Low Stretches The Hand

[Ebivoulya]

His head snapped back from a bare fist, and Sumaes slumped between two splintered crates. The blurry darkness of a musty warehouse was broken by a looming figure pulling back on a steel-knuckled leather glove. Arms from above righted the sailor as he straightened his nose, and the gloved man handed off the bag of coins and mentioned Dulan; the room thinned out. Someone offered Sumaes a dirty rag, which he used to wipe his face, but when his eyes cleared all he saw were steel knuckles. He kept his feet this time, though. When the lad reached a shaking hand up to his shattered nose, he was interrupted.

"Leave it."

The warm drip down his chin worried him more than the pain, there sure was a lot of it, but he knew enough to keep quiet. The dark warehouse swirled in silence for several seconds, then the blurry figure in front of him raised one indistinct arm. "How many fingers?" The young sailor's heart beat quickly. He thought for a moment about guessing, but realized he wasn't answering the question he thought he was. "One," he said shakily, and the large man immediately asked which one. He couldn't help but say "The middle one" as flat as he could. The blur cracked a broad grin.

"If you insist."

A swift kick bent his knees as someone grabbed his arm, and hands stretched from the woodwork to hold him down while his fingers were spread atop a dusty crate. He tried not to struggle, but he was breathing hard and fast for many long moments, just waiting for- pain lanced up his arm, and the throbbing splinter in that finger disappeared. The bile rose, but he held it down, unlike his sharp groans. The looming man in leather vest seemed satisfied, though, idly playing with... someone else's finger while he sheathed his strange green dagger. A few unheard words later, and shaking Sumaes was being dragged out of the room, covered in blood and clutching his hand.

The single glowing lantern flickered in silence as the last of the muscle left, and the gloved half-elf took a moment to savor the severed end of the sailor's finger. The bitter black powder the lad had been handling was an interesting addition to the familiar taste of warm blood, and the soft porous texture of bone. It wasn't long before he was nibbling away at it, as one steel-toed boot tapped impatiently. That anyone would dare to steal from him, to disrupt his business...the smuggler was less than pleased. A snack would have to distract him for now; just thinking of it strained his composure. Sumaes had taken his little game well, at least. Despite his incompetence, the lad had a bit of grit to him, and he'd still be able to handle a blade. More pressing was the girl, and how easily she had slipped into the place; he had given the skydock too much credit, it seems. At least the lad had been keen enough to notice her slim ankles, and the sound of her cough.

What she stole told the tale on its own. The rumors of those disease-ridden thugs were everywhere; clever idea, really. Those two facts made her most likely to be the girlfriend of one of the gang members. She could've been a professional, but getting noticed at all, and the haphazard escape, both suggested otherwise. He'd already sent Dulan to talk to Dice, the list couldn't be that long if descriptions of the disease were accurate. Scum like that gathered like pools in all the lowest areas. Once they found the one laden thickest with them, the only thing left was to wade in and see who ran, maybe cut a few up; only if strictly necessary. A dry tongue found lips still moist with coppery dew, and the sapphire eyes of the swordsman returned to the succulent morsel at hand.

The door opened to a stout man of a height with the smuggler, and with short brown hair. A grimace wormed its way onto the man's face, but he quietly closed the door as his employer smirked. "You'd have liked the lad; he picked the middle one," the dark-haired man said, waving the half-eaten finger as proof. His associate replied with a faint smile as he began to shuffle through documents, and the smuggler grimaced to see his levity brushed off so effectively. It was already difficult enough to restrain himself, the dick could at least play along. "Maybe I should take one of yours," the vested half-elf said quietly, "for not going yourself." The steeled toe stopped tapping for a few long seconds, but the stocky man in long brown sleeves quietly continued rustling through yellowing papers; he knew his worth, if not his place. Soon the swordsman sighed in disappointment as he returned to his snack.

"I've sent several of the boys out already," Dulan said with a gruff voice.

Bone crunched between clenched teeth, and the air grew cold and still. The brown eyes of the stocky man met the sharp blue eyes of his employer. "I thought we wanted to come back here," he said calmly, and the smuggler replied with "Someone is going to sate me; if not her, then maybe you're offering?" The other man returned to shuffling pages as he replied. "As long as it's just her..." The silence stretched for a moment after that, until the long-haired swordsman popped the rest of the finger into his mouth and crunched through it quickly- the nail he pulled out, after getting it caught between his teeth. It was barely an appetizer; the coming meal left his mouth watering. The need was strong, but this contract was too lucrative to lose, so he did not linger long on it; there was work to be done first.

The warped wooden door opened again, and the two young sailors who entered talked quietly with Dulan for a long moment. "Do we have a likely location?" the gloved smuggler asked with interest once the two finished giving their hushed report. Their furtive glances only kindled his ire, little shit-stains waiting to be stomped, but he'd already maimed one of the man's subordinates tonight. It was never easy to keep himself in check, but that had been the agreement between them, and memories of hours looking through papers led him to keep the man around. "A few, but it won't take long to clear the small ones," the stocky Dulan replied, and his men looked between the two with growing dread before one of them said "We'll get the airship ready to launch."

They left without another word, and the long-sleeved secretary closed the leather folder he had been reading to grimace at the blood-stained lips of his employer. Just as he opened his mouth the slimmer man preempted him. "No fucking entourage this time; just you and me. You can use runners if you need to." The eyebrow of the stocky man twitched, and he remained silent for a moment. As he made up his mind and his brow furrowed, though, the sharp sapphire eyes of the smuggler flickered red along the edges of the iris. "Fine," the gravelly Dulan replied, and the swordsman nodded, looking down at the thick crimson puddle with a satisfied smile. That shore would stretch broad tonight.