I reckon you’re here because of the so called King of the Slums?” the prizefighter continued, holding both of his hands before him, showing he means no harm.

“What about you, kid?” he turned his head towards the diminutive out-of-place boy. “I’m guessing you’re not here to smell the flowers either.”

Some group they would be. It was rather clear even now that between the three of them, they couldn’t save their own pants from dropping if somebody unbuckled their belt. He hoped he would be meeting some veteran fighters, the right stuff, the kind that would get everybody in line and issue sensible orders. The kind that would lead by example and set the pace. But between the three, Victor was supposed to be the ring leader. A rather crummy ring by the look of it.

“Anyways, here’s the deal. Tanner’s mansion is some ten minutes away from here.” he started in a hushed voice, almost expecting that somebody was listening in and aiming to thwart his shabby plan before it even begun. “I checked it out earlier today and it doesn’t seem too guarded. We can climb the fence, sneak inside, make our way to the basement. That’s probably where the slaves are. We sneak out as many as possible, take them to the law tomorrow so they can testify and let the cavalry take care of the details. The bastard may have immunity, but I’m pretty certain it gets canceled if there is a solid proof of crime against him.”

Now that he actually uttered this plan he conjured, it seemed genuinely crappy and half baked. In fact, it seemed a lot like something a bunch of kids would speak in huddle much like this one when they planned to throw mud at a house of a neighbor that chased them away from his lawn earlier that day. Only tonight the punishment wouldn’t be a smack on the wrist.

“I’m Victor, by the way. Victor Callahan.”

[Osato]

Darkness was the least of Osato’s worries as his footsteps cautiously found the ground before him. There was no thick layer of fog covering the gravesite, or spooky howling sounds in the backdrop to frighten the kids, but the graveyard was still disconcerting. The young sell-sword kept his hands up high and held them to the side, as if using them to keep his balance. He felt odd being so close to so many graves. Something around him was colder then normal, though no wind was present and the lukewarm night had followed him all the way to the site of the meeting.

Osato knew what the problem was though. He had known the problem as soon as the woman, whatever her name had been, told him where the meeting was going to take place. There were restless spirits. People might not have believed in ghost, or the supernatural, but the sell-sword would never put anything by him. He was a host for the spirits of the restless, an involuntary host that they could take by force if they were strong enough. Without a soul, without something to fill him, Osato was like a pristine vase empty and waiting. Strong souls could fill that void, take their place once again as they may have in their past lives. Weak souls could only poke and prod, annoying none the less.

In the graveyard, of all places a graveyard, Osato could almost feel the cold hands of the ethereal trying to find their way into him. He was strong though, stronger then any that were around him, and the hands quickly found that out. They were returned to their wandering, leaving the young sell-sword alone as he quickened his pace and found his way towards the others.

Late as usual, Osato found himself listening to the plan. He had picked up where the leader figure was speaking about sneaking in and the rescue. It did not seem too well thought out, but the sell-sword could not think of any better plan. He stepped up to the group, walking out from behind a slightly taller human who was clutching a staff. “I apologize for being late,” Osato said as he stepped in to form a circle of sorts, not leaving any of the others out of his sight. “The plan sounds good enough; hopefully it will be as easy as you make it sound.”

The deep blue eyes of the sell-sword moved over the small member of the party. He looked like a child, to say the least. Doubts formed in the mercenaries mind as to the overall strength of a group who relied on kids to fight beside them. But there was nothing the man could really say at that point, it was already too late to find new people. Osato sighed quietly as he looked to his other side, at the human that he had stepped past at first.

He looked like he would be able to at least hold himself up in a fight. Hopefully his looks were not deceptive. “My name is Osato, and I believe I am unfortunately the final member of this team. Is there anything else that I missed? I heard the beginning of your plan, Victor, when you started about Tanner’s mansion being ten minutes away… was there anything before then? Such as names of other people?”

[Culix]

Well... This is a mite disappointing. Jannin frowned. Maybe there's more than one group planning to go after Tanner. ... On the same night. ... Meeting in the same place. ... A place that just so happens to be the city graveyard. He decided to stop listing conditions, as the probability of such an occurence was rapidly acquiring more post-decimal point zeros than he knew how to count. The boy briefly considered looking, but decided against it; the cemetery was fairly large, but unless the members of this other group also took to napping on random grave stones, the odds of finding another group didn't look good. The lad then supposed it was possible the moonlight was playing tricks on his eyes, but quickly dismissed that notion as well. While he might have accepted that it could make a pack of wolves look like a bunch of dogs, disguising a group of tigers as a litter of kittens was stretching it.

Granted, they were tall, but that had never meant much to Jannin. The bigger they are, and whatnot. Their other features didn't really impress him, either. The ragged man looked strong, but seemed pretty beat up. That he hadn't really reacted to someone tripping over him told Jannin he was either incredibly cool and collected by nature, or used to such treatment. Given his luck, Jannin wasn't banking on the former. The teenager who had tripped over the bum was hysterically brandishing a staff and babbling a great deal. The boy couldn't really blame him for this second point; he loved to hear himself talk. However, Jannin preferred to make insightful comments or to think aloud, rather than string together profanities in an attempt to create a new artform. Well... the lad thought, trying to find a silver lining, I guess the two of them would probably make a pretty good diversion.

When the swordsman showed up, however, his outlook improved considerably. Hmm... Arrives fashionably late... Appears competent... He passes the Jannin Test. Granted, passing the Jannin Test at that moment wasn't particularly difficult; after forming an opinion about the group's other two members, he'd lowered the bar to just above ground level. The lad then cleared his throat and addressed Osato. "Well, Victor fell asleep on someone's grave, then this guy," he pointed to the teenager, "tripped over him and started cussing. Then, Victor told us the plan and you showed up."

With that synopsis out of the way, Jannin cleared his throat and introduced himself in the most dramatic voice he could summon. "You're all quite fortunate tonight, you know. For aiding you in this mission will be the great and powerful Jannin Relm!" He punctuated his surname by tapping his staff on the graveyard soil. He hoped at that moment that a bolt of lightning would strike in the background, but this was not bloody likely, given the clear skies above. The small showman waited several moments for the tell-tale flash and subsequent crackle before deciding the universe had not seen fit to bend itself to his whim. Jannin coughed and tried to look as dignified as possible. Oh, you'll pay for that, forces of nature... You'll pay...

[Bohemia]

There was a few moments when Jon's arms were so taut and tense that they looked like they were about to snap, to put his staff into some clumsy whirlwind that would send him stumbling headfirst over a grave, but once the daze from the thump to his skull began to daze, he let loose a releived sigh, and replaced the staff over his shoulder. His expression vouched for his quick mood change, the corners of his mouth dipping into a seditious bothered scowl that clearly said that not only was he angry, but also embarassed of his quite un-heroic entrance. His eyes rolled in the typical teen defiance, aiming themselves up towards the moon, largely ignoring the latecomer and Victor's plan.

This wasn't anything new to him. When somebody corrected him, or tried to explain something with too much detail, Jon simply lost his patience, gave one great sigh, and turned his mind to more important things, like beer or women. There were more times than he could count on his hands or feet though, that this had nearly gotten him eaten by a pack of wolves or some giant bear or even some horrific fucking amalgamation of a bear and a wolf and a lion. And of course, it was always up to Goody McTwoShoes with his shining silver armor and legendary sword to come along and save the bumblefuck, the type of knightly hero that every women swooned over...

Jon spat a thick gob of mucus and spit onto the ground vehemently, his scowl deepening. He was trying, really trying to be the nice guy in Radasanth, the type that the people look to deliver salvation. The type whose name rang with authority, and when he stepped, the crowd parted like the legende of the Red Sea and the people held their breath. But it was always some damned soldier in polished armor waving a broadsword with discipline the boy couldn't muster, or some anti-hero in a trenchcoat maintaining deadly accuracy and precision with his katana and pistol that always thwarted him, saved the day. Took his goddamned credit. Jon wanted like nothing else to give them one strike with his staff they'd never forget, then parade their stupid asses around town on his weapon ike those little plastic trolls that were popular on pencils in the Nineties.

He hadn't realized had badly he was fuming until he came back to reality. His hands were shaking with anger, and his lips had peeled back from his teeth like an animal cornered. The expression and anger was quickly lost in another, dumbfounded yet blank, realizing briefly that the other three were silent, staring at him expectantly. "The fuck do you want? A cookie?" Then, he recalled that they'd started to introduce themselves before he'd tranced out. His mouth popped open, but his voice didn't sound, good sense yanking the reains of his bad judgement. Jon Gosnell wasn't a particularly impressive name, and had an odd, awkward ring to it. Not to mention he was sick of hearing it, and sick to death of it reminding him of the absolutely helpless person he once was. At least now, he could defend himself.

"Err...King." He paused, mulling it over for a moment, before a broad smile came over his lips. Who was to stop him? A new life deserved a new name. "That's right! The name's Jonathon King!" He beamed proudly at his new name, then shuffled off, seemingly completely forgetting what they were all about. "King!" He yelled into the night air, shaking his fist to the dark, sky, as responsive to him as a rock would very well be. "I beat you this time, fucker! I guess when you dropped Cowboy Dan, he killed you, to!" While his humungous grin had faded, he still smiled a bit, a tiny smile of satisfaction."Ahh, Modest Mouse. I miss normal, civilized music. Not this boring Renaissance twangy droning bullshit those fruity bards play in the taverns."

From his back pocket, he plucked a small brown bottle of lukewarm beer and pried the cap off with the knife from one of his boots, and eagerly took a deep drink. "Eh? hat are you morose motherfuckers looking at? You look like you don't know what a bathtub is, gramps," he jeered, jabbing a finger straight at Victor, though it begin to waver a bit off point once he took another drink. "Ya look like you wear mascara on the weekends," he mumbled, shifting his judicial point to Osato, stumbling back and leaning on a gravestone. "And I guess I'd have to trust you a lot, cause I could toss your little ass pretty far! Hahahahahaha! Get it? Cause you're a...you're a..." He scowled at Janin, his mood changing at the drop of a second hat, eyes full of venom. Growling, he tossed the empty bottle at another stone tablet, shattering against it's surface. "Fuck you."

His head lolled back on his shoulders, and he stared up at the sky, mouth moving lazily as though he was muttering. Then, inexplicably, he pitched over backwards and smashed right into the ground. "What're you assholes looking at?"

[The Cinderella Man]

By the time the three introductions were done, Victor felt a profound impulse to rub his temples and make like a tree. The headache was still absent within the walls of his skull, but he prevised that it would announce its presence in the near future given the course their hapless heroic endeavor was going. That is, of course, if he would still have a head by the time the night was over. His knowledge of slave traders and their mannerisms was next to nonexistent, but it didn’t take a scientist to help him realize that the people that kidnaped other people weren’t the most tolerant bunch he would ever come across. They were knowingly breaking the law. It was likely that a handful of fresh cadavers beneath the chicken coop stood in their job description as well.

The cause of the onset vexation stood around him, stabbing him in the back and laughing like a demented jester that just made you walk in a mirror house. First, there was the brassy Jonathon King. Victor knew his kind, the loudmouthed teenager kind that used the expletive words to defend against the world that was always out to get them. They were crusaders, riding against their windmills every single day and flapping their gums just to cover for the complete and utter lack of something coherent between their ears. Victor’s sister, Yavannha, who was becoming quite a scholar, would call it a defensive mechanism and some other more technical terms. Victor didn’t care. He wanted to stop his yammering with a punch and continue to extract the attitude out of the teen’s body like a venom. With more punches of course. Possibly a handful of broken bones as well.

Then there was the mighty Janin. Not only did the boy have a name that suited a girl, but he had a constitution to back it up. He was a nipper that strayed from his sandbox and grew a confidence on his way into the big bad world. “It will get you killed, kid.” he wanted to say. “And you’re too young to die. Hell, I’m too young to die.” Still, on some level of subconsciousness, Victor admired the boy’s determination if for no other reason then for its deviation from the usual. At his unripe age of some twelve by Victor’s estimate, the most of Janin’s worries should have been the glances of some jocund blonde lass and whacking off without getting caught. And yet he was here.

And then there was Osato. The swordsman was probably the only reason why the oncoming headache was still oncoming, though Victor’s mind took a couple of jabs at the youth as well. For one, he looked genuinely royal, like a fencer that liked to prance around training room in tight white costumes, sparing with his chaps and inviting them for tea afterwards. With his pristine clothes, tranquil idiosyncrasy and ridiculously long hair, he was possibly one of those pontifical freaks from the Government District that got tired of the hardship of his quotidian life. But he had a sword, and right now Victor didn’t care was he out for a shot of adrenaline or there was an altogether different story behind his appearance.

And together they were diametrical to what a rescue party should look like.

Despite his desire to slap the teen like a bitch, Victor waited calmly for Jonathon to end his blundering rant, his lips allowing a minute grin in the end. “We’re looking at somebody who’s about to get clobbered if he doesn’t keep his big mouth shut.” the prizefighter spoke in a low, caustic voice, though his facial expression remained stoic. His hands, however, sunk into his tattered robes and provided a par of fingerless, iron-plated gloves. Victor put them on, almost as if to confirm the earnestness of the threat. “It’s the middle of the night, cretin. You want me to give you a trumpet so you can blow on it and the whole city can know that we are coming?” Victor continued. He wasn’t usually this blunt, but the cocky whelps like Jonathon really hit his buttons and tonight they were easy to access and press. “God, I hope you’re as good as that stick as you are with your gums.” he added in a barely hearable mutter as he fastened the gloves to his wrists.

He knew a retort was about to follow. Maybe not instantaneously, but it was most definitely coming, steadfastly locked like a bullet in the mouth of a gun. But that was a risk Victor had to take because he couldn’t afford to diminish their odds even further by bringing a yammering idiot in tow.

“I assume you have some skill with the blade?” he half-turned from the big-tall-and-loud, keeping him in his peripheral vision as he addressed Osato. “We can use that if we get into a tight spot. But I think we all agree that we stick to stealth for as long as humanly possible and try to avoid direct confrontations.”

Finally, he turned to Janin. “What about you, kid? I hope you’re not lugging that big piece of wood around just for show?” Above his head an owl seemed appropriate to answer the question with a three disquieting series of hoo-hooooo, reminding Victor that the night wasn’t getting any younger as they fraternized in the ghoulish graveyard.

“We should get going though. We’ll stick to the side alleys, use the shadows and stay away from the night watch that is patrolling the streets. They ask too many questions.”

[Osato]

Quite fortunate indeed…

The thoughts of the sell-sword were humorous and yet mocking. He could not help but chuckle as the small human offered a grandiose illusion of who he was. “The great and powerful”, ha! He was barely four foot and could not have weighed in at even a hundred pounds. And what was he carrying? A staff? Unless he had some amazing spells the sell-sword had little hope that he was anything more then just a flamboyant child with an inflated ego.

The other’s response was much more humorous then even Jannin. Osato could not help but laugh. Things were even more messed up then he thought originally. Jonathan King was crazy, and why not? The sell-sword had always thought the best stories about adventure and daring involved a group of people with at least one crazy person. Unfortunately Jon was a little more crazy then the mercenary had expected, and blatantly rude. Osato was the second to be criticized out of the three, though what mascara was he was unsure.

Both weak in mind and body, Osato thought as he watched the man topple over the gravestone he had subjugated as his seat. He was the atypical asshole that Osato had often gotten into quarrels with in the taverns of Radasanth. It was people like Jon that the sell-sword, fresh meat to the world of Althanas, had come to dislike. Apparently he was not the only one though, for Victor was expressing in his own fashion his dislike. With plated gloves dawning over his hands Osato could not help but wonder how far the party of people would get.

As far as slavery at the hands of this ‘king of the slums’ is about it.

“Agreed,” the man responded. It was stealth they needed more then anything, but stealth was exactly what Osato was least experienced in. His training had been in field combat, wielding the sword in an ordered line, or storming the beaches of an enemy isle. Stealth was a still in its infantile state as far as the man was concerned, yet everything he did seemed to rely upon is solely. “Then the alleyways it is. And since we all seem to be finished with our introductions, and only have petty differences to argue about left… why don’t we get going?”

Osato was not normally one to lead, hardly the leader to tell the truth, but if everyone else was so preoccupied with bickering it was up to him. He turned, without waiting for word from the others, and followed the plan that Victor had already given. Out of the graveyard and over the wall that barricaded it from the town he crept, sneaking from shadow to shadow.

A sense of intense excitement was welling up in the sell-sword. His life was looking up, or at least more interesting then before. Creeping through shadows, dodging the guard, sneaking into mansion to free slaves, it was all so thrilling. Osato felt like a character from a story, a hero in some novel. With those thoughts guiding him he continued on, pausing from time to time to make sure that he was leading towards the right way and that the shadows were cloaking their movements.

[Culix]

King... Sure, Jannin thought as he rolled his eyes. He then became annoyed when Jon missed this gesture, as the teen apparently preferred to turn away from his allies, ensure all the corpses of Radasanth knew his name and then babble some nonsense about a humble rodent. It was then that the lad decided Mr. "King" was not merely a common fool, but a recently escaped mental patient. When Jon turned back to his temporary colleagues and opened his mouth, Jannin presumed it would be best to tune out the lunatic's drunken ramblings and lost himself in his thoughts. At that moment, these thoughts centered on reasons he was superior to the psychotic teenager. I don't feel compelled to curse with every other syllable... I have some understanding of hair and skin care... The oxygen isn't particularly thin at my height... I don't routinely chug from a small bottle full of what smells like paint thinner... For this reason, the boy gave no response to the jab at his size.

"What about you, kid?" finally broke him out of his self-reflection. "I hope you’re not lugging that big piece of wood around just for show?" Jannin gave a moment's chuckle and smirked. His response would have been, "Perish the thought," despite the relative accuracy of Victor's statement, but the lad was interrupted by a noise above. The moonlight made the bird appear as a graceful, silver streak before it returned to search for its nightly meal. After Victor and Osato spoke briefly about their plan of movement, Jannin nodded and began to follow the swordsman. He half-hoped the youth with the mouth of a sailor would remain behind.

The boy had never been one for stealth. Scampering about like a rat doesn't suit me, he haughtily told himself. However, he'd had enough moonlit capers ruined by the night watch to understand that stealth was a necessity. So, he stayed to the shadows, swallowing a small portion of his pride -- gulping down the entire thing would choke a fully grown dragon. Jannin's legs were significantly shorter than those of his alpine associates, so the boy found he needed to pump them a bit more swiftly, his shoes making barely audible sounds each time they graced the cobblestone streets. As he went, he decided to go over his plan. Alright, these guys are gonna try to get some slaves out, so I'll help until the guards find 'em. Then, I'll slip past in the chaos, find Tanner's room, maybe have a dramatic showdown, then snatch his magical whatsit and bask in glory! Heh... It'll be great! A stray thought suddenly burst his bubble: Wait... Tanner's probably gonna keep his place well-protected. How are we gonna get inside?

When the group came to a stop before the King of the Slums' place of residence, Jannin's question was answered. While the large building was certainly one of the area's nicer structures, it wasn't particularly impressive. "It... almost looks like a prettied-up warehouse," the lad whispered. It actually bore a closer resemblence to a military compound. Its brick walls climbed two stories, while its lateral dimensions stretched the length of four houses and the width of two. A large iron barred gate, flecked with rust and seven feet high, enclosed the front yard. However, perhaps because Tanner had lacked the finances to completely surround his small fortress, a fence of wooden planks, only five feet high, circled the backyard. It was clear that Victor had definitely been speaking literally when he spoke of jumping the fence. Eh. What can you really expect from a guy with the word 'slums' in his title?

[Bohemia]

His hazel eyes looked down at the yellowish stain on the tombstone, and the brown shards at it's base. Mournfully, he wished he hadn't tossed it so hard, because at the moment, he'd have enjoyed nothing better than bringing it down over Victor's fat head. "How about you suck my dick?" Jon hissed, his mood changing dramatically as it always tended to, snatching his staff from his back, shaking it irritably. "I'm much better with this stick than your mother was with my pole last night." He grinned triumphantly, and crossed his arms over his chest. That grin remained plastered across his face as he set the staff across his shoulders and slung his arms over it, waltzing right past Victor and the other two in a blatant disregard to any of their threats.

"Once you bitches are done kissing, let a master teach you about stealth. You need stealth when you've just kicked in the windshield to Mrs. Setevenson's Lexus and the old hag has figured out how to work the phone. You need stealth when you've just bashed in the police chief's fifth mail box...that year. You need stealth and crafty planning to sneak out of the bedroom and avoid your ex when you find out she has a penis." Jon stopped, staring straight ahead, and doubled over, dry heaving a bit as he shuddered. "Not cool. Anyways, guys...guys?" Jon's eyes swept frantically around the graveyard, then stopped as he watched the little form of Jannin rushing away, past the gates, trying to duck out of view before Jon undoubtedly saw him. "Dicks," he muttered grudgingly, and rushed after them.

"Grand," he grumbled, a few feet back from them, out of earshot, or so he hoped. "I'm about to break and enter some dousche asshole's mansion with a midget with gay hair, some emo freak that reminds me of Fabio, and some cocky asshole that smells like he lives in a Men's room. This is like the beginning of some kind of goddamned gay j -- Hello, ma'am." Jon's attention had been drawn aside from the mission at hand by another pretty face down a dark alley. Dolled up with what had to be a pound of makeup, the black haired, emotionally damaged beauty gave him a disaffected sneer, but all the less, beckoned to him. "Awesome. Awesome! Freaking awesome!"

As much as the other probably would have been happy to see him gone, that tiny little, nearly inconsequential speck of haloed white down in his soul spoke up at the moment. Scowling at his sudden attack of good sense, he almost completely ignored it...before a thought rang loud in his head. 'This one hooker now, that's gonna give you something to surprise you when you make a trip to the bathroom, or a harem of thankful beauties after this is all over?' He perked at the thought, and pulled away from the woman's outreaching arms, black painted nails like claws. "And how!" He said, grinning suddenly again, forgetting completely of the terrible reservations that the other three had of him.

By the time he'd caught up with them again, they were standing before an unimpressive "mansion", gazing up at it with grimaces and scowls. It was certainly one of the better looking buldings down here in the slums, but that wasn't saying much. "It looks like something one of those backwoods family would have lived in in Alabama, out in the sticks," he muttered, poking the rusty iron gate wiith the end of his staff. "Eh, whatever. What're you doing, standiing there for? Ain't you ever hopped a goddamned fence before?" He flashed them an arrogant smile and shrugged, backing away from them, and sprinted around towards the back of the mansion, grabbing the top of the five foot fence and leaping up. He landed gracefully on the other side, his posture smug and triumphant.

Or at least, that's what he'd wanted to do.

His bumbling feet caught the side of the fence, snaring a shoelace, and pulling him down. He at least had the good sense to clap a hand over his mouth as his crotch drove itself right into the fence. If one was close enough, they'd be able to hear a number strained cusses mumbled behind his hand as he doubled over, and slowly slid over the side, sllumpping to the ground there.

[The Cinderella Man]

During the night, the streets of the slums were a sad monument to the less fortunate and the pretentious hobos that opted to sleep outdoors instead of rolling up their sleeves and doing some actual work that would consequently earn them a proper lodging. The crumbling houses that passed by them seemed that much more haggard when enveloped in shadows, each one a wretched untold story of good times gone. Homeless were tucked in the out-of-sight corners like corpses, their makeshift bedrolls mere putrid heaps of rags spread through the shadows like invisible mounds of trash. Luckily, Victor knew this face of Radasanth better then any of his companions, so once he took the lead again, they deftly evaded the slumbering bums.

Unfortunately, all his efforts at stealth wound up thwarted by the blundering idiot that kept following them at a safe distance. The prizefighter didn’t know what Jonathon’s problem was, but it was certain that he had the light on in his head, but there was nobody home. “One good thing about being insane is that you’re never bored.” was a thing that Victor liked to say when he encountered people that had a tendency to speak to themselves. Jonathon seemed to be having a ball.

Tanner’s mansion rose up in front of them like a house on a haunted hill, surrounded by a chintzy excuse for a fence and no visible sentries. Victor’s first thought was that it all seemed like a walk in a park, all too easy for a rescue mission of such grave importance. But then he looked back at the company the woman provided for him and suddenly the crummy mansion seemed like a fort and they were about to knock on the front gates. They all paused in front of the fence, ascertaining the situation and the environment, aware that this was the point of no return. All of them except Jonathon.

Longshanks once again acted in sync with his moronic idiosyncrasy, preceding them all and jumping ardently over the wooden fence. Unfortunately for him – and fortunately for the world population, especially the female portion, Victor thought – his leg caught one of the jagged boards, making him mount the fence with a rather disconcerting expression on his face. He sat there for a couple of seconds, like a rider that just swallowed a bug, before he drooled down from the fence and into the yard beyond. Victor rolled his eyes and shook his head. Maybe it would be best if the three of them just left and called the guards to rid them of Jon’s stupidity.

Unlike Jonathan, Victor lifted himself over the fence slowly, keeping his eyes on the yard beyond as he maneuvered his crotch over the top and descended on the other side. It was surprising that despite the spewed curses from his companion and the subtle entry that nearly relieved him of what little manhood he had, they weren’t surrounded by a forest of spears already. But beside the mutterings and the occasional sound of a renegade cricket, the night was as silent as a tomb.

“Maybe it’s the wrong place.” Victor thought as he waited for the remaining two to cross the mighty barrier that seemed insufficient to keep an arthritic old man with a gimp outside the premises, let alone a band of greenhorns with an illusion of heroism. Jonathon was groaning something beside him, another incomprehensible curse from his ample arsenal, but at least on this side of the fence he managed to keep his volume down. Once all of them made a more or less successful transgression into enemy’s territory, the prizefighter spoke in a hushed tone, his eyes stuck to the mansion, half-expecting a horde of half-asleep guards in nothing but their shorts. But the yard was silent.

“Alright, we go around and to the back entrance. Even if they are not guarding the yard, they are bound to guard the front door.” he spoke, his hands clenched at his side, his heart pumping like a locomotive gone haywire. It was two parts excitement, one part fear that made the adrenaline course through his system like a drug. Or perhaps the odds were different. Perhaps it was two parts fear and one part excitement. Either way, the first step through the yard seemed more difficult then any he made in his life, the fright of the unknown burdening him like a ball and chain. But he pushed on. They said evil prevailed if the good men failed to act.

Just as they reached the rightmost corner of the house that stood veiled in complete darkness, a low growl cracked the silence of their stealth like a hardboiled egg. Three vicious looking hounds stood with their ears perked, their teeth barred and waiting to sink into the meal that was creeping through the yard. People he could handle. People knew when to give up. Animals had no such limitations. They would bite and claw until either them or their prey give up. Vaguely he remembered an old saying from Scara Brae; the dog that barks won’t bite. And unless his ears were failing him, these three weren’t barking. It made Victor do what all people did when they are caught with their hand in the cookie jar; he froze and made a ridiculous surprised face.

“We should... uhm... We... We should run!” he finally said, breaking free of the shackles of fear that rooted his feet and dashing down the side of the house. The side entrance stood some ten paces away, but it seemed like a mile as the tiny rapid pitter-patter of the canines followed in tow. It made the prizefighter cast away the subtlety and tackle the door, but his first attack was too weak and the door mocked him with the sturdiness. “Damnit!” he tried again, this time putting all of his weight behind the strike and breaking it inwards. Darkness as dense as molasses opened up in front of him, but he didn’t care as he entered fleetly and waited for the other three to do the same.

[Osato]

Impressive to say the least. Osato had envisioned more. Before him was the ‘mansion’ that the group had been told to rescue the poor girl from. The entire way towards it the young sell-sword with delusions of grandeur at the forefront of his thoughts had been working on the story in his mind. Sneaking from shadow to shadow was only secondary to the illusion of a heroic battle and the rescuing of some poor children and helpless women, and of course that rich fellow who would reward them quite handsomely.

Instead of a beautiful mansion, sprawling lawns, high columns, and a sleepy guard at an easily passable front gate Osato had been handed something else. Fate was not without its cruel jokes and unkind humor. The ‘mansion’ was large, to say the least. It looked more like a rundown warehouse that had once been used to store the Thayne knows what. Windows were set high on the building, their broken glass giving a wink as the glint of the moon cast over them reflected. Apparently those high windows, as small and challenging as they were, had been used for children to practice or compete at breaking.

Osato was anything but pleased.

Wonderful, he thought as he shrugged and moved from the shadows to give room for the others to sidle next to him. Instead of a grand entrance, rescue, and escape we have a rather idiotic dance over a low wooden wall and probably a blundering rescue. If we make it out of this without dying I will be surprised.

But at the back of his mind there was no longer a fiction of a hero in shining armor, but the enigmatic hero who worked for his own reasons. He pictured himself, of course, as the lead role with the other three as the goofy sidekicks and wise cracking entertainment of the novel. With the warehouse before them, and Jon’s obnoxious cracks behind him, Osato waited.

Jon was the first over the wall. His display of what had to be an amazingly inbred dexterity was amusing to say the least. Luckily his muted cussing was turned to mutters as he covered his rather sordid mouth with a hand. Next over was the ‘leader’ of the group, or so it seemed he wanted to be. That left the sell-sword and his miniature companion.

“I’ll give you a… boost if you want one?”

Once over Osato quickly found the blundering fool holding himself and the ‘leader’ with a somewhat agitated face. He gave yet another awe-inspiring speech of the rather obvious nature, one that the mercenary just shrugged and go straight from one ear and out the other. Of course they would go in the back way. If they went in the front they would be seen, and with the windows set so high above he doubted any of them would be getting through those anytime soon.

He followed close, not knowing what to expect but with a gloved and armored hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. If anything was to attack Osato did not want to be caught with his pants down. But, from the darkness, the noise that came next nearly made him faint. It was the deep, wicked growl of dogs… big ones. Osato despised dogs with every fiber of his vain little heart. And the dogs that he espied with his deep blue eyes as he turned were something more akin to monsters.

No longer did the warehouse look so dismal, it looked like the very life and soul of the young soulless being. The hand that was firmly around the hilt of his sword slid the sling up higher while the other tightened it. Unlike Victor, who had a moment of stunned and useless silence, Osato had none. Though the dogs and many other animals were phobias of his, only instincts dictated his movements. Tie the sword tighter, loosen the drall around his waist, take off running. Before he had even time to get to the third part of his plan Victor had hastily called the shot.

The man was off. The sell-sword was quick to follow. He did not even consider the short legs of Jannin, as working with such a short individual with such disadvantages in height did not register in the heat of panic. Instead he left the small one and the rude one behind him, rushing after the ‘leader’ as quickly as he could. If the two were caught, one because of speed issued the other because of injuries, then it would only mean the dogs would be slowed and too occupied to give any further chase. In the back of his mind a rather morbid thought hoped for, prayed for even, that one of the two would slip and stop the bloody, stupid animals from following.

With his own shoulder Osato plunged not a split second behind Victor as he sent his second barrage into the door. Luckily for both it broke. Unluckily the sell-swords momentum sent him hurtling into the darkness, careening out of control, and straight for Victor as he too went into the darkness. “Oh gods,” he muttered as his arms flailed against the walls and the tips of his steel clad feet skipped traitorous across the floor. Both were useless against the gravity and loathing that Fate had for him that night.

[Culix]

Jannin had persuaded himself that all the mumbled curses and other unintelligible jibberings at their backs were the nightly babbles of the many hobos Victor had helped them avoid. When a cocky Jon King staggered up to the fence, however, the lad accepted the truth and heaved a heavy sigh. Don't even know if I can salvage this one... he thought. The drunken teenager was as mouthy as his subsequent jump was bereft of grace. While his elder companions likely regarded the bumbling with little more than groans, Jannin could only cringe in response. He honestly felt sorry for Jon. Sure, he was an escaped mental patient, or so Jannin assumed, but he'd obviously only been put away to protect him from himself. An omniscient, objective observer might have wondered at that point if there could be any greater blow to Jon's ego than knowing Jannin pitied him. This individual, being omniscient, would have then recalled he already knew the answer and shared a chuckle with the night as he pressed on to the nearest horse track.

Regardless, Victor soon jumped the fence with relative finesse. As the boy approached the small line of wood by the side of the "fortress," Osato offered to give him a boost. A "No!" of great volume almost escaped into the Radasanthian night, but Jannin managed to catch it in time. After a cough, he give a more subdued, "No thanks, I've got it." Once the swordsman was on the other side, however, the lad's claim was called into question. While the wall could only charitably be called an obstacle by most adventurers, it was a fairly effective barrier to one of Jannin's size. Fortunately, while he couldn't see over it, even when on tiptoe, it was low enough for the lad's arms to reach over the top. So, tucking his staff under his right arm, he reached over and tried to climb. The moment he tried to get a grip, the tyke had to let go and draw his hands back, cradling his left hand in his right. As he heard only muffled swears from the other side of the fence, he decided that, if Jon could handle it, he too could hold in his pain. The boy thus allowed only a quiet wince to escape through clenched teeth as he examined the splinter in his left palm.

He knew Victor was whispering something over there, but he was too busy gathering his courage to pay attention. Then, to the sound of quiet, unseen footsteps, the boy closed his eyes, coaxed the small bit of wood out of his flesh with a thumb, and plucked out the object of suffering. Flicking it away, he drew another breath of the moist, night air as he wiped the few pain-born tears from his eyes. With that done, and his mission apparently forgotten, he glared at the fence. Oh... You're gonna pay for that... The mage began to quietly intone the words of his only spell as he gathered the required mystical essence in his hand. Had the sound of growling dogs not reached his ears, he probably would have gone ahead and torched the baleful fence.

Once he heard those sounds, Jannin attempted to climb again. After proving his need for vengeance was no match for his curiosity, and encountering no more splinters, he peeped over in time to see Victor and Osato race past. If Jon was joining their delightful romp, the little boy was too busy looking at the pursuing dogs to notice. It was difficult to make out any details in the dim light, but Jannin knew that jumping down would be a poor move. On a whim, the lad decided to be helpful by throwing his staff nearby as a distraction. Their ears swiveled in its direction, but it did nothing to halt their bloodlust. In another time and another place, they might have happily scooped up the stick and looked for someone to throw it for them. But these beasts had been trained to pursue their prey with a single-minded determination, and knew little of such frivolities. So, deciding there was nothing else for it, Jannin hoped his companions would get through the side door in time while he waited for the dogs to pass, hopped down, scooped up his staff, and made for the back.

Once there, a new problem presented itself: How'm I supposed to get in? Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, as he approached, an answer came in the sound of many footsteps from beyond it. The shuffling of feet grew louder with every instant. As panic took hold, Jannin looked around frantically, frowning at the shortage of bushes to hide him. In desperation, he dove for the bit of wall to which the door was attached and then draped his cloak of midnight blue around him. The boy acted not a moment too soon, as several large figures burst through the door. He counted four or five dark shapes, at least two of which held long objects that caught the moonlight -- Swords, Jannin correctly assumed. As the tyke lay huddled, he shivered and wished his heart would stop beating so quickly. Just 'cause you're sneaking about like a rodent doesn't mean your heartbeat has to match! he mentally hissed at it. Soon enough, they moved away and turned the corner; if they'd noticed Jannin, they hadn't shown it. He spied the door and, just as it was about to close, he thrust the back of his staff into its rapidly diminishing crack, wedging the door open. The lad took a deep breath and tried to calm down before moving on. Hard part's over, he assured himself.

[Bohemia]

"You people suck," he whispered hoarsely, wincing as they tip toed past him, completely disaffected to the crushing blow he'd taken. He had half a mind (almost literally), to simply start cussing as loud as he could, crawl into the bushes, and snicker sinisterly as guards arrived and beat them into submission. He'd have liked nothing better than to see them get their heads dented in, particularly the haughty pretty boy. The airas he put on reminded him, of course, of all the authority figures that had blundered and plundered his foolish rescues. And staying true to that stereotype, they all left the boy to wallow in his own misery down in the dirt, not offering one begrudging hand to help him to his feet. Grumbling a string of cusses that would have made the white shepherd weep, he slowly began to rise to his hands and knees, lifting his heavy head to see what progress the others had made --

To look into the long face of a rather vicious looking rottweiler, it's features crinkled in rage, spittle dripping from it's chops. Unfortunately for him and the dog, he was in a rather dark mood. "Fuck you, fido!"

Jaws clamped down on either side of his face, and a shrill cream burst from his lips as the hound shook it's head violently. The boy rammed his fist into the side of it's head with all his force, and the teeth went lax, and he didn't have enough time to see the stunned thing slump to the ground, whimpering. He scrambled to his feet and broke into a frenzied sprint, matching Victor's well. "That old bitch didn't say anything about dogs!" He hissed, scowling at the iron taste of his blood trickling over his lips from the wounds on either side of his skull. Victor reached the door first, and though it met him with some difficulty, with a crack, it broke open, and Jon slowed his pace as Jannin and Osato rushed past him. From the dark lunged one of those sleek, muscled black dogs, plowing into him, but by this time, he'd set his feet against the push. His hands closed around the canine's neck, drawing choked but determined growls from it's throat. With a grunt and a heave, he whipped the animal to his left, towards the mansion, slamming it's bulk into the side of the building.

A crashing crescendo erupted from the side of the mansion as more dogs came careening into view, legs pumping and scrabbling at the lawn, ednted aluminum trashcans rolling out behind them. Cussing quietly, Jon turned quickly and sprinted towards the open door, the stone floor slipping a bit under his feet as he swiveled around and slammed the door shut, driving a nearby chair under the doorknob, seconds before a score of meaty thumps shook it. "I...don't know...why the fuck...it tried to eat me," he gasped through aching lungfuls of breath, doubling over with his hands on his knees. "The kid...with the stupid hair...is bite size." He frowned as he dabbed gingerly at the deep bites on either side of his face, stinging badly, though the bleeding had all but stopped.

They weren't allowed much time to rest before Victor was once again on the go, slowly edging down the only hallway in the foyer, the occassional grumble or growl coming from them as one of them inevitably stubbed his toe on a stand or an errant chair. After some time of feeling their way through the dark, they came to a room whose walls sloped out widely, making the walking far easier.

"Goddamned sonuvabitch!" The lights flicked on, bright and clear and with that harsh white no nonsense quality flourescents usually had. It stabbed at his eyes painfully for a few minutes, filling his world until his pupils dilated and he realized the men close to them were too tall or too rugged or too clean smelling to be Jannin, Osato, or Victor. They wore simple, undecorated dark clothes, all the same, and hefted heavy looking blunt instruments, mainly oak clubs. Jon's shoulders immediately slumped, and his sfrown fell even lower.

"Aw, piss on you."

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor never got the chance to close the door. Even as he entered the inky darkness, Osato’s unhinged advance collided with his bulk and they fell onto the hardwood floor like a pair of wrestlers. The pain from the fall was minute and utterly irrelevant though. What growled just outside the door wasn’t. “This is it.” prizefighter’s frenzied mind commented as he raised his head just enough to see the moonlit yard. “They’ll bite my face off.” He didn’t know why he was so concerned about his ugly mug at such a dreadful moment, but when your heart is pumping adrenaline like there was no tomorrow and that wretched cold sweat showers your back, a coherent sensible thought wasn’t just improbable, it was downright impossible.

Surprisingly, Jon saved them from becoming dog chow. It was unexpected – in a strange inadvertent shadow-of-a-thought way Victor’s mind already envisioned the clumsy teen overtaken by the hounds – but despite the lack of illumination the boxer was relatively certain it was Jonathon that slammed the door and barred it with a chair. When he spoke, the relative turned into definite. There just couldn’t be two such profane loudmouths in Radasanth.

“Well, that could’ve certainly gone better.” Victor croaked under his breath, the words a mere bitter comment directed to all of them and nobody at all. The darkness around them was damn near absolute, making his eyes follow the sounds like a blind man would. The growling and the bony impacts from the other side of the door were frantic, predatory, the paws scratching at the bottom of the door as if there was a bone buried beneath the doormat. By the time he regained his footing, his eyes adjusted enough for him to see the vague outlines of the walls and scarce object in the corridor.

“Is everybody alraarrrgh!” he started the question in a whisper, but his foot insisted on his vision not being adaptable to the lack of light, catching a chair leg and making him utter a muffled groan. It was like being ten again and sneaking down in the kitchen on Saturday nights to take a bite of mother’s Sunday cake. Only the four of them – were there still four of them? He didn’t hear the assertive shrimp for a while now – weren’t going for the oven and if they were caught red-handed, the repercussions would be much more dire then a scorned gaze and angry words. Besides, this place smelled nothing like his mother’s kitchen. Instead of that tasty scent of cooked food that somehow always lingered in kitchens, this place smelled plain old, unkempt, like a stuffy manor set for sale with all those white sheets over the furniture and no buyer in five years.

Perhaps there was a logical conclusion to be drawn from that detail, but Victor was too dumb and too edgy to use his deduction. On top of that, his time ran out like in a broken hourglass, because even as they stepped out of the corridor and into a much larger section of black nothingness, overhead lights flickered on as if they were motion triggered. Victor’s eyes squinted reflexively, nearly closed and unable to ascertain the environment at the moment. His ears worked fine though. Beyond the faint buzz of the neon above, the sound of movement was becoming more and more prominent. Jon muttered something in sync with his usual manner - short and utterly meaningless – and by that time Victor’s eyes started to operate normally. His mind displayed a single idiotic message that the prizefighter didn’t really need because it was so conspicuous.

“Busted!”

Victor knew what was supposed to happen at this moment. He was supposed to step forward, point his finger and declare that they are here to liberate the slaves and that they better stand out of their path or they’ll be sorry. The goons would, of course, laugh in a rather condescending manner. The heroic band would then proceed to inflict pain and justice on all present. And free the slaves. And get the girl. And get the cozy little house in the outskirts with a picket fence. And live happily ever after.

In real life, however, the armed men in black didn’t wait for the righteous speeches. They moved at a steady trained pace, measuring the intruders with their experienced incisive eyes like hawks. Their cloaks moved behind them soundlessly. Their weapons were like guillotines waiting to execute a directive. Victor could count nine... no, ten of them, not counting the ones that barred the entrance behind their backs as soon as they entered. And suddenly the rescue attempt seemed a whole lot like a mouse hunt. They were the mice and they just walked into a trap.

“We have no quarrel...” the boxer tried something that was supposed to sound like negotiations, but wound up both unimpressive and interrupted by a wooden club aimed at his face. Whoever hired these guys didn’t do it for their colloquial skills. Victor ducked, then pushed ardently with his feet, tackling the man effectively. He kept pushing, the man kept backtracking and a fraction of a second before they were about to collide with a wall, the man in black simply spun away. Victor had only his combat reflexes to thank for enough time to put his hands before his face before he struck the wall.

And just like that, with a sloppy opener from the down-and-out prizefighter, the large empty room that might have been a main storage once turned into a battlefield.

[Osato]

The night seemed full of mistakes.

The first was Osato’s entrance. He had stumbled in, unsteady and quickly worsening. His clumsy footing coupled with the obviously un-level ground knocked him off-balance enough to crash into the already battered form of Victor. The two crashed to the floor like a clumsy dancing duo, who’s feet randomly stepped on each other and dragged them down. Striking the man full force with his body did not phase the young sell-sword, neither did the dogs foreboding tones from behind him.

Instead it was a severe vanity that sprang forth.

He was dirty, again. His hair was a mess. His face had been scrapped against the ground, and upon the perfection that was his visage four red lines of unequal length had formed. From behind the two’s position on the floor the sound of the door slamming shut echoed rather loudly through the dark room (or whatever it was they had stumbled into). Osato winced, knowing it was loud enough for anyone in the warehouse to have heard.

The second mistake was even having the vulgar teen with them. Jon would not stop talking, instead insulting and analyzing between fierce gasps of air. His voice was not loud exactly, but louder then the rest of the group’s voices… since no one else was talking. For that matter, where did that little guy go? Osato rolled away from Victor as he stood, a smooth, gloved finger tracing the recent wounds. At the back of his mind was the wound, which he knew would heal quickly but more importantly without so much as a scar. But Jannin was at the forefront of his mind. He was actually worried for the little guy, who had probably been eaten rather quickly by the large dogs that had chased the three.

Osato followed Victor and Jon, who lead him right into the third mistake.

Lights flickered overhead. The sudden change in illumination made the sell-sword wince, he had just gotten used to the dark too. His hands instinctively found their place above his eyebrows, shading his eyes till they adapted. But one of them fell to the hilt of his longsword just as quickly as his sight returned. The heroic novel had turned into a ham-fisted escapade. Before the three were at least ten men wearing rather ominous black uniforms, each of which were rough and probably angry.

Victor at least tried to talk to them, offering a botched peace attempt that fell on deaf ears. Jon assumed his normal practice of cursing, which Osato had begun to believe he did because of his lack of true diction. Vulgarity seemed to be the only words he could use under most circumstances, other then those he was insulting someone. All that the sell-sword could give was a grunt and it did not seem to be fitting to the situation at hand.

Even as the broken fighter began to tumble with one of the assailants the mercenary moved. His hands pulled the blackened longsword from its sling, the blade’s saw-toothed edge giving a rather impressive appearance. However, the pretty boy that was wielding it could only take away from that threatening look.

“Meredith is going to be quite pleased with this bunch,” said one of the two facing Osato. “I thought there were supposed to be four though?” responded the second one.

The sell-sword allowed no more words from the two, who had taken a keen interest on the young man alone. Instead of waiting for them to attack he too took the initiative and lunged at them. His sword was easily dodged by both, who quickly countered with their clubs. Though the long clubs were made of wood they struck the steel sword as if they were made from metal. There was no ring, no hollow thud, but there were a muffled click as the two clubs met the sword and were barely parried.

[Culix]

Jannin choked quietly as he entered the room. He regarded the mists of tobacco smoke with disdain. His eyes watered as he brought the neck of his tunic up over his nose and mouth. The makeshift filter lessened the stench, but the boy still swiftly weaved past the chairs and crates separating him from the exit. From above this exit, a small lamp dimly lit the room, but there wasn't much to see: dusty, bare walls, two of them lightly cracked, surrounded a circle of three crates and two chairs. In the center, sat a larger crate, rested upon by a few smoldering cigarrettes, a small pile of coins -- Payment for offending my senses, Jannin decided as he helped himself -- a disheveled deck of cards, and a small bottle, much like the one Jon had been guzzling from.

The boy was only too happy to leave the filthy room for the darker corridor beyond. His passage was illuminated only by the trickles of light from where a few doors met the floor. Luckily, he found no guards or things to stumble over. Guess it's a good thing those guys made all that racket, he thought as he went, With all those guys in that room, I might've accidentally burned down the whole house. That artifact would've been a pain to find in the ashes... The lad had apparently forgotten about the slaves again. Incidentally, though he would have supposed those slaves were behind one of the nearby doors, the unfortunate souls were nowhere near him. However, behind one of these doors rested about a dozen guards on break, so Jannin was fortunate he stepped on no particularly creaky floorboards.

Once clear of the hall, he spotted a well-lit flight of stairs. The boy smirked. Won't be long now, Tanner... he thought. As he approached, he heard some muffled sounds, as though a fight was going on fairly close by. Hmm... He frowned at his allies' plight. Osato's probly fine. I mean, a swordsman who's that unblemished has gotta be pretty good. Victor isn't really... clean, but I think he could take down a coupla those guys. I bet he smells so bad from working out so much. And Jon... the lad's thoughts trailed off. Uhh... he added, trying to find some optimism. Well, I'll be along to help 'em out before I leave, he told himself, doing away with any concern. Up he went. The young mage was confident that he would be the magical whatsit's new owner within the next five minutes. Once on the second floor, he saw that the top of the stairs immediately connected to another hall, better lit than the first floor's and running from his right to his left. Though he'd been lucky with guards below, he somehow doubted the King of the Slums would let lightning to strike twice. Time for a bit of ingenuity, passed through the boy's head, accompanied by a nod. Let's see now... How to do this... Ahhah! he mentally exclaimed, after a moment's furrowed brow.

Jannin reached into his bag and, after a bit of quiet fumbling, withdrew his mirror. Though normally just a way for the lad to check his appearance, the reflective surface would also help him see around the corners. He smiled into it, then watched as the reflected smile turned to a frown. I need a touch up. So, ignoring the possibility that the guards might not linger in one spot and might, in fact, patrol the halls, the conceited little boy pulled his brush from his bag and didn't appear satisfied until each individual strand of hair was back in place. Returning the hairbrush, he flashed himself a grin, and prepared to move on.

Unfortunately, though well-versed in monitoring his reflection, Jannin had no idea how to make practical use of the possession. After a bit, he decided on a way that seemed to make sense and took a look at what lay down the left hallway. He almost dropped the mirror when he saw it reflected the face of a confused-looking guard. Seized by indecision, he then watched the face become amused and grow larger for a moment before vanishing. Before Jannin even had time to think about where it had gone, he saw something from his lower peripheral vision. An instant later, the boy crumpled as the pain hit him. He fell to the floor, maintaining a death-grip on the mirror. The lad had no idea what was happening around him, only that something had knocked the wind out of him and he found it impossible to think about anything else. The man who had slammed his fist into the lad's stomach gave a soft chuckle. While Jannin had preened himself, the guard had been on his way down the corridor, about to turn the corner right when the mirror had been thrust into his face. And I thought I'd have nothin' amusin' to do... he thought as he scooped up the boy and began to head downstairs.

[Bohemia]

The fact that the boy was armed, and well so, seemed to completely elude him. Across his back lay Garen's former staff, and hidden over his body, a few steel knives, but as he lashed out and droe his shoe into the kneecap of one of the cloaked thugs, he reached for neither. He reached for a weapon not many considered, a weapon sometimes counted over in the the possibility that something with an edge was at hand -

Jon grabbed one of the scuffed folding steel chairs from the nearest side of the room.

The first thug that came at him was still doubled over, clutching his kneecap, and the boy drove the chair right into the back of his head. "Have a seat, bitch." He grinned widely and proudly, and galnced over his shoulder, almost losing his composure to powerful gales of laughter as Victor plowed headlong into the wall. "What a triple whammy!" He crowed over the racous scuffle. "You suck at life, fighting, and you smell awful! Hahaha, you totally suck!" A thick oak club cracked down across the top of his head and he steeled his knees from buckling and whipped his body around at the waist, driving the side of the chair into the same thug's face. "You've been sentenced to the chair, motherfucker!" He yelled, the clatterring of a few bloody and broken teeth against the floor lost in the grunts and groans and cusses as the three fought against their assailants.

Stepping forward, he swung his foot back and up and slammed it into his attacker's throat, flinging him over backwards and throwing more blood into his mouth. Over that man's moaning and writhing form he leaped, clubs grazing and brusing his shoulders and forearms, and one lightly tapping against his calf, to another of the men that ambushed him. Thrusting his improvised weapon forward, he drove the top of the chair violently into another cloaked thug's abdomen, and quickly followed it up by smashing it across his face, causing him to stumble aside. "You wants the committee asshole, then you best meet with the chair!" A rowdy laugh burst from his mouth as he lifted the chair overhead, swinging it around clumsily. "I am the greatest! I am the grea -- " This time the club hit soundly across the back of his neck, throwing the light from the room and scattering the stars across the ceiling. The boy tumbled over as four thugs surrounded him and down hailed a flurry of stomping boots and vicious clubs, the two bloodiest all the vigorous to do so. After a few minutes, they stepped back -- and Jon struggled to his feet. "Thick fucking skull this kid's got on 'im. Prolly all the rocks in his he-"

The top of the chair, which the boy had so desperately clinged to all through the merciless beating, snapped the man's head back as it rammed into his chin. "Anybody else want to donate blood to chair-ity?" He mumbled triumphantly through a split, fat, bloody lip, one eye swollen shut, hair matted with blood. Strong arms snatched his shoulders and began to drag him away, the men lugging him shaking their heads and sighing as he batted them listlessly with the chair, continuing to babble bad puns through a mouthful of blood.

Even if they locked him in the cell with windows, it may be the last they see of Jon King, but it certainly wouldn't tbe the last they heard of him.

[The Cinderella Man]

((Jesus guys, he doesn’t smell that bad. :P ))

The buffoon at his side was guffawed like a madman that just achieved a great victory, but Victor disallowed his gloating before he even got halfway through it. The prizefighter launched his elbow at the man’s chest, and while that strike was blocked reflexively, the follow up aimed at the crotch wasn’t. Victor’s strike was a mere continuance of the elbowing, his fist crushing what little manhood the brigand had between his legs. The cringing man managed a high-pitched squeal, dropping his weapon and stumbling backwards as his hand clutched for his groin. If the boxer was half as witty as his foul-spoken companion that dished out insults faster then effective strikes, he would’ve probably said something about who had the last laugh.

But Victor’s wit was generally too slow when it came to trash-talk and the rest of the posse was on his back like vultures that got a scent of blood. Before the man with crushed nuts crumbled to the hardwood floor, a club struck the back of his knees, sending him to one knee. By the time he tried to turn to his attacker, his left shoulder blade exploded with pain. He had to get up. If there was thing to know about street fights it was not to get down on the ground. Keep fighting, keep coming on as a bull, keep getting hit like an idiot, but stand your ground and wait for an opening. And when your knees turn to jelly, you fight some more.

The next guy came straight at him and Victor waited for him to swing the club and attempt an overhead clobber, leaving his front completely open. The prizefighter pushed himself from the kneeling position – getting another blunt strike in the lower back region – slammed his shoulder into the guy then snapped his head upwards. The head-butting uppercut hurt as if he struck a wooden beam, but it did the trick, sending the man on his back and out of commission.

And then they decided to swarm him. Three of them came at once, swinging their clubs in unison and leaving no room to run. Victor did the only thing he could. He put up his dukes, protected his head and hoped for the best. One of the clubs struck his iron plated gauntlet, his apparel rendering the impact useless. The other two hit home, one of them cracking a rib or two at his left flank and the other hitting his thigh. In the background, through the bat swings and his own muffled groans, he could hear Jon going on and on like a broken record. Osato had his blade out, but couldn’t block forever and they had enough cannon fodder to overwhelm him. Jannin was nowhere to be found. Victor panicked. In his recollections of these events he would usually say that it was the sound of reason that made him do what he did after that point, that it was logical that they should flee and live to fight another day. After all, what use are they to the slaves if they reach them shackled and broken. But it wasn’t logic that drew the conclusion at this moment.

It was something much more primal and simple. Victor was simply scared for his life and he panicked. And he searched for the way out.

“We need to get out of here!” he managed to shout before another triple strike came, this time none of them aiming for the protected head and all of them striking either his abdomen or his legs. He could probably take another barrage, but sooner or later they would either break his knee cap or hit his balls and he would be done as dinner. Victor bit on his pride and decided not to give them a chance. The bulky boxer burst forward, passing between the two to his left and ending up with a pair of powerful swings shattering through his back. He didn’t stumble though. Despite the fact that every bone in his trunk hurt as if it was broken, he charged like a buffalo in the middle of a stampede. The double doors stood before him, seeming impenetrable like gates of an ancient castle, but the battered prizefighter literally threw himself at the door, breaking them down as if they were struck with a cannon ball. He stumbled, picked himself up, got another club in his kidneys, and continued to run down the dark hall.

The beam of light coming from the room he just left gave him enough illumination to navigate the hall and reach the backdoor supported by a chair. The pitter-patter of feet behind him was furious, ominous, and he could only hope that some of those footsteps were from his two allies. But that hope was hidden now, pushed aside harshly by the reality of the moment and the desperation that struck with those blunt weapons back in the room. He had to get out. He didn’t know if the dogs were still waiting, but decided to take a chance. “They’ll bite my face off!” his mind reminded him, but he didn’t hear anything. His heart was on an overdrive, making every thought buzz through at the speed of light, making every decision so reflexive that at the point he was nothing then a caged beast that sniffed a way out.

The chair was kicked aside ardently, the door opening up to the backyard that seemed ignorant to the turmoil behind his back, presenting him with a perfectly serene moonlit scene. No trace of the hounds. That was more then enough for Victor to continue with his run. He was breathing heavy by now, but he retraced their steps probably at twice the pace, his mind shuffling through so many thoughts that none of them seemed comprehensible. None but the get over that fence. His feet felt as if they weren’t his own, running beneath him as if there was a puppeteer above him that moved them. The dogs growled behind him, but by that time his hands grabbed the fence and flung the husky man over, making him collapse on the other side. He still wasn’t safe. He could hear the angered mutterings of the slavers and their feet double-timing it over the grassy yard. He pushed himself to all fours first, then stumbled onto his feet and fled for the nearest back alley, throwing his body behind a dumpster.

He couldn’t hear the gate opening and the shuffle wasn’t getting any nearer. Perhaps he managed to get away.

((Osato, you post next and get away with Victor. Culix and Bohemia will get captured and taken to an old fortress outside of the city. As we agreed on, the two of you then post as you work on your escape. I figure three or four posts each should be enough for you to free yourself, try to escape and end up in a pickle, surrounded by the guards within the fortress walls. Once you two are done, Osato and me will post our side of the story and join you at the exact moment you end up surrounded. And then Letho comes in and saves the day. Questions, suggestions and stuff, PM me. :) ))

[Osato]

Since leaving the island of Yerria Osato had found his combat quite handy. It seemed that in every circumstance he found himself in there was at least on instance of self-defense necessary. Unfortunately it was self-defense, defending yourself alone. The idea did not bode well with the young sell-sword, who had grown up with fighting alongside others. Osato did, however, pick up a knack for fighting rather unfairly though.

Behind him the unstoppable slur of curses continued from Jon’s mouth. They were pushed aside. Grunts and general punishment was being dealt on the already battered Victor. It too was pushed aside. In both their places was the will to survive. The will burned in the eyes of the young sell-sword. It was expressed through his movements, the tensing of his muscles, even his heavy breathing. His sword darted hectically back and forth, dodging and parrying blows as often as possible.

Eventually though the blows would land. Osato knew it was going to come at any time. Before it could though he moved. The cudgels both landed on the edge of the sword, caught for a split second. In that slight opening the soulless mercenary spun towards the opposite of his sword arm. Underneath the extended arm of his opponent he ducked, throwing a plated fist directly upwards. It struck, and hard. A sick smirk rose on Osato’s face as he felt the metal collide not only with the flesh, but crush the bone too.

While the man was distracted the sell-sword rose again. His blade fell to the ground, carrying the greatly diminished momentum of the second bugger’s cudgel with it. The man’s eyes flashed to his partner’s agony. It was all Osato needed. His fist reached out again, clashing with the man’s throat. There was a momentary attempt at a scream, which came out merely as a gurgle of blood, and then the man fell.

“You bloody litt—“ but the first man was struck again. Osato’s heavy fist backhanded him across the jaw, crushing not only it but his nose too. A fiery passion flared in the young soulless’ eyes as he turned. Unfortunately it was quickly extinguished. Four more men were charging him. Behind them was Victor, battling and loosing to three others. Beyond that was Jon, bloodied and beaten, caught by the shoulders and being hauled away.

“Come ‘ere pretty boy,” one of the four men mumbled as they moved to surround him. But Osato would have none of it. At the back of his mind a witty retort was being thought up. It was created, destroyed, created again, and then fiddled with. By the time the soulless sell-sword had finally got it he was already charging and by then it was too late anyway. His shoulder slammed into one of the men. As soon as it struck two large, grubby hands fought for a grip across the young man’s shoulders. Luckily neither hand took hold, and the mercenary was free from the little ring.

“Victor!” Osato screamed as he danced a rather idiotically towards the double doors. The man was already moving, and quite fast. Jon had been taken. Jannin was missing. And Victor was running for it. Since it seemed that running, though cowardly, was the way that would offer the least captivity, Osato took it. In his off-hand was a cudgel, how it got there he did not know. But he knew exactly what to do with it.

People were chasing the battered prize-fighter, people that were between Victor and Osato. As soon as they realized that another was coming they turned to meet him. The mercenary spared none of them a quick clack to the face. For those that somehow did not hear the heavy steel click of Osato’s boots, they received a clack to the back of the head instead. As the sell-sword neared the back fence, watching the battered boxer jump over it, more people turned to him instead.

Grubby faces, full of smirks. Even grubbier hands, always reaching. It was enough to drive any pretty-boy mad. With anger flaring behind his empty eyes Osato swung the club. It tapped a good number of people. But it seemed that the flailing club was only the secondary concern, as the flailing blade was primary to the men. The mercenary struck the wall, instead of bounding over it, and lost a good deal of his air. Even as he slowly fell off of it on the other side a hand grasped his leg. The hand was issued a solid rap. The man only gave a muffled groan, mainly because the club was deftly tossed into his face.

“What the hell?!” Osato yelled (despite his burning lungs and harsh panting) as he half-stumbled, half-sprinted towards the closest back-alleyway… somehow running right towards Victor. His arms were still flailing, and panic had etched rather unattractive lines across his usually pristine brow. A thick coating of sweat (not perspiration as Osato called it) was not only layering his exposed flesh, it was also soaking through his clothing, and dripping from his face. “What… the bloody… hell… just happened!?”

[Culix]

"Come on, Mr. Tangerine... Come out an' play..." The sleepy mumble ended as someone kicked the door open and an alert voice cut through the room's darkness: "Time for your shift." A nearby lamp was then lit. "Uhh..." the drowsy guard complained, rising and squinting at the figure of a fellow guard with something slung over his shoulder. Moments later, details became more apparent and the man noticed the smile on his coworker's face, and that the something was a small child, still trying to regain its breath. "Oh, ya caught one," he observed, rubbing his eyes and feeling around for his pants. As the triumphant guard made for the corner's small pile of burlap sacks, he gave a simple nod in answer. "Easiest catch ever," he added, picking up one of the bags. The 'catch,' seeming to have finally regained his breath, began to struggle in protest. "Not gonna happen!" he exclaimed, kicking his legs and flailing his arms uselessly; the staff he still clutched in his left hand failed to strike anywhere near its target. The boy's struggle ended with a blow to the head from his captor. "Sure you don't need help getting him to the boss?" the drowsy man asked wryly, smiling. "Heh... Just get upstairs."

When Jannin came to, he found himself in an enclosed space, which he began to hate in record time. For one thing, the stench was rather unpleasant. It reminded him of a kitchen in which some hapless individual had overboiled cabbage about an hour before; the worst was over, but the sulfurous smell still hung in the air. Wonder what could make this place smell like that... As his face was pressed against the prison's sides, however, he quickly decided to think of something else. Like the prison's sides. They felt rough, and were very uncomfortable on his cheeks. He'd likely acquired a blemish from all their incessant swaying, and he groaned at the thought. The lad couldn't actually check, of course, partly because he was shrouded in darkness and partly because his mirror was no longer at hand. He wasn't even sure if he still had his satchel, thanks to his orientation; it felt as though he'd been slung over someone's shoulder. Naturally, this was because he had. And the boy eventually realized this, after thinking back to the sacks his captor had approached. His presence inside one of those sacks, something he'd also deduced, enraged him to no end. However, the child decided to pout quietly after enough overly polished declarations along the lines of, "Unhand me, brigand!" were cut short by bashes somewhere on his body. Oh... You'll get yours, nameless lackey... You'll get yours...

Eventually, the not-so-nameless lackey -- he went by Greg -- seemed to pause for a few moments. Jannin heard some whispering, then the creak of a gate. Assuming he'd reached somewhere important, Jannin began counting his keeper's footsteps and noting the turns they took. After a pair of doors and some stairs, however, the lad got confused and gave this up with a sigh. Soon after one last metal door closed behind them, they stopped and the lad felt himself being set on the ground. Phew. That's better, Jannin thought, pleased to be right-side up again.

Greg didn't share the sentiment. Sure, he had put on a show for his coworker back at the 'mansion,' but he wasn't quite as pleased with himself on the inside. Look at yourself: you're sellin' a little kid down the river to help out a slave racket. Why the hell are you doin' this for a livin'? The answer was simple: money. And that was all. Greg couldn't claim he needed to support a family or even a drug addiction he'd been suckered into, since he had neither. No job he could find would pay more, but there were plenty that would pay enough. Though the man had grown up in a household with money troubles, he also knew no amount of extra coinage was worth his soul. So why, aware of all this as he was, was Greg still doing it? "I'm in too deep," was the usual argument. "What if I need the money later?" was also common. In the end, the reason didn't matter; his work continued. Usually, he could live with himself. But whenever he caught a kid and knew he'd be taking away their future, it really ate at him. At those times, Greg always fantasized about freeing the kid and leaving for another job. But, as always, a flurry of rationalizations talked him out of it. "The boss'll find out, then you'll just be in the same boat," "Kid looks like a noble. Only fair to have some hardship after livin' the easy life," and "Don't worry. Probably just gonna get ransomed off, anyway," were his flavors of the moment.

They did little to ease his conscience. However, one minute with the night's other captured youth would probably make him feel much, much better about his job.

[Bohemia]

The cell's floor was a cracked two tone mosiac of dried maroon blood stains (a few more vivid than others, and moister at that) and listless gray stone, it's corners occupied by a dark green moss. A mostly naked Jon King crouched at the back, arms dangling between his legs, in another of those foul moods that wiped the humor right out of his normally sparkling hazel eyes. It was cold in here, but more so for him; most of his clothes, save for his boxer shorts, had been confiscated by the guards after he'd tried to guerrotte them through the bars or bludgeon them with his boots. While this position was uncomfortable, the uneven, chill stone pressing awkwardly against his spine, the lone cot featured in the small cell offered no more comfort than the floor. The mattress was thin, lumpy, and uneven, and a few "tools" from past prisoners was hidden in it, some that Jon painfully found, and was quickly releived of.

With a groan, he slowly rose to his feet, turned to the only window to the brisk night, and jumped up to it, grasping the bars and planting his feet to either side of it, and began wrenching backwards. The guards were more than happy to let the boy do what he wished to the window, with the hopes that it would wear down that furious idiot energy pent up in a half cocked engine fueled by seventeen years of pixie sticks and fifty cent two liters. If he wasn't found glaring at you from the floor, you'd find him perched on the side of the wall, cussing up a storm (as though he didn't do that normally), two minutes from bursting each individual blood cell in his thick head.

"Dinner -- "Break you fucking cocksucker or I'll kill every fucking one you ever fucking know! I'll find your mother and rape her through the hole I cut in her throat!" -- time!" Moldy cheese and day old bread was on the menu this minute, as Jon saw as he let go of the iron bars and launched backwards at his own momentum, crashing into the cell's iron gate and shaking it furiously as he crumpled to the door. "I hope some fat old sex crazy aristocrat buys you up kid," Greg sighed as he turned towards the cell, holding a chunk of crumbling bread, and let out a yelp as Jon's bony fist shot through the gaps in the bars and pounded the guards chin. "Must be that your dog faced mother goes to the auctions!" Jon cried out as he dropped down as Greg fell, grabbing the man's ankle and yanking him backward, snathing the other, kicking fervently, dragging him in and rapping his crotch against the bar that raced up between his captive legs. A thin and high shriek burst from Greg's lips as the boy pressed his face against the cell's door and reached a long arm out, grabbing a handful of the man's shirt and yanking him forward, bashing his head against the iron. "On today's menu," Jon screamed, almost getting his voice over Greg's broken wails, "A serving of getting your ass knocked the fuck out with a side of broken teeth, a cup of almost choking on your blood and mucus, and for dessert -- " Jon threw his fist out into the air again and slammed it into the guard's eye. " -- my fucking fist!"

The guard struggled against Jon's scrabbling grip, and eventually managed to break free, a hand over his bloody mouth, and slammed Jon in the chin. The boy tumbled over backwards, cussing, and scrambled to his feet immediately, ramming into the bars, his arms flailing desperately but grabbing nothing. "Oh god...you bastard! You knocked on some of my teeth!" Greg slowly stood, spitting blood as he did, clutching his other hand to his aching crotch. "Better fucking enjoy it; this is your last meal here!" Jon ducked to the side as a chunk of cheese srtruck his cell door, crouched to the ground, and tore it to peices, jamming into his mouth. "You're lucky you escaped alive, bitch. You tangle with Jon you get the horns!" The boy laughed through a mouthful of cheese and imitated a bull with his fingers.

"Hope you get sold to the drow as a chemical test subject," Greg groaned as he limped away.

[Culix]

On his way back from the little scuffle, Greg stumbled past another occupied cell. "Hey! Lackey!" cried its inhabitant, "How'm I supposed to eat this?" Most of the time, such a question simply expresses disdain for whatever is being served. In Jannin's case, however, the question likely touched, at least in part, on how the meal was to be physically eaten. This was because Greg had decided to attach Jannin's wrists to the window bars, the length of the rope granting him about four feet of mobility, and had set the meal out of reach. The guard hadn't realized this problem because a look of silent shock and disgust had covered Jannin's face when the food was put before him and had lingered as Greg moved down the hall. The man sighed and spat some more blood to the floor, where it blended in nicely. "Fine, kid," he said tersely as he opened the door. He'd resorted to rope because the shackles in the cell had been too large for the boy, and he'd presumed all prisoners needed bindings. This made Jon's attack particularly surprising.

"While you're at it, could ya move the loudmouth somewhere else?" Jannin asked, "The smell and decor are bad enough, without hearing him pollute my air."
"Hell no!" Greg shouted back as he pushed the tray within Jannin's reach. "Even if my job was makin' you comfy, I wouldn' go dealin' with that asshole again! And why the hell are you worried about that? You've got bigger problems." The lad thought a moment as he frowned at the meal. "Other than the food, not really, no." He meant it. Jannin was so convinced of his destined success that he didn't even consider being sold into slavery as a possibility. "Anyway, how about moving me somewhere else? Like where the artifact is would be great?"
"Whaji-- No! And what artif-- ... Oh." Greg then shared a chuckle with himself as the lad gave a perplexed stare. The laugh hurt a bit, thanks to Jon's assault, so the guard stopped soon enough. "Oh ho ho... Kid, you're outta luck."
"Hmm? What do you...?" he pondered briefly. "Oh! Almost forgot," the lad said with a smile, recalling the proper procedure, "I'll bribe you with five gold pieces to take me to the artifact." Greg stared. The kid actually said, "I'll bribe you!" "Heh... First off, we already took all ya had. It's in the storage room down the hall. And second, there is no artifact."
"... What?" Jannin asked with a face that didn't show his confusion. "Someone just started spreadin' that rumor to lure in more saps! I think you're the first one dumb enough to fall for it."

No... Artifact? But... But that means... This's all been a waste of my time! I could've moved onto a more interesting part of Althanas! I could've launched a remotely competent raid for something that actually exists! I could've... I could've been sleeping!! Jannin then did the most rational thing that occurred to him: trancelike, he began narrating his happy place. "Ah... My castle... I'm so glad I replaced Salvar with it. People said seven thousand spires was too many, but, bam! Eight thousand!" Greg shook his head and locked the cell door on his way out. As he headed down the hall, he heard at his back, "Aww... There's a hair in my roast... Looks like the whole kitchen staff'll have to spend a few decades in the Hole..." Patrollin' a hall with these two idiots... Funny how that makes me wanna quit a lot more than guilt...

[Culix]

It is generally unwise for one to spend an entire night drinking, particularly when one is supposed to be guarding two prisoners, both of which are likely missing a few buttons. This is a lesson Greg learned the hard way. "Mreh..." he whined, trying to bat away the beams of light streaming in through Jannin's cell window. "Ooh..." Rousing himself a little, he squinted toward the voice's source. The murmur had a distant, ethereal quality to it, but sounded familiar. "This is a nice thing... This abomination fueled by the souls of abandoned puppies..." The guard groaned. He wasn't really in the mood to deal with the kid. Greg started for the other side of the jail, but stopped when he realized he also wasn't in the mood to deal with the homicidal loudmouth. Resigning himself for the lesser of two evils, he turned himself around.

Jannin had spent the better part of an hour describing his 'happy place' with some amount of vigor, when sleep overtook him. At that point, Greg thought he was getting a reprieve. Until the lad continued to mumble about it in his slumber. This -- combined with the steady stream of profanity from Jon King's cell -- had driven the hapless lackey to drinking. "Shoulda nee en be ere..." he mumbled blearily. Greg was referring to his superiors' behavior. From what he had heard, bringing someone in meant an early night. However, every time he'd caught someone, they'd forced him to stand guard over all the captives 'til morning. At first, they spouted some thinly veiled lie about how he'd lost a drawing of some sort. The previous night, though, they hadn't even bothered with that, merely sent him in to do the job. Since he didn't even get any extra pay for it, it was beginning to piss him off. Hope the jackasses get what's comin' to 'em... Greg then noticed the kid's ramblings had finally stopped, and that he seemed to be yawning. "'bout damn time..." the man mumbled, hurrying out of the room. He didn't like fetching breakfast, but he was happy to do so; for an excuse to leave Jannin and Jon, he'd consider wrestling with a griffen.

Meanwhile, Jannin groaned at how sore his arms felt. This was to be expected, as he had passed the night with both of them tied behind him. The lad decided this when he twisted his neck and upper torso around for a better look. Huh... So, my wrists are tied to a window, now... he observed calmly. This inner peace lasted until his eyes rolled over the plate of untouched food, the dingy floors and walls, and the bar-covered gate in front of him. "Dah!" rang throughout the jail soon after. Those jerks! How dare they try ta lock me up! I just broke into their boss's home to try to steal something he didn't even have! I mean, how is that even a crime? The rage flowed through him, rousing his body with great speed. Unfortunately, it wasn't so quick at waking his forethought. Without that bit of his psyche to guide him, he simply tried to get the ropes off him as quickly as possible. And he knew exactly how to do that. Twisting his palms so they faced upwards, toward the ropes, he began to chant.

Several moments later, Greg returned with a tray. "Hey, kid. Breakfast ti..." Puzzled, he sniffed the air. Somethin'... burnin'...? He paused outside of Jannin's cell and looked inside. He saw smoke and a distraught look on the kid's face. Gasping, the guard tossed the tray aside and fumbled with his key ring, throwing the door open soon after. In his condition, he couldn't think straight; he knew only a future slave badly burned on his watch could only hurt his salary. So, with little else on his mind, Greg pushed the boy away from the source of the smoke. Then, the gears and cogs of his mind began to turn. Other than the kid's clothing, the only things in the cell that would burn were the ropes. The ropes, he observed, were a bit shorter than when he'd tied them to the boy and, more to the point, were no longer tied to the boy. The ends appeared to be ripped and slightly singed. At this sight, it occurred to him that he had done something wrong in pushing the boy. While there was nothing wrong with knocking a slave away from a fire, there was certainly something wrong with shoving an unrestrained prisoner in the direction of the door. As if on cue, this thought was followed by the slamming of said door and the click of his key in the lock. Greg turned in time to see the purple-haired boy, key ring in hand, dart for the jail door, and then open and slam the exit.

Silence followed in the jail. And, truly, it was silence; Jon had presumably either cursed himself to sleep, or until he was hoarse. In the quiet, Greg contemplated what had just transpired. And, through the haze of drowsiness and alcohol, he voiced his conclusion: "I hate my job. And that kid."

((Double-posting (and soon to be triple-posting) because we're moving on without Bohemia. Sorry, man... It's just been too long.))

[Culix]

C'mon, c'mon... Cut! With furrowed brow, Jannin was attempting to slice through the ropes that bound his wrists behind his back. Having found no knives in the room he'd run into, he had been forced to rely on the keys he'd made off with. Finally, the lad felt the last of the cord's sinews fall away as the key's blade broke through. He sighed in relief and began massaging his wrists. Jannin cast an eye to the mangled rope, as though a victor examining a worthy foe. Their burnt ends had been a stroke of luck; he'd immediately regretted setting them alight, but his fireball, pitiful as it was, had weakened the rope enough for Greg's shove to snap it. Never one to keep opportunity waiting once it had knocked, Jannin dove past the guard and, finding it easier than expected to turn the key with his hands still bound, locked him in. The episode particularly pleased the young man because he knew he could thenceforth claim, in all honesty, to have bested someone with both hands tied behind his back.

Once free of his bonds, he walked over to the nearby table with quite a lot of stuff. Before putting him in the cell, Greg had taken all of Jannin's things and put them onto it, next to Jon's. As he gathered up all his possessions, checking to make sure everything was as it had been, the lad didn't bother taking what wasn't his; Don't want anything unnecessary weighing me down, he reasoned, apparently deeming the jeweled rapier in his pack 'necessary.' The presence of Jon's objects failed to remind him that, repugnant as he found the teen, going back to bring him along couldn't hurt. Unfortunately, he'd completely forgotten that Jon had shared the jail with him the previous night; when the teen wasn't hitting things or making a godawful racket, it was surprisingly easy to forget he was there.

Once he felt set, Jannin looked around the room. The term 'plain storage room' leapt instantly to mind. Other than the table, he spied a few chests around the room, some bags of offensive smelling produce, a large water jug, a massive, moldy loaf of bread he'd probably been served from -- which he belatedly noticed had a knife sticking out of it -- and three doors. As one, the boy knew, led back to the jail, he opened another at random and started to walk through. The look of surprise jumped to his face so quickly he forgot to put his foot down. Sharing his expression of mild shock were the eight guards in that other room. ... I think you know how to handle this, he told himself. Jannin slammed the door and hurtled toward the other exit, tipping over a few bags of turnips and onions with his staff as he went. They probably wouldn't slow down his pursuers, but, as the lad threw open and hurtled through the other door, he honestly didn't care.

The following nondescript rooms and hallways blurred past as the child ran through the complex. The shouts and cries from behind him seemed to be increasing in volume, but that was likely just the consequence of attracting a few more of the slaver's henchmen. Wait... Why'm I running from these guys? Jannin eventually wondered, without slowing his pace; he knew he'd had a good reason to start, so he was going to keep it up until he had a solid reason to stop. I mean, these're a buncha two-bit lackeys! That first guy only got me 'cause of the sucker punch. I could torch these guys in a second! ... Then again, when I want to take over the world, I'll need a buncha two-bit lackeys for cannon fodder. And these seem like just the guys. So... Since they'll probably be workin' for me later, I better not do anything. Don't wanna take over the world with damaged goods, after all. Satisfied, the boy then played lab rat, trying to find the way out of his maze.

And, eventually, he did. Ah! The sun! Jannin slowed his pace as he smiled in victory. This feeling of triumph was cut off when his eyes adjusted enough to see the next obstacle in his path. Aww... It was no pitiful, five-foot wooden fence that greeted him; it was the sort of fortification that, in its prime, one might have expected to keep a small army at bay. On the subject of armed forces, the small platoon of guards at Jannin's back didn't leave the boy much time to ponder. So, hanging a left, he fretted about the great wall's imposing nature as he darted across the dry grass. Huge! It's... Grah! Why would you even build something that freakin' big!? Worried about dragons or something? That was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was still enough to keep Jannin from noticing the guards in his path for long enough. "Dah!" He wisely stopped when four guards spread themselves out before him. Which was quite a shame, because he believed he saw the gate just a ways beyond them. Soon enough, these sentries, and the guards that had been chasing him for quite a long time, backed the young mage against the wall and formed a semi-circle around him. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves.

You've gotten outta worse. Like... Uhh... Nothing came to mind. He wrapped his fingers around his staff and tried to look intimidating. He met with little success. Well, no problem. You'll have plenty of time to remember a worse situation after ya thrash these guys. The boy counted fifteen. Kind of a lot, though. Wish I had a little help. With that thought, Jannin recalled he hadn't heard Osato or Victor in the jail. He shook his head, eyes darting around the circle. The men seemed to be toying with him, stepping in a little, then stepping out, chuckling all the while. No time to think about those other guys now. Still... I wonder what happened to 'em...

[The Cinderella Man]

[What happened to ‘em...]

Given the ill-starred manner in which the events transpired that night, Victor was almost certain that Osato would be followed by a throng of angered slavers eager to get their merchandise one way or the other. And given their modus operandi, they preferred the other, other being bonking them over the head with a club and shackling their lifeless bodies. But when the prizefighter leaned to take a peek from behind the rusty dumpster, all that stared back was an empty street and a sporadic dry leaf carried by the midnight breeze. The commotion died down, faded away so fast that, if it weren’t for the throbbing dull pain in nearly every part of his body, he would’ve never thought that a minute ago he was in a room filled with some really bad people.

“What’s it look like? It was a goddamned ambush.” Victor spoke, his voice harsh, but his anger not directed towards the young sword for hire. He pulled himself up, the navy green dumpster rolling away half of foot as he did, and propped his back on the wall behind. “The bastards... They knew we were coming.” His breath was slowing down, but his heart still insisted to pump at hastened rate, making his throat dry and his gut queasy. There was something peculiar in escaping death by a hairbreadth, a sick sense of thrill that made you both the happiest man in the world and yet scaring the wits out of you. Victor wasn’t exactly certain that they were out to kill them, but the feeling was there, grabbing a hold to his gut like a wrench.

“We need to get out of there. I know a place where we can lick our wounds. It’s open until morning and nobody asks questions.” the prizefighter said as he started to waddle through the back alley, trying to evade the rather frequent horse droppings. His hand went to the pocket of his pants and found it utterly empty. “Damnit!” he muttered to himself in the end, realizing that the money that he earned with pain and blood (and a lot of it) seemed to slipped out of his pocket in the hustle. “Well, I hope you have some money on you.” Osato looked like he ought to. He looked like the people whose financial status is far from questionable and people like that never walked with empty pockets.

Around them, Radasanth was slumbering serenely, the calmness of the night broken only by the mirthful tunes that emerged from the taverns and the occasional brawl that a handful of drunkards decided to take outside. And, of course, the harlots, stalking every corner with their falsely lustful eyes and their powdered faces that tried to hide the fact that she was underpaid and overworked and hadn’t had a man that could satisfy her in a month. Most of the times Victor didn’t pay attention to them, but he was a man, occasionally he too had needs. Too bad he never had enough money to spend on a fee that the working girls asked. Tonight they didn’t get as much as a look as he led the way through the streets. He had bigger problems then his hormones tonight.

The Saddle Ablaze that eventually stood before them was a dump. The sign above the entrance was slanted, the windows painted black and the music wasn’t the usual flowery tune that the queer bards plucked on their lutes. No, what came from the inside had a kick, a rhythm, fast and sharp somehow. Once he pushed the door out of the way, the reason why was rather clear. Most of the tables before them were in deep shadows, a benighted audience that all had their eyes on the only illuminated part of the main room. Which was, in fact a stage. The torches (Victor reckoned they were magically enchanted since the flames perpetually changed in hue) stood above the elevated stage, shedding their light on five girls that barely had any clothes on. One of them – a redhead with a cowboy hat and what seemed like the tiniest set of black undergarment – was on the saddle in the middle of the room, drawing out sighs and coins out of the men that gazed at her sensual moves. Vickie, Victor remembered her name. Plenty of nights he drooled over Vickie since he left Scara Brae. She was nothing like his Delilah, busty and well endowed, a perfect woman, and that was what he sought ordinarily. But not tonight.

He scuttled to the table closest to the right wall (the corner table occupied by a fat merchant with one of the girls giving him a blowjob below the table) and nearly collapsed onto the cozy chair. The waitress was a vision, especially in his current state. She was a frail looking thing, tall and slender, wearing a skirt that should’ve been prohibited by law due to its length... or rather lack thereof. Her blonde hair was pulled up. He loved when her hair was pulled up.

“You got in trouble again, eh Vic?” she asked, spinning the small pencil between her fingers as she waited for the order.

“You know how it is in my profession.” he replied with what might’ve been a smile, but his tone not overly interested for the usual flirtations.

“Who’s your cute friend? You’re not telling me you’re swinging both ways now.”

She was a tease, killing a tough night with a jest or two. He couldn’t blame her.

“No. We came here because the scenery is nice and people don’t ask too many questions.” he said with a wink and it was all the explanation she needed. “Give me a shot and a pint of ale, Kitty.”

She waited to take an order from Osato before she scampered away, evading the feeble attempts of men to grab her behind. Not that there was too much of it to grab, Victor thought. He surveyed the stage. He knew most of the girls by now, saw their moves, knew their seductive looks. Holding his eyes on the redhead gone wild in the middle he spoke to his companion.

“I reckon we lay low here until the morning, then go spill our beans to the law. As much as I don’t like Jon, leaving him and especially Jannin with the slavers is not something I want to do.”

[Osato]

Osato panted with eyes tightly shut, waiting for the inevitable to round the corner and take the two worn ‘heroes’. Somehow his looks did not matter as much anymore. His hair, matted and scattered, was resting against the rubbish coated dumpster. In the few seconds that he had been sitting it had already gathered a slice of rotten onion and a slick of something. It was as if the world was out to ruin him.

The young sell sword stood as the battered prize fighter began walking away. Vertigo struck him almost immediately, as well as a pounding headache. It was only seconds before the still shaking hands of the soulless man came to his mouth, futilely attempting to stop the growing nausea. Through his fingers – this much he did care about – and down the front of his chin vomit erupted. Osato tried to turn away, but instead caught the wall to his rear with the side of his head and spewed more vomit. With his free hand he pulled back his hair, finding that small ‘slick’.

The tavern was somber and quiet, yet had a lovely tone to it. It was perfect for the relief of the slow afterburn of vomit in his throat and the driving pain along the base of his skull. Osato gave the inside a casual glance as he sat with his back to the room, not really taking any interest in the dancing women or the wenches wandering from table to table. He was male only by his visage, being of a soulless origin. Those that bothered to look any further then his clothed façade would find nothing more that proved him male. The ‘man’ was purely asexual.

So when the woman slowly walked to the table, and began a light banter with Victor, Osato took little notice of the length of her skirt. Instead he looked at her eyes, the way the green centers sparkled with the shift of lighting. He liked emerald eyes, especially with her light blonde hair. Idly he wondered about the nature of sex and ‘flirting’ as humanity called it; between the ragged prize fighter and the good-natured – yet indecent – wench something was being passed.

“Rum,” the young man responded as the maid looked at him. It was the only thing that came to mind, one of the few drinks that he could remember from his life on the island nation of Yerria. “Make it a tall glass of rum,” he added as she turned. Osato only hoped it would be enough.

Osato waited for a second after Victor spoke, waiting to think of his response. In reality he was busy searching the room, very slowly because of his head. The darkness that consumed most of the room’s walls and corners slowly came to focus. The sell sword wished it had not. Groans came from the tables, men were either passed out or drinking till they got there. Women – by the mere fact they had the physical appearance of a woman alone – walked the floor, whispering seductive words in the ears of those that had money for what they offered. Instead of paying attention his eyes shifted to the changing lights at the end of the torch, it was more alluring at least than watching the ‘workers’.

“That sounds fine with me, I suppose there is little else we could do. And I agree that we cannot very well leave that Jannin character, though why a child came to begin with is beyond me…”

“They do have… showers and the like here? Correct?” Osato said, his head falling as if weighted to the table surface. “And I do not mean showering with one of these girls. And a bed…”

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor was focused on admiring the scenery – mostly following Kitty around with subtle glances – so when Osato spoke, it took a couple of seconds for the prizefighter to comprehend the uttered words. When he finally summoned enough blood to operate the larger of two heads, he allowed a muffled chuckle, diverting his eyes from Kitty and onto a significantly less appealing sight.

“What, you don’t like the girls? They’re clean, trust me, and most of them are real sweethearts.” Victor spoke, but the black haired swordsman didn’t have the look of an interested man on his face. Whether such a state was a direct result of the ordeal they just escaped from or was there something queer about the man – that loudmouth idiot Jon did mention something about Osato looking like somebody who put mascara on – Victor didn’t know and frankly didn’t care. He continued in a less amused tone, returning his eyes on the lithe waitress that bent over the bar, displaying her pink underwear for a second, while procuring a shot glass.

“No showers though. And the beds here weren’t exactly meant to be slept in. That isn’t the kind of comfort that the ladies here offer, if you know what I mean. So just sit back and enjoy the view and the morning would come sooner then you know it.”

It wouldn’t, of course, but it was a comforting thought. Drooling over scantly clad females that pranced around in sinfully revealing undergarments and knowing they are out of reach wasn’t really a good way to pass time. In fact, it was a rather lousy one. Especially if one of those girls was Kitty, Kitty that so much reminded him of his Delilah, Kitty that was a living breathing monument to that which he lost back in Scara Brae. Everything, from the skinny physique to her brown hair that was so light, it could be mistaken for blonde if light fell onto it at a certain angle, from her coy smile – mostly faked, professional, but still damn cute – to her benevolent demeanor, it reminded the boxer of the woman that he still loved. That he would love forever most likely. That’s the thing with first loves; they are more worth then all the others combined.

Kitty returned with a platter with three different glasses, placing the jigger and the glass mug in front of Victor and what seemed like a wine glass in front of Osato. “There you go, boys. That’ll be eight gold pieces.” she said with another one of those so terribly fake and yet so terribly sweet smiles. Victor bumped Osato’s elbow with his own.

“Pay the girl.”

“Stone broke again, Vic?” she asked, putting her hand to her hip and frowning gently. Victor never quite understood why Kitty worked in such a dreadful place. With that smile of hers, she could’ve had half of Radasanth eating from the palm of her hand. Then again, not everybody had taste in women.

“You won’t believe it, but I had the money until like two hours ago.” he told her, downing the shot glass and sending its contents on a path to burn his throat.

“What happened then? You spent it on some girl other then me?”

“I ran into a door and it slipped out of my pocket.” Victor spoke, his face first dead serious, then crumbling in front of her inquisitive gaze and cracking into a bitter smirk. She wasn’t offended by it. On the contrary, she rolled her eyes and shook her head innocently.

“You should’ve been a locksmith. It would save you a world of pain.”

“I shouldn’t get involved into stuff that doesn’t concern me.” was the reply that brewed in his head, but he didn’t let it slip out. Kitty was a sweet girl, but if you gave her a finger, she’d chew the whole hand, and that went double when it came to chewing the fat. So instead the boxer merely shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of the murky acrid ale.

The tune that followed Vickie’s heartily display up in the saddle stopped, then changed in sync with the illumination that drifted toward crimson tones. It was a vigorous tune, prone to awake all those that might’ve dozed off in the darkness. And it was Kitty’s cue to get on the stage. She scurried away from their table, dropping the platter on the bar and disappearing behind the curtain that led backstage. It was as good time as any to start some palaver with his new acquaintance.

“So Osato, you from around here somewhere, or are you like me, just passing through?”

((Ok, talk a little bit and if you want advance the story until just before morning, so we don't drag it out for too long. :) ))

[Osato]

The gentle eyes of the soulless man followed the buxom, and otherwise, women around the room as they made their slow rounds. It was an interesting, if lucrative and dangerous, business that they claimed. A smirk rose on his face, more out of being kind then anything, as his empty eyes met the emerald eyes of one of the waitresses. She winked, he sighed. They all seemed to have nothing on mind besides the gold coin the weary travelers, or broken stragglers, had on them somewhere.

Tangible joy was in the eyes of the women that worked the floors, though. Osato could not help but see it in their cherry cheeks and bright eyes. They would meet his, a genuine smile lighting their faces, before looking away. In silent wonder the soulless being turned away from the children, wondering when their human innocence had been stripped.

“Huh, what?”

The man turned back to the table. Drinks had been placed on the table between the two men, Osato’s heavy glass of rum and Victor’s two drinks. He pushed his elbow back to where it had been, his hand brushing away loose strands of hair. “Oh, yeah, ok…” without questioning the man he pulled eight gold pieces from the purse at his side. “That should do it.”

The sell-sword took a quick swig of the rum. It was cold yet sharp, and gently spiced. Its influence was immediately felt through the man’s body. The weight of the nights jaunt was slowly washed away behind the veil of alcohol. “I am from a small island called Yerria, just off the Southern coast of Corone.”

Osato could not help but let a sigh escape his supple lips. It had been only a year since he had left the small, warring island, only a year since he had delved into the society of Althanas and began adapting. Corone had housed him first, allowing him to explore the depths of the culture. Other places promised, with muted whispers, fame and fortune for his troubles. Alerar would be next, maybe Raiaera, or perhaps the island of Fallien. The mercenary shrugged, letting his proud, broad shoulders relax after such a pressing day.

“I’m just a wanderer, really. I can’t claim any land over another anymore, though Corone and Scara Brae have been my homes for the past year.” The young man took a quick sip of his rum, letting it burn its way down his throat again. It reminded him of home, where rum was often the only drink that would stay fresh on long voyages or patrols out at sea. The man smiled with the fond memory, not only of the sea and ships but too the camaraderie from the men he used to serve with. “Where you from? Since we have plenty of time on our hands…”

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor paid as much attention to Osato as any man would when half-naked women prowled around, which meant not a whole lot. He heard most of the words, regarded them with a polite nod here and there, but mostly it was just shooting the breeze so there was little worry that he’d miss something important. The gist of it was that the man was a wanderer (not a prissy nobleman as first suspected) and that he spent the last year vagabonding through Corone and Scara Brae. Now there was a familiar name that finally diverted some attention from the scandalous cleavages and curvy legs.

“Never heard of Yerria.” Victor responded, but that wasn’t too much of a surprise. Geography wasn’t exactly his favorite subject in school. “I’m from Scara Brae, born and bred. Spent a fair share of time in the Zirnden, the local fighting hall, almost became a boxing champion. But that was years ago. Nowadays, the wins are hard to get, especially here in Corone where the competition is much stronger then on an island as small as Scara Brae.”

What he deliberately left out was that his losing streak wasn’t as much about the strength of the competition as it was about his lack of flare. That, however, came as a direct consequence of his break up with Delilah. The prizefighter fought for the chance to be with the noble girl, bled on the canvas to gain respect of her father, and then, when he was one victory away from the title, she dumped him for some clotheshorse named William. That was the shot through the gut that basically killed his fighting spirit. You can’t fight if you have nothing to fight for.

As if to add insult to the injury that the memory of Delilah made, Kitty took her place on the saddle that decorated the center stage. She swayed her little hips seductively, wriggling the furry tail that hung from the back of her panties. Her hands – now wearing paw-like gloves – passed over her pale skin with agonizing slowness before she dropped on all fours, crawling around the saddle and eliciting sighs throughout the room. Victor included. She might’ve cast him a glance or two, then again might’ve just peered sporadically in his vicinity, but it was more then enough for the palaver to be paused for the duration of the performance. Around the saddle, stretching, purring, shaking her little gingery head and those faux fuzzy ears, Kitty was a sight for Victor’s sore eyes. There was a fantasy that the boxer liked to toy with, the one where he scores some serious cash and takes Kitty away from this degrading life, but even though most of the details in that story were perfect, one was a wet blanket. And that was that it was a fantasy. Just like his life with Delilah was.

Soon enough – too soon by Victor’s reckoning – Kitty was replaced by a significantly bustier dancer that played the role of a twisted priestess and his attention started to waver, drifting towards dozing off. To remedy this, he took a deep draught from his mug before restarting the conversation with Osato. “So, how did you get involved into this mess anyways? Where did...” he paused, realizing that he didn’t know the name of the woman that recruited them all. “...that woman find you? And speaking of her, I personally think she pulled a trick on us. That encounter back in the warehouse was a set-up if I ever saw one.”

Waiting for an answer, Victor leant back into the comfy chair and into a more relaxing position. It was then that the fatigue finally caught up with him, the stacked up weariness that started to accumulate from yesterday afternoon when he got his ass handed to him by Alain “The Mule” Foster. When the mauling by the slavers was added and the desperate breakaway, it was only a matter of time before sleep finally kayoed him. It happened somewhere in the middle of Osato’s response – and a very rude thing to do – but it was something he couldn’t prevent anymore.

[Osato]

The man seemed, edgy. Though his eyes were diverted, along with most of his conscious mind, Victor seemed to avoid Osato. The soulless man did not take it as rude. Instead he assumed it was because something of the man’s past, something of what he was speaking of caused him to act the way he did. Curiosity was all that the soulless man could truly muster.

Much of his life had been spent learning about the idiosyncrasies of humans, as well as elves and others too. He had moved from the island of Yerria into his roving mercenary state, leaving behind nothing. He was spawned, not born, into the rather peaceful world of Althanas. To an extent it was a good thing. Osato could be free to wander, could claim any country, and could easily become something stronger and better then any human. But it also meant that he had no family, no connection with the heart to a group of people. He could not feel as humanity felt. He could not think as they thought. But what struck him most was that he could not love.

As the waitress, Kitty, began to perform a bit more the conversation stopped. It was probably for the better, or so Osato thought at least. His face was blank. Thought was taking over, pondering situations, pulling together pieces of experiences to try and force a complete puzzle. But it did not work, it never worked. Slowly he reminded himself of the woman, from the very beginning of the entire mess.

He looked back to Victor, tucking brushing the silky strands of hair aside. Before he could ask, the man beat him to it. It had been vanity that had pulled Osato in and hooked him like a fish on a line. Vanity and a bit of an ego boost. It had been enough at least. “I met her at a tavern… actually,” the soulless man began. He continued to tell his story, leaving out the parts that he was ashamed of; vanity, ignorance, the dwarf.

When Victor finally dozed off to sleep the sell sword stopped talking. He did not accept the man’s slumber as rude, understanding fully the wear and tear of the day. Very quickly he followed suit, sleeping with his head nodding as the lull of the music took over his thoughts. Before he knew it the morning sun had risen and the new day had begun.

The sunlight struck his eyes first. It was a pleasant way to wake, until they opened and the world returned. Despite the smell of sweat, alcohol, and dingy men Osato stretched and looked around. His perfect nose scrunched under the horrible scent of the night before.

“It’s about time you woke up, Sugar.” Osato stood, smiling. Kitty was standing beside him with her arms crossed. Her supple curves and smooth skin was covered by an actual modest bit of clothing. The soulless man did not stop himself from looking over her, leaving her face with a grin. “I was beginning to wonder if you two would ever wake up. It looks like neither of you even touched your drinks.”

Osato swirled the small cup of rum as he rolled his neck, trying to free himself from the kinks of the uncomfortable slumber. “So it seems. You wouldn’t happen to have a bit of breakfast around here would you? There’s a long day ahead of both of us.”

“I have this bread, baked fresh this morning, and a couple of boiled eggs. I thought you two might be hungry, was just going to drop it off and leave.”

“Thank you Kitty,” Osato said as he scooped up a piece of bread and two eggs, leave three for Victor. “I suppose you would not mind waking him for me? I’m going to go out and get a little sunlight, help me wake up a little…”

“Not at all.”

[The Cinderella Man]

“OH MY GOD, SOMEBODY IS BEATING UP THE GIRLS!!!”

It usually didn’t take a lot for Victor to wake up so the panicky scream was a definite overkill. It snatched the prizefighter from his rather uncomfortable slumber in one of the chairs and proceeded to instate a state of battle readiness in an instant. It made him acknowledge the meaning of those words in a fraction of a second, and by the time he sprung to his feet and opened his eyes, his fists were balled and ready to do some damage. Nothing pissed him off more them people that beat up girls.

However, once his hazy vision got used to the daylight and the shock of his sudden arousal passed, all he could see was Kitty sitting on a chair beside him, looking up at him with a sly smile. “Gotcha!” the girl said with a wink and Victor, an eminent grump in his waking hours, couldn’t stifle a mild smirk. Regardless of how cranky he was in the mornings, seeing something as wonderful as a twinkly girl was an instant mood booster.

“Ha-ha. Very funny. You’ll give me a heart attack, you know?” the boxer said with a sigh and a shake of his head before he sat back and let his heart return to its normal beating rate.

“Well, at you have a heart that can get attacked then. Unlike most people that come here.” Kitty said, leaning her chin on her hands and looking at him with those large emeralds of hers.

“Heart? Sorry, girl. I got mine pinned down to the canvas of the Zirnden because of a girl not so unlike you.” was the usual morning-brooding thought that ran through his head, but instead of uttering it, Victor yawned and stretched. She of all people didn’t need to know about his past. Because if she did, it would still be noon and they would be palavering about it. Well, she would at least. The prizefighter would probably got lost in the stream of her incessant talking and rely on nodding and answering affirmatively where affirmation was due. It happened once when she asked him about his family and while it wasn’t an entirely annoying encounter – in fact, now that he thought about it, it was a rather pleasurable time – he didn’t have time for it this morning.

“Where is Osato?” he asked instead, avoiding the unnecessary dialogue.

“He went out to catch some fresh air.” and then after Victor failed to show any interest in lengthy exchanges. “Are you two in some kind of a trouble?”

“Nothing you should worry your pretty little head with.” he replied, getting up with his cramped muscles giving him a pinch of protest together with the multiple sores all over his torso. “I got to go now though. Thanks for... you know. Letting us spend the night.”

“Hey you’re a paying customer. I can’t just kick you out, now can I?” Kitty replied, her smile different now somehow. It wasn’t the beaming professional kind anymore, but a much more modest detail that made her more mundane somehow. When she smiled like that, attired in a humble blue dress, Victor could almost forget that she was a harlot that pranced around in her undergarments for money. “Here, take at least some bread with you. It’s nice and fresh.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

He munched on the fresh piece of bread as the morning sun slapped him with excessive light and the fresh breeze brought a significant change from the stale interior of the Saddle Abalze. He did his best to block the bright illumination with his hand as he stumbled outside and adapted to the change of environment. It was a casual morning in Radasanth Slums, small-time merchants making their way to the Bazaar with their half-rotten goods, peddlers prowling around with their chintzy merchandise, the regular assortment of bums revived after another night of sleeping somewhere cold and hard.

“Nothing quite like waking up after getting roughed up.” Victor said once he joined Osato on the front porch. “Come on, let’s go notify the law and be done with...”

“Padre? Padre, is that you?” a whispering voice crawled over the bustle of the streets, approaching them from the side. The boxer snapped his head, and even though his cognition was still rather slurry thin early in the morning, he recognized the owner of the voice. The same wrinkly face peered at him as the day before, same doleful frightened eyes and the same hunched scrawny figure. Her hand gestured them to join her in the side alley.

“Let’s see what she wants.” he said to his companion before making his way down the porch and around the tavern. The woman in black had her back pressed against the wall, looking from side to side in fear.

“I heard that you got in trouble.” she finally said, her voice dry and hasty.

“That’s one way of putting. The other would be that you sent us in a goddamned ambush. They were waiting for us, over a dozen of them, armed to the teeth, lady.” Sure, it was harsh and cold-hearted, but it was early in the morning and Victor’s crankiness came back with a vengeance.

“No. No. I... I’m so sorry. My Ilona...” the woman muttered, lowering her head and falling to her knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I just... I just wanted my Ilona back. They... They must’ve known somehow.”

Victor, who always prided himself at being an excellent judge of character, couldn’t help thinking that the tears on the woman’s face had to be genuine. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of the tears of his own mother, and mother’s tears couldn’t be feigned. There was too much emotions in them, too much woe and caring.

“Well, we’re going to notify the law. I reckon with us as witnesses, they’ll be forced to do something.” the boxer told the woman whose face instantly shot up.

“No. They... They’ll move the slaves. In an abandoned fort just outside the city. And by the time the guards get an approval to move against them, they’ll be long gone. Please, you must help them.” she begged again, burying her face into her weak hands.

“Look, lady, there’s not much that we can do. There are dozens of them and only two of us.” Victor tried to reason with her.

“Not if you have these.” she replied, casting another fearful glance to both ends of the street before retrieving a wrap from below her apron. Her hands worked hastily, unfolding the rag and revealing a pair of revolvers, gleaming in the brisk sunlight.

“Where did you get these? They must be worth a fortune.” the prizefighter asked suspiciously.

“They’re... uhm... all that’s left from my husband. He was a great mercenary in his time. I... I didn’t want to sell these, no matter how hard life became. But what’s the use of it if I don’t have a family?”

Victor picked one up, spun the cylinder, cocked the hammer and uncocked it slowly. “If you fire these, they’ll scatter and flee. Most of them don’t know much about guns, but they know how deadly they are.” the woman spoke, still on her knees and holding up the other pistol for Osato. “Please, you’re my only hope.”

Victor lifted the gun so it rested on his shoulder. It felt good to pack heat, to have this extraordinary power in your hand, something that struck trepidation in people. To wield the ability to kill a person with a pull of a finger wasn’t just alluring, it was almost divine, godly even. The boxer turned to his comrade with a smirk. “So, what do you say? Maybe we could pay back those bastards with some interest, huh?”

((Take the other gun and make the woman give us some direction to the fort, then lead us out. :) ))

[Osato]

Osato was finished with the eggs by the time Victor passed through the doors. It was an oddly… comfortable morning. The sun was just rising, and far too bright as usual. A light breeze twisted its way through the ragged streets, sweeping away the previous night’s stench and dust too. The islander smiles with the distant sounds of hawkers, and the not so distant sounds of traffic. It was as if humanity was waking all at once.

Victor did not seem so energetic, but somehow the young man did not think the word ‘energetic’ could really fit him at any time. A smile would have found its way easily on the ready face of the soulless man, but there was a grim task ahead. He was reminded of the two that they had left behind, and the botched mission that they had fled from. “I was just…”

It was the woman. Her sunken eyes, withered hands, and generally pathetic appearance that had originally elicited a bit of pity now only brought anger. Despite himself, the hands of the young man clenched tight, crushing the uneaten piece of bread in one. He looked down and tossed it aside. If it had not been for the prizefighter’s calm the sell-sword would have possibly launched a veritable barrage of words.

“Give her a chance to speak? Like she did last time? I’m not going to be fooled twice by the same person…” But instead of voicing his opinion the boy followed on the heels of “Padre”. His eyes scanned the area, looking to see if anyone else was watching. Nothing came to sight besides the common, and even that seemed somehow more average then normal. Osato sighed as he came around from behind Victor to be in full sight of the woman.

“Your husband, huh?” Osato picked up the rather rough revolver, copying Victor’s actions by spinning the cylinder and toying with the hammer. The steel weapon was rather dull, but extremely impressive despite that. “And you just feel like giving them to us? Did you notice the lack of people from the original four that you asked?”

The tone was just as harsh as the words, much more so then Osato had actually intended to use. He twisted and turned, looking for a place to stick the weapon without it being conspicuous. His tight shirt, baggy pants, and drall left no real place to ‘tuck’ a weapon away. Finally settling on the sling for his sword (the slings opposite side crossing over his shoulder and left hand side for balance reasons) the young mercenary placed the weapon as concealed as possible for the time being.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he looked up. Soft hands passed through his hair, which looked as if it had been brushed and cleaned overnight. After another exaggerated sigh Osato looked back to the woman. “I’m just stressed, and your little rescue missions are grating. Where is this fort?”

“It’s just east, outside the city,” the woman brushed through the two men and looked to the perilous Jagged Mountains. Another silent tear fell from fretting eyes. Her hands rubbed together nervously when she turned to the two again. Osato scolded himself for attributing the nervous composure of the woman to the lies that she was feeding them. If Victor thought she was telling the truth who was he to say otherwise? “The fort rests along the Niema River, halfway between Radasanth and the Jagged Mountains base. It can’t be more then two hours out… please, oh please help my poor Ilona.”

“We will, believe me we will,” the sell-sword shook his head as he nodded to Padre. “If we’re paying them back, they have earned quite a bit of interest. Do you think they’ll split up the captured people?”

But he let the question go unanswered. With a passing farewell Osato led away from the Saddle Ablaze and towards the Eastern Gate. Those that wished to sell their wares were brushed aside; most of them left him alone anyway. The crowd that saw him parted and gave him and Victor a little leeway, the butt of the firearm protruding from the front of the sling, at his waist. The Watch nodded as he passed, and more then once he was tempted to spill the information to them as they passed.

“You think she’s telling the truth?” The question was sudden, spoken low admist a torrent of voices around the two. The mercenary would not be surprised if Padre did not hear it, and he knew he would not be able to ask it again. Osato did not even turn to his partner when he posed the question. If Victor believed in the old woman the sell-sword did not want the doubt that was etched across his face to show.

[The Cinderella Man]

After bidding the woman farewell – and remembering once again that he forgot to ask her for her name – Victor and Osato mugged through the rapidly growing crowd that swarmed the streets. The sheer amount of people during these early hours always amazed the prizefighter, making him pose a question as to where all these people really went. It seemed like a massive migration every single morning, people buying and selling and bartering and moving through the sea of bodies, and doing the exact same thing day in, day out. Bazaar became the center of their little universe and they revolved around it as if they never heard about buying enough groceries for two day. Or god forbid, a week.

Osato’s questions managed to break the irksome mood caused by the moving mass though. “I don’t know. If it’s a fort, it’s bound to be pretty big, so maybe they have enough rooms to separate all the captives. I don’t think they’ll do that though. Multiple captives in multiple rooms usually means multiple problems. If they’re moving the slaves as fast as she said, they’ll keep it simple.”

It was the logical explanation, but as life taught the boxer on various occasions, the logical more often then not had nothing to do with the actual turn of events. And usually these illogical anomalies weren’t for the good. But in all truth, it didn’t really matter. If they moved in, fired those heavy iron revolvers and sent the slavers fleeing for their lives with their tails between their legs, they’d have all the time in the world to free the slaves, regardless of where they were situated. If, on the other hand, the bastards refused to flee and fought, they were in a mighty fine pickle because they had twelve shots and there was probably a lot more then just twelve slavers. And once again, the location of the slaves won’t really matter.

The second question was much more intriguing though. Was the woman telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Victor doubted it, but he also doubted that she was trying to set them up. Using them, maybe, but sending them to their own demise intentionally, highly unlikely after the emotional display he saw on two occasions.

“I don’t think she was completely straight with us the first time.” the boxer spoke, following the lither man against the stream of people that pushed and showed and bumped shoulders with him. “I think she knew they would wait for us, but she thought that we would be able to defeat them and get her daughter out of there. You can’t really blame her. I mean, would you agree to help if she told you the most likely outcome? I don’t think so. I know damn well I would think at least twice before agreeing to get my head bashed.”

They slowly started to leave the thickly populated streets behind them, entering the rather anemic outskirts of the Slums. Farmsteads and estates in this part of the city were miserable looking patches of dirt with crummy buildings and crummier folk that slaved over their crop. Slums District simply wasn’t a good part of Radasanth to live, and it didn’t matter if you were a merchant, a farmer or a common beggar sitting on the random corner. Unfortunately, it was the cheapest place to live and since the rich and powerful were a minority, Slums were always packed with new prospects that weren’t going for broke, but rather already got there.

Quarter of an hour after they started their trek, the decrepit part of the Corone capitol was behind them and the open road beckoned them with vibrant sunlight and seas of green on both sides. A hour and a half afterwards, the vibrant sun became an annoyance that elevated the heat just high enough to cause discomfort. It was one of those days that didn’t know if it belonged to the spring that slowly got left behind or the summer that started to gain momentum to overtake the spot of the current season. It was a nice day though, the kind that could be perfect if you sat in a shadow of some random oak with some random gal murmuring some random nothings into her ear. As it was, Victor was stuck with a swordsman and a dire task that awaited them in the fort that appeared before them once they passed a gentle curve of the road that circled around a small hillock.

The fort itself wasn’t really an operational fort which made sense, because if it was, it probably wouldn’t be available for rent to some nickel-and-dime crooks. The once mighty stone ramparts were mostly crumbled and cracked on enough places for a small army to crawl through. The guard towers that once overlooked the main gate were nonexistent, the gate itself nothing more then a slanted rusty grate. It was rather secluded though, separated from the main road by a handful of small mounds, and that was probably why the slavers set up their main base here. There seemed to be a couple of sentries on the walls, but even as Victor stopped to observe them more closely, they turned inwards for some reason, some even laughing at what seemed like genuine ruckus once they got close enough.

“There seems to be some kind of struggle going on.” the boxer said to his companion, pulling out the six-shot from the interior of his coat and cocking the hammer. “Maybe Jannin and that fool are trying to escape. Come on, let’s go check it out.”

[Osato]

By the time the fort came into full view Osato was far from friendly. His bangs were slick with sweat and clinging to his saturated brow. His hands were too sweating, though that was quickly caught and subdued by the black gloves. Why he had ever decided to dawn pants when he left Yerria was at the forefront of his mind. Right along with it was the screaming adventuring spirit, calling that it was because only fools leave one island to join another.

Because of the heat and the sweat and the thoughts the face of the young sell-sword was anything but pleasant. A grimace had usurped the usually jovial mask that Osato wore, leaving lips tight and a furrowed brow. With a hand held against his forehead the sun was barely blocked enough to allow him to see the target. It was a dismal look he caught. The place looked to be held together by the will of its users alone, and the mercenary figured he understood exactly why the band would choose it, of all places, to hide.

Heading the broken gate were “guards” obviously intent on something else. When Victor spoke about finding out the mercenary nearly jumped. The silence between the two most of the way had sunk in deep, allowing the soulless man the time to think. His mind was still resting on the depth of thought that he had been given, and with the man’s voice it was shattered. Osato watched the prizefighter walk past him and quickly began to follow.

“We need to hurry,” he said as he passed Victor, his left hand resting on the alien butt of the firearm. His right, the weaker of the two, was clutching the hilt of his sword. Its worn handle was much more for comfort then anything else. “These hillocks won’t cover our attack most of the time, and if those guards turn we are apt to be caught long before we can get close.”

Osato quickly shimmied up to the battered wall, watching the guards’ backs as he moved. If they had turned his weapon would have been leveled and fired. Not that he knew how to aim or what it would do. However neither had turned when they had approached. Instead the commotion had grown much louder and the mercenary had all but run to the ruined post.

He stepped lightly as his steel gaiters clicked on the surface of the rotting wooden pathway. As soon as they got under the archway-like entrance, past the rusted unhinged gate, he looked back to Victor. “Hey, we need to do something about the guards posted,” the boy said as the shadows cooled him. “I’m going to go up the wall, catch those posted guards with their backs turned. Without them hurling bolts down on you and me while we try and rescue those two…”

Osato stood from his crouch and looked over the small heap of rubble. His hand brushed it and a small cloud of smoke rose. It was enough that the grime and dirt of the walls was brushing against his shoulders and back, but a cloud of dust too? The boy shook his head and tried not to sneeze.

“You ready for this? As soon as I take those two out I’ll be down there to help you. I think I’ll wait to use this though,” Osato tucked the gun into the sash again and removed the black-steel long blade from his side. Victor would have the longer trek to the commotion, but Osato was relying on the guards seeing him first. If it worked he’d be able to get at least one from the start and the other would be just as easy.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor’s initial intention was just to barge into the fort and play the role of the partybreaker, but Osato’s proposition had enough wisdom to pass through the boxer’s thick skull. After all, what good was the element of surprise if they were mowed down from behind before they even got a shot off? These revelations always seemed so logical when somebody else presented them, reminding the prizefighter to think before he acted. Unfortunately, these logical conclusions ordinarily got stuck in Victor’s short term memory, which meant that by the time he got into another pickle, he forgot all about it and went for the bullheaded approach once again. His sister Yavannha did always say that he should shoot from the hip more.

But for the time being he waited for Osato to climb the ramparts and position himself behind the pair of sentries. In the courtyard, a platoon of slavers gathered around the foot of the far wall, weapons brandished and gums flapping in a raucous, mocking manner. Only when they shifted a little bit amidst the ranks, Victor was enabled a look at the reason why the battle-ready men were huddled around that specific place within the crumbling citadel. In the center of the half circle that they formed, with his back to one of the solid fortification remnants, Jannin was making what seemed like a feeble last stand. The violet-haired child held his staff firmly, as if he had an actual chance to fend of what seemed like two dozen slavers that tried to retrieve the goods that tried to flee.

Victor looked towards Osato and nodded. It was now or never.

“Back off from the kid or the next thing running through your minds will be a piece of hot lead!” Victor shouted stepping from below the archway and into the courtyard with the six-shooter lined up with the closest soldier. He didn’t hear the pair of guards fall by Osato’s hand, but the fact that he didn’t have an arrow or two imbedded in his back made it clear that the swordsman did his job well. In front of the gun-wielding boxer, the armed crowd first snapped their heads backwards, then turned towards the intruders completely, oddly finding themselves suddenly pinned from both sides. It wasn’t something to worry about given the fact that they were facing a boy, a bum and a girly swordsman, but it was unexpected.

“You can’t kill us all with your pea-shooter.” one of the soldiers spoke, slowly moving forwards and trying to approach Victor from the flank. The silvery revolver moved swiftly, lining up its muzzle with the bold slaver.

“No. But I can get an A for the effort. Now drop your weapons. All of you.”

“I don’t think so.” a voice came from the building adjacent to the whole courtyard scene. From a building - that might’ve been the fort’s headquarters once - a robed figure stepped forwards and into the gathered foot soldiers. Victor couldn’t see the face below the hood, but the gait was womanly and confident, cocky even. Once the woman stepped in front of her men and pulled the hood of her black robes down, the boxer knew why.

“YOU!?”

“Welcome to my humble abode, Padre.” the woman said with a deliberate emphasis on the nick she used once before. Because in front of Victor stood the same wrinkly woman that hired him to liberate her daughter from the wretched slavers. Her face lacked any trace of woe now, her shrewd grin and keen eyes making her look younger and more mischievous. Victor lined up his gun with the familiar visage.

“I ought to shoot you right now, harlot.” he spoke, his face frowned and his trigger finger itching to send the treacherous bitch to the grave. But all that his threats managed to evoke in a woman was a chuckle.

“Think, Padre. Use that mush that was once your brain. Do you really think that I would give you a working gun?” she said and the boxer’s angered face slowly transformed into a genuinely surprised one. He pulled on the trigger. A dry click. Did it again. The same result. “That thing is a mere toy. Even if you loaded it with real bullets, it would only blow up in your hands.”

Victor was speechless. His looked at the gun, or rather at the finely crafted replica that was as good in a fight as a jagged rock, and threw it on the dry yellow grass. That pistol was the only edge he had and it turned up to be nothing but a ruse.

“There’s a good boy. Now don’t make a fuss, you three, or my men will rough you up.” she said to the prizefighter before turning to the captain of her troops. “Take them down below with the rest.”

“Yes, lady Meredith.” the soldier responded.

[Osato]

Osato gave a consoling nod, an attempt to tell the man it would be all right. As if he really knew what he was doing, the sell-sword turned and snuck towards the other side of the opening. His hands worked nervously at the handle of the weapon, its heavy steel too wide for his grip. Things were looking up, the people would be saved, and he felt confident that he would be walking away with a good deal of money.

Before him, just on the other side of a large crack and a stack of rubble were the two men standing watch. Both had loaded crossbows in their hands, the head of the bolts gleaming deviously. It took only a second to think of something, though something is not what was needed. Osato picked up a very small rock, tested its weight for half a second, and then launched it. It tumbled as it flew, aimed past the second guard to create a distraction.

“Gods damn it, Burt!” The second man said as karma finally kick-in for the ‘hero’. The rock, tumbling end over end, struck the man instead of falling on the other side of him. A wince was the only reaction the sword for hire had at first. But when a heavy gout of blood began to slip from his brow and create a mask of crimson rivulets, Osato knew what to do. “Brut you fuckin’ bastard! Now why’d ya go and do that? I’m fuckin’ bleedin’ ever’where now…”

“Honestly, I didn’ do it,” the one named Brut said, though did not bother looking for the culprit either. He man lowered his crossbow, lying down on rubble nearby. A second thought never passed the mind of the boy as he leapt. His hand spun the gun around, not accustomed to thinking to fire it. It was little more then a heavy chunk of steel, with a fancy design.

Before Brut was even close enough to the second the pistol grip fell, drumming him across the head. The stories told of how people could knock others out with a blow to the back of other’s heads. What Osato heard was a dull thud, a small crack, and a gurgling in the man’s throat. He fell just as the second brought his head up. One eye was covered with a hand, blood flooding around it. The second was blinking incredulously.

“Wha-?” the man began, but the pistol handle was swept upward. Another crack caught Osato’s attention, and the bottom jaw literally split in half over the back of the firearm. His arms rose almost automatically, his eyes were already rolling when the second and third strike fell on either side of his face. The sell-sword listened to the man gurgle with a broken jaw and shattered cheek-bones.

“Mission accomplished,” the boy said with little satisfaction. If fate had not been a deciding factor in the rock throw he knew little would have come from the encounter. He looked at the gun, wiping its rough handle free of the blood. “Shit,” Osato mumbled as he dropped the gun and put his hands in the air.

“What do we have here?” Somewhere between the voice and the mercenaries shoulder blades was a sharp object. It was definitely not something nice either. “You little twit, whad’ja think you was gonna do by yerself?”

“I’m not alone,” Osato said with little cock-sure in his tone. But he was not allowed to get any further. Sound and lights quickly cut out as a perfectly executed thrust caught the back of the boys head. It was nausea that came first, quickly followed the sensation of flight. By the time his face struck the ground he could not even feel it. By the time it bounced the second time, he was not even aware that he had been struck.

[Letho]

“Thickheaded numbskulls.” Letho thought as he and his company of rangers waited in a nearby grove, all as tense as cocked guns. “They wanted to move against her in the city. Dumbass grunts. They would get only a handful of them, the ringleader excluded.”

For weeks now, Marshal Letho Ravenheart was working on the case of missing people in Radasanth Slums. He pulled strings, he rattled the cages, worked his way up the ladder from the lowest scum to the overblown crimelords, but the information was always scarce, always directing to that one warehouse in the Slums. Naturally, the Corone Armed Forces wanted to storm the place, tear it to the ground and solve this case the easy way. The fact that the head honcho and most of the slaves wouldn’t be there wasn’t their prime concern, not if they could send a positive reports to their superiors. Merdith and her lackeys would be out of the picture for the time being, and their probable return was to be dealt with when and if it reoccurred.

Letho would have none of that. He wanted the bitch and all her troopers caught red-handed, with the hand in the cookie jar. So he struck a deal with the CAF that were the law enforcers in the Corone cities. They would give him and his Rangers two weeks to do his investigation before they moved in on the warehouse. And in those two weeks, the Marshal asked enough questions to get an answer that led him to the real headquarters. What made the whole deal even sweeter was the fact that the fort was outside of Radasanth, which meant within his jurisdiction, which in turn meant no boring paperwork and no somebody else taking the fame for the bust.

The four freelancers that did their own little feeble investigation were actually very helpful to the Marshal. They left a trail large enough for a blind man to follow and even now, when the two of them moved into the fort – in what to Letho seemed like a suicidal attempt at rescue – they would serve as a perfect distraction. Hopefully, neither of them would get killed in the time that took him and his rangers to ride into the fortress.

“Mount up. We’re going in.” Letho instructed to the dozen around him that executed the orders wordlessly. Unlike the pair of would-be heroes that knocked on the front door, the Marshal opted for a different approach. On the west side of the crummy citadel, the surrounding stone wall crumbled just enough for horses to leap over it. However, the wooden replacement still barred the entrance to the courtyard. It was a shabby looking palisade built from planks and debris, and once Letho was close enough to it, he leapt from his saddle. His shoulder connected with the wooden wall with enough force to bring the whole section down with a deafening crush and a puff of dirt so dense, it wasn’t translucent for a couple of seconds.

More then enough for Letho and his rangers to charge in. On foot, the Marshal was still swift enough to lead his troops, the gunblade in his hand thundering over and over again, sending slavers in wild bloody spins through air as if they were puppets. His Rangers did their job as well. Their bows found the targets impeccably, mowing down the crowd with remarkable ease. The robed female, her captain and several of slavers that she kept as personal guards fled into the only solid building at the first sign of trouble, but they filed to flee Letho’s attention. In the heat of the battle, the Marshal saw everything, his battle prowess and his experience taking him through the mass unscathed. In less then a minute, all the slavers were either dead or on their knees, holding their hands above their heads and begging for mercy.

But Letho’s business was with Meredith and her lackeys. The Marshal left it to his trusty Rangers to secure the perimeter while he entered the headquarters. The interior was as unremarkable as the exterior, endless stone halls that seemed to be maintained just enough to keep the building standing. In here, every hallways looked like a dungeon. And in here, every hall was a dungeon. Because in every room that seemed to have enough structural integrity there were weary faces of the captives. They hit the mother lode alright. But first he had to take care of the bitch in command.

He caught up with Meredith and her three guards in what seemed like a torture chamber deep in the bowels of the building. Apparently there was a tunnel that led outside of the fortress, but none of the four managed to get to it. Letho’s gunblade roared and took one of the goons with a shot that nearly snapped the man in half, the other two engaged the Marshal in a melee in which they never stood a chance. In the end, Meredith stood in front of him, alone and feeble and as weak as a deadwood branch, looking up at the ruthless lawman while her two guards exhaled their final breaths.

“Wait! Wait, don’t kill me. I can pay you, more then you can imagine. You...” but Letho disallowed any further speech. Hitting women wasn’t something that he did, but Meredith wasn’t a woman. She was a monster that treated people like animals and sold them like pets. Letho’s backhanded slap shot across the woman’s face, rendering her unconscious instantly – knocking out several teeth as well.

“I won’t kill you, bitch. There’s a nice cell waiting for you, not so different from the ones you confined your slaves to.” he muttered, picking up the woman and throwing her over his shoulder as if she was a sack of potatoes.

By the time he got back out, he was followed by over fifty slaves that he freed from their cells, all eternally grateful and all looking at the daylight as if it was the greatest wonder in the world. Most seemed in a rather good shape though – after all, it wasn’t good for the business to damage the goods you intended to sell. The Rangers ushered them out of the courtyard from where they would be escorted back in the city. Meredith was thrown over the saddle of a steed once Letho was out, her hands bound tight enough to make her hands white. Most of the surviving slavers were gathered around below one of the walls where they were stripped of all weapons and armor before they too were shackled. With his Rangers doing most of the work, Letho had enough time to address the three brave souls that had the courage to face the slavers. The Marshal was brief and stingy on compliments as always.

“Good job, you three.” he said to them, eyeing each of them for a second before he continued. “We were on their trail for weeks now. For a while I thought you’ll mess up our operation. As it turned out, you were a rather useful distraction.”

That was pretty much all he had to say to them. He didn’t know them, they didn’t know him and this was business. So Letho mounted up, holstered his titanic gunblade and offered parting words. “You should check in with the Leeahn Festian, the Captain of the Radasanth guards. He might have some shinnies for you for your efforts.”

And with that said, Letho, his rangers and the captured slavers moved out of the fortress. Another day, another mission accomplished, the Marshal thought.

[The Cinderella Man]

He came in. He came out. It was that simple. Or at least that’s what it seemed like to Victor. Once the Marshal of the Corone Rangers and his band of riders stormed in, it seemed almost unreal how easily they disposed of the slavers. Their movement was stunningly fast, trained to perfection, their shots unmistakable. Victor never believed in existence of heroes – heroes were, after all, just overblown opiate of the masses – but what Letho and his rangers did was nothing short of a miracle. They took over the fort like a tornado and without a single casualty in their rank they defeated the gang that seemed like an entire army to the boxer and his companions. And not only that, but even as he pulled out this rabbit out of his hat, the impressive Marshal charged into the building like a raging bull only to come out minutes afterwards with Meredith in one hand and a throng of slaves following in his wake.

All that Victor and his quasi-heroic group tried and failed to do for the last couple of days, Letho and the Corone Rangers did in five minutes. The fearsome slavers that seemed unbeatable were nothing but whimpering dogs with tails between their legs, Meredith who so confidently stood in front of the boxer, announcing his failure, was bound to be nothing but a number in some Corone correctional facility, and the fort that seemed to be standing at the verge of the storm only seconds ago became deadly silent in a hurry. The rangers worked with what seemed like trained efficiency, an elite group of warriors that just saved their bacons and did it as if it was something as simple as walking into a bar and ordering a drink. Suffice to say, Victor was impressed.

The prizefighter always saw the Corone law enforcers as somewhat of a rusty machinery that had more then a couple out-of-shape cogs. The constables and sentries around Radasanth were mostly flabby-gutted, uninterested bastards reluctant to break a sweat or even, god forbid, take the initiative and do something out of their everyday routine. They weren’t all like that, but most of the greenhorns were stuck with training or posts in some god forsaken middle of nowhere. But Corone Armed Forces and Corone Rangers were most definitely different branches of the law enforcing. Maybe if the former were more like the latter, there wouldn’t be so much crime in the Slums and maybe you didn’t have to walk with eyes on your back after nightfall.

The imposing Marshal that led the charge addressed Victor and his companions with what seemed like a professional courtesy, telling them in a rather subtle matter that he was alright with their little attempt at a rescue, but that they should leave the matters to the big boys in the future. Victor didn’t mind the rather condescending tone. He was addressed in worse manners and truth be told, he knew that this little quest he undertook wasn’t bound to go anywhere but downhill. He took note of the name of the Radasanth Captain – Leeahn Festian. All chivalry aside, the boxer’s coffers were so damn low that they hit the bottom and any contribution was more then welcome.

And just as abrupt as the deadly dozen entered the scene, they made their way out of the fort with a group of shackled slavers and a larger group of freed slaves that were being escorted back to the city. Victor had to smile. The tables certainly turned with the entrance of the Marshal and his death squad and now it was time for the captors to be the captives. It was cruel world out there, but luckily there was still some justice in it. And that was a good thing to know. That was why the prizefighter accepted this mission in the first place; because he still believed in the good and the long arm of the law. Today Letho Ravenheart – Victor caught the name from one of the Rangers – was the good and his arm was long indeed.

“Well, that could’ve gone worse.” he said to Osato and Jannin, taking a seat on one of the crumbled walls and sighing audibly. Only the three of them were left in the place that was a battlefield so short ago, Victor could still smell the scent of the gunpowder and the uplifted dirt. “So what do you say? Should we go visit this Leeahn? I wouldn’t mind a gold piece or three for my efforts.”

((SPOILS: Victor gets 500 gold pieces from the captain of the Radasanth Guard, Leeahn Festian, and a letter of recommendation that enables him to enlist in the local law enforcement if he desires to do so.))

[Culix]

Whadji-- No! The Apocalypse can't kick off already! This was Jannin's response to the din of the collapsing wall and the cries of slavers unlucky enough to greet the Rangers. He reconsidered when a quick headcount told him the horsemen numbered a bit more than four, but soon hopped right back to the doomsday theory; the one man army with his otherworldly weapon of death left little doubt in the boy's mind. However, this doubt ballooned quite quickly when the lad made a number of fairly obvious observations about that day, such as I think Ragnarok has enough self-respect to show up when the sky isn't powder blue. In the seconds it took him to decide this, the Marshal and his men conclusively proved each slaver in the area possessed mortality or, failing that, a fairly weak bladder.

Jannin couldn't help but be impressed. The group's jeering, confident members had been reduced to dead or sniveling globs of humanity with an efficiency the boy himself doubted he could match. Which was the real source of his rage: he'd been denied the chance. This was my time ta shine! Mine! Potential future minions or not, I'd have burned 'em all to a crisp, if Cap'n Burly and the Forthright Brigade hadn't shown up... I mean, I hardly got to do anything! Despite the fiery temper burning away, which the lad had chosen to express by clenching his fists and glaring angrily at a portion of the grass unflecked with blood, gratitude peaked out from its little corner. On some level, he knew there was little chance he or the others would have survived outside of lifelong servitude without the interference. Not that he would ever admit it or his thanks, of course.

The young mage glanced up in time to see the Marshal emerge from a building with a significantly more bloodied Meredith slung over his shoulder. Noting the similarities to his own transportation to the fort, sans burlap sack, a small smile slipped out. At least she’s getting hers. However, the boy went back to lightly scowling at the ground when the man approached; he knew what was coming. Here we go… First he’s gonna thank us -- like that. Now he’ll make some pretentious remark abou-- there, right on cue. And here comes the same pompous officer-speech I’ve heard about a thousand ti… What was that about ‘shinies?’ At the mention of the coin synonym, the boy’s ears perked up and his anger melted away. Ooh. If I had to be wrong about something, I’m glad it’s this. Tell him he’d get nothing out of being slugged in the stomach, crammed in a sack, stored in a cell, and chased around a complex, and he’d fly into a frothing rage. Add a hint of monetary gain, though, and the little pup was content to sit there with a wagging tail. Sure, an artifact would’ve been great, but ya can’t conquer the world on an empty wallet.

Jannin waited with his two companions -- he had, after all, missed the reward’s location and wasn’t about to ask for it -- until all the Rangers, slavers, and jubilant ex-prisoners departed. “Sure thing,” he answered Victor. “Let’s get a move on!” With a broad grin, the child took a step in what he sincerely hoped was the right direction. Though much cheered by the promise of riches, he still felt the nagging concern that he’d had very little impact on the course of events. This concern was quite well-founded, with the exception of one minor detail.


- ** -- *** -- ** -

This one minor detail was trudging his way back to Radasanth with the former slaves. Greg had been found in his cell late in the fortress’s search, but he was grateful just to be out. Fortunately, none of the slaves recognized him, and his former co-workers’ attempts to rat him out fell on deaf ears. The ex-guard had expected to be jailed and sold for letting the kid escape, but the Rangers instead ironically freed the slaver. Heh… Funny. I’m actually in that li’l nipper’s debt…

Surrounded by the truly emancipated individuals, the figuratively liberated man knew he could never do a job like that again. The joyous phoenix served as reminders of the ashes from which they’d risen, and Greg looked at the dirt in shame. He doubted he’d start work at a soup kitchen the next day or donate all his ill-gotten gains to charity, though. Jus’ too much, too fast. But I’m gonna do somethin’. Don’ know what yet, but somethin’. For the first time in his life, Greg would follow through on such a claim. He smiled and gave a soft chuckle. It’s a step. Only 'bout a thousan’ more miles ta go.

((Spoils: 500 GP from the good Captain Leeahn plus... whatever small amount he swiped from the slavers' card game.))

[Osato]

Somewhere between the ‘heroes’ capture and the gallant entrance of the Corone Rangers the poor Osato woke. When his void-like eyes finally opened it was a collective mayhem that greeted them. The slavers were running about in a crazed way, the slaves were looking as if one of the Thayne had come, and it all came to the sell-sword somewhat sideways and a little fuzzy. He tenderly scrutinized the knot on the back of his skull with a soft touch. It was very large, very sore, and he had no doubt it was very unattractive. That, however, was the least of his worries.

“Bloody soulless bastards,” one of the rangers said as he escorted some of the slavers by. The further portions of the conversation missed Osato’s hearing, but what he had caught was enough. He looked around. Was that what being soulless was about? Was it something akin to having no emotions, no feelings, and no good will towards the common man? The mercenary checked himself mentally, fought through the miasma of pain to answer himself.

No. He finally came up with the answer. Being soulless was one thing, a soulless being was another. He had no soul, but in the literal sense. He was still affected by the words of man, still affected by the people’s actions against him. He had a heart, so to speak, and had emotions and feelings like the rest of the world. These people were little more then cruel bastards. They had the literal soul, but their fleeting conscious had long since been drowned out by the cold confines of a gold piece. Even that little jab at another somehow hurt him, made him feel guilty.

But reservations were allowed to pass as soon as the leader of the Rangers emerged. When the walking tank the world knew as Letho stepped out with the charlatan, Osato could do little but blink. The woman was captured, woo hoo, he thought. But that man was amazingly massive. His armor gleamed despite the residual fog of dust that billowed up around the shattered bastion. His weapon looked like a grand version of the type the despicable island of Sid used against his own island of Yerria. But what stood out the most were the eyes of the man, so dark and so powerful.

If Osato believed in love at first sight, and could love like a real person, it would have been so. But his infatuation went only as far as his eyes could hold the man. As soon as the job was done and the man’s not so thorough thanks were given, he was gone. It was like a dream for the boy, a memory that he would cherish for a very long time. The lingering thoughts of the departed man finally settled like the dust in the worn stronghold, but were far from dispersed.

“Huh?” He mumbled as he turned towards Victor and the kid. “Oh, yeah… uhh… I’ll accompany you to the town. But I’m going to be headed out, back to Scara Brae. I have some business to attend to with the Knights. I really want those crossbows that the men had, but I suppose some gold will do just fine…”

((Thanks guys. Spoils: Either the two oak medium crossbows and 20 bolts. Or the 500 gold… whichever the judge feels better about giving…))

[Witchblade]

Introduction: - 7 The introductions were nice. All of you were able to give explanations of your character and their personalities. Reasonable explanations were given for why and how they were recruited to be part of this little mission—Jon’s being the weirdest—though I still have to wonder who in their right mind would want to hire a kid to do something so dangerous. Then again, when you look at who the old lady turns out to be it doesn’t seem that farfetched.

Setting: - 8 The setting was one thing that rapidly changed throughout this whole quest, it was rendered by each character and every time more detail was put into it changing the environment around slightly. The graveyard was possible the most vividly described place. The mansion was mentioned over and over again as a crummy place that looked like a warehouse or worse, which got annoying after a while. I got it the first time you didn’t need to keep repeating it. It was a warehouse, that’s great. Break in already. The castle, or broken down fortress, or citadel that the final battle took place in, whatever it was because I never really got a complete answer on that front, was nicely described as a crumbling pile of stone.

You guys used a lot of different senses to bring about the setting throughout the story. The dingy bar they were in, the dark and spooky graveyard and both crumbling hideouts of the slavers. They came together nicely, but still needed some work, more so on everyone not repeating the same information over and over again than a lack of explanation.

Strategy: - 7 I like the strategy used throughout the thread, or should I say the lack there of strategy. It just fit the characters and the storyline so nicely. You always see a rag tag team of people formed together to do some common good deed throughout the land of Althanas and succeeding. They always succeed and the odds are always against them. It was nice to see a more logical, or should I say, realistic approach to it being that in all reality, they probably wouldn’t succeed. Plus, it just fit the characters. None of them were very heroic and their combined efforts to stop this slave trading was not enough, had the four of you succeeded somehow in doing this it would have seemed unrealistic. Though unrealistic is still nice.

Dialogue: - 7 Jon’s was by far the most interesting dialogue throughout this quest. Everyone else had the usual stuff floating around their character’s heads and coming out of their mouths, Jon’s just seemed to have no purpose other than to make no sense and be funny. I could see it as getting stale for a whole quest but he wasn’t around long enough for that to happen. So, there’s nothing spectacular here just what you’d expect to see in a quest.

Character: - 7 Character interaction in this thread was nice. Osato and Victor seemed to form some kind of relationship, everyone mutually hated Jon, and Jannin was just running around being a child really. His naivety was played nicely throughout the story giving the character an actual feel as a child, which not everyone can pull off. An adult has a hard time thinking as a child does. Every one had their own little character quirks that added nicely, Osato’s vanity really shone in this quest—annoyingly so—I was kind of hoping someone would strangle his perfect little neck. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing though. Victor is your classic character with some kind of jaded past, nothing too surprising there. And Jon…well, it’s Jon and it was disappointing to see him drop out of the quest.

Rising Action: - 6 Rising action wasn’t bad. The only problem is the way you guys planned it out you’ve got two different levels of rising action. One with Jannin and Jon trapped in their respective cells, Jon’s eventual drop-out which you effectively wrote out as him just being forgotten by Jannin, which I could actually see happening. The action picks up here as Jannin escapes and is then cornered in the courtyard, however you’re left hanging there as further explanation for what happens to Osato and Victor is given. This one starts in action, levels off and then kicks back up again when they go in to save Jon and Jannin and free the slaves, however, by the time that happens you’ve either mostly forgotten about Jannin, too caught up in the moment with Osato and Victor or it’s just plain lost some of that momentum. Honestly, you can only leave the kid backed into a corner for so long before the reader is sick of wondering what the hell is going to happen to him. It wasn’t horrible; it just lost a little bit of that something that made the moment edgy, with the reader on the edge of their seat wondering what’s going to happen next.

Climax: - 6 The climax is where Letho shows up and saves everybody’s ass then quickly leaves all in one post. It’s a disappointing climax for the sole fact that you want the original rag tag team you started out with to suddenly do something spectacular and save the day. This makes more sense and it’s quite the contrast to see how Victor’s team was easily demolished, but a group of well-trained and prepared warriors could wipe the complex out in mere minutes. It was still lacking though. In and out and gone and the reader is left there going ‘well isn’t that nice’. Not to mention, because Letho had such an easy time disposing of the place it wasn’t even much of a climax. I would have been happier seeing Victor’s team somehow succeed, even though it would have been a bit unrealistic. Then again, how often are things extremely realistic in the fantasy world of Althanas?

Conclusion: - 4 The conclusion was lacking yet fitting the storyline rather well. The rag tag team failing and the real guys busting in with a real cavalry to take over the place and quickly come to do what they do best. It was a little disappointing because as the reader you do want to see Victor and Osato victorious. The strategy at making them lose in the end, as I already stated, was interesting and definitely on the different side but I still wanted Victor and Osato’s plan to somehow work. More importantly, I wanted Victor to punch that little bitch Meredith right between the eyes and maybe knock a few teeth out. Letho got to do it instead, so I guess I can’t complain too much.

My only issue is a big one actually. The whole story is based off this ‘withered’ lady who comes to your characters asking them for aid in helping to get her daughter out of the slave-trading ring. Now, if this lady is actually the one running the ring why would she even bother hiring people who could potentially do some damage? Why would she want to bring that kind of attention down upon what she is planning? There was never any explanation as to why she wanted them to ‘help’ her. I understand she could use them all as slaves when captured, but that’s a horrible explanation. There are much better slave targets than warriors who could potentially fight back. I don’t know if I just missed something here but this is really bugging me. Without that explanation this whole quest is mute point because it doesn’t make sense.

Writing Style: - 7 All of you have great writing styles. In the beginning three of you were very serious and down to the point, making the quest feel almost like any other quest on Althanas, until I got to Bohemia’s post. That made me laugh my freaking ass off. It was such a different change of pace to everything else happening in the quest that it caught me right off guard. His writing style gave this adventure something light hearted that made the more serious aspects less serious. His writing kept me interested in what was going to happen next and I have to admit, I lost a bit of interest when he stopped posting in the quest.

I also noted that after a few posts from Bohemia, all of you tried to make the situation a little more light hearted with inner dialogue from your characters. It worked to a certain extent and some of them made me laugh as well, but it just wasn’t the same as the profanity coming from Jon’s mouth. All of you need to watch the usual things like spelling mistakes or forgotten words, oddly enough, especially you Duro. There were quite a few times when reading your posts that you’d left certain words out of it that just disrupted the flow because you had to sit there and think about what fit in the empty space.

Wild Card: - 6 An overall good quest that could have used some refining. It was enjoyable but a key question was never answered, which made the whole thing almost pointless and senseless.

Score: 65


Rewards:

Cinderella Man receives 1200 experience and 500 GP!
Osato receives 700 experience and two oak medium crossbows with 20 bolts!
Bohemia receives 800 and 100 GP!
Culix receives 1000 and 500 GP!

No rewards for Letho.