[Memory] Scars

An evening to remember.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Tom Cooke
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Wed May 29, 2019 11:03 pm

Castle Hill The Rose
Evening on the 8th of Roalis, 2713
Light and laughter leaked out into the street – the pleasant clamor of a Castle Hill pub, all clinking glasses and paroxysms of chattering and shouts. The chilly breeze carried scraps of music out into the night: a woman’s voice thin and whining, the off-tune sawing of an accordion in mediocre hands. Early Vortas in the Rose and the air smelled of rotted things, earth and rain and fish and salty seawater, refuse and humanity.

The streets were full of beggars and cutpurses, clinging just at the edge of the pretty lights; nobody’d notice one more peeling away from the shadows and slipping along the streets, never too far from an alleyway to duck into. Castle Hill was a decent enough place – damn sight prettier than Sharkswell or Voedale – now humble little neighborhoods, now old merchants’ houses with their terraces and archways, cascades of ivy and moss. Plenty of shady nooks and crannies to hide in, and plenty of passersby. Nobody’d notice one more face.

Well, that’s what he hoped, anyway. If the mark knew what he was doing, he hadn’t let on yet; still, Tom knew this man’s reputation well enough to know he was a tricky stopclocker, and he’d gotten burned enough that his hands were cautious around the flame. Cooke was a giant of a man, and light-footed as he was, he doubted he’d gone entirely unnoticed.

Tense game, this.

He followed the Bastian for several streets – pausing at intervals, taking shortcuts through alleyways, ducking behind ramshackle stands where peddlers were packing up. Once or twice he thought he’d lost him; in the gloaming, light was smearing into dark, the streets turning bleary and grey. As the evening crowds thinned out, though, as they passed into quieter and poorer streets, the game of cat and mouse became unavoidably clear.

They’d passed into familiar territory, a maze of back streets. Residential. Tom figured they must be getting close to the place; it was that, or this toft had caught on and decided to throw him off. They were alone, except for a beggar all wound up in a tatty old blanket at the end of the alleyway, sleeping in a pile. Shadows clung thick to the doorways; no candles burned behind the dusty panes in the windows. His breath’d started steaming on the air, and he was pulling his greatcoat tighter around him, burying his hands in his pockets against the chill.

Tom knew these flats well enough. An old flame’d lived here, but no more; he hadn’t been around in years, and the place didn’t look any better. Still more hospitable-looking than the tenement housing like he’d grown up in, but he was itching to get back to Quarter Fords and Ishma and a warm bed. (If he got back.)

As the Bastian slowed down, he tucked himself into the shadows beneath a doorway. He was getting twitchy, itching for a drink; gritting his teeth, he pushed the feeling down, eyes fixed on the other man. Looked like he was about to go inside. With a brief glance around – once up the alleyway, once down – and a lingering look up at the shadowy windows above, Tom decided to make his move.

“Hey, hey,” he called lightly, laughter in his voice. “Ain’t you the kov they call, uh— Eon, ’s it?”

As he stepped out into the street, he flashed the Bastian a winning grin. Underneath his heavy brow, his eyes weren’t smiling. He kept one of his hands at his belt, resting casually on his knife.

“Heard you’re sellin’, mate. That so?” he asked, friendly as you like, leaning himself up against the brick nearby.
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sat Aug 24, 2019 3:23 pm, edited 5 times in total.

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Benton Borteillo
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Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Tue Jun 18, 2019 3:37 pm

Vortas 8, 2713
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Somehow, the Crow’s Foot Tavern was impervious to the cold of Vortas. Autumn himself came and sat at the bar, but he left his boots of frost and cold and death at the door. While the tavern was never necessarily peaceful, it was high in spirits. Tonight, like every night, laugher was the hottest order. Like every night, Benton sat in the third bar still from the wall, a stool worn smooth by the asses of a hundred drunks over hundreds of weeks. Olin Halpine, a pale beast of a man with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair smiled on his left, dressed lightly despite the brisk air outside the doors. On Benton’s right, Grin Mulligan, resident lightweight, was already hammered, his hand raises to ask the hideous barmaid for another three.

Lightweight,,” Benton muttered with an eye roll, barely even feeling tipsy, yet, he smiled.

If I was as light as you, I’d afford the alcoholic’s dream,” Olin mused, nursing a glad that looked tiny in his large hands.

You jackasses are just jealous,” Grif snorted into his beer, but the J caught in his teeth, stretching jealous out like taffy in the air. Grif’s red curls refracted in the kind of empty glasses before the three of them, and the passive’s cheeks were bright pink beneath heavily-lidded brown eyes. Benton glances back at Olin with a brow cocked high, and Olin wrapped an arm warmly around his shoulders as he leaned over Benton to speak to the drunk over the din of the bar.

Grif, bud,” he started, and Grif looked up at him, his disoriented eyes struggling to find Olin’s in the amber light. “S’Time to go home.

I just put in m’drinks,” Grif whined, but, like every night, Olin and Benton were already whirring into motion. Like every night, Olin dropped some coins on the counter and, like every night, Benton tucked his flail, which he had merely sat on the counter to show off, under his arm and an arm around Grif, a man a good eight inches shorter than him, and lifted him easily off of the stool and onto the ground beneath his dangling feet.

Benny,” he pleaded, but, despite his half-hearted protests, Benton and Olin, like every night, drug the passive out of the bar. Grif planted his feet to slow Benton and Olin, and Benton, knowing the routine, let him stop. Grif turned his head to call over his shoulder in his boyish voice.

Gladys,” he sang, and the barmaid looked up. “I love you, darling. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Baring her underbite, the barmaid grinned, then continued scrubbing the counter. Benton and Olin pulled Grif onto the street where he forgot about his abandoned drinks and instead complained of the cold that shocked them in the darkness beyond the bar as the sounds of the bar became muffled memories.

Well, if you’d button your coat,” Olin groaned in exasperation as they stopped at a familiar phosphor street lamp and shivered in its white-blue light. Olin hunched over to button the passive’s coat as he leaned into Benton, making them seem rather like a worrisome couple and their whiny, too-tired-to-function child. Finished, Olin looped his arms around Grif and coaxed him away from Benton. Like every night, Olin waves goodbye and Grif mumbles something incoherent, leaving Benton alone as he watched their height difference of nearly 16-inches faze into one limping shadow before turning a corner.

And, as he had the night before and a hundred before that, the warmth of the bar that had gathered in his belly slipped away into the night. His smile faded, and, checking over his shoulder, armed himself with the flail and turned briskly down a dum side street. He stayed near the center, afraid of what monsters leered at him from the nooks of the houses, especially as the street lamps grew dimmer, grew sparser. He was cocky, sure, but even Benton knew he had to be careful, especially with an eight-year-Old target attached to his face.

At every turn, Benton glanced back. He wasn’t going home, not yet, but rather to one of his several “supply houses.” He was a man of favors, and he kept his supply spread across Old Rose with the few people he trusted. Between Olin and his mother, Grif, Aziza, and a handful of others, Benton was satisfied with the cheap security of his supply. Tonight, he headed to a seamstress’s tiny shop, abandoned this time of night, for Drake’s Tongue. Twice, he turned and saw the same figure behind him, and twice he turned again to find it gone.

Easy, Benton, he cooled himself under his breath as he fumbled a key out of his jacket pocket at an unsuspecting door. There was no way to be at ease in the darkness of Old Rose, even as a grown man with enough scrap to make up for his average build and a flail in his hand. His instinct said fight, and he tightened his grip on the weapon. He wasn’t in danger, at least, not yet, not for sure. If the shadow that had followed him these few blocks was innocent, it would pass by as he unlocked the door. He waited for it to do just that, watching it move through his peripherals.

But it didn’t, and the shadow stopped and spoke amiably. Benton turned, his flail swinging to hit his calf as if to remind him that it had his back, like a dog rising to growl protectively at his side. The figure was taller than Benton— significantly so. He hulled beneath a great black coat, and his dark hair flowed as a continuation of it. Dark eyes peered down at Benton seriously, down a nose that had been broken beyond repair several times. And Benton, a man not known for his visual intimidation, felt small as he looked up at the beast.

Benton stepped as far back as the buildings would allow, giving himself time to react. The stranger smiled at him with his teeth, but his eyes did not join in, instead setting Benton’s nerve slight. Benton scrutinized the man, but he was much more adept at the fake smile. He grinned, cocking his head to display the lonely simple below his short scruff. And he watched the man’s hands, his body language, through smiling eyes.

Hallo, sir,” he nodded, and he flung his flail up to rest on his shoulder as the other hand moved to his hip, pushing back his jacket to reveal a knife beneath and redepositing the unused key in one fluid motion. He smiled with welcome, daring any foul play with a single invitation: I’m armed.

Selling if you’re buying— goods and services,” he lifted a brow playfully, biting his lip before returning to his grin. The sheer size of this man— and his eyes— made Benton nervous, but, gods, any customer was a customer he’d take these days.

So, whatcha looking for, Mister—?” he prompted for a name, knowing that, if this man was a trouble maker, Benton may’ve heard about him from the bar. “Some goods aren’t the easiest to nab this time of night, but, hells, I can try for you. May cost a little extra, but, hey, sometimes you need it,” he shrugged slightly in the dark, then waited for the man to display his business.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Tom Cooke
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Tue Jun 18, 2019 11:40 pm

Castle Hill The Rose
Evening on the 8th of Roalis, 2713
Well, ain’t you a pretty kov?”

Tom’s smile brightened to match the Bastian’s, but it still didn’t quite touch his eyes. There was something analytical about the way they flicked over Eon, careful-like and slow, with a thoughtfulness that belied his bulk and easy manner. He found his gaze lingering on that dimple on his left cheek, and for a moment, his smile did look genuine. He liked that dimple, he decided – liked the fact that his face wasn’t quite symmetrical. Liked those clever, macha grey eyes. Liked the whole face. Didn’t trust that smile one bit, but it was a damn good one, all sunshine and benny deals. Didn’t want to wreck it, but what could you do?

When he took out that – what the hell d’you call that? he thought – that thing that looked like it was straight out of the fuckin’ War of the Book, his eyes widened by a fraction. One heavy eyebrow shot up, and he didn’t even try to hide his surprise. His smile, though, didn’t falter a whit, not even when the Bastian brushed aside his jacket to show him the hilt of his knife.

Still that sunny smile on his pretty, scruffy face, of course.

It was just about impossible to describe what Tom usually felt during situations like this. There was a reason he was covered in jagged scars from head to foot; he was skilled enough in a fight – if he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have lived this long, now would he’ve? – and cautious enough to keep his throat intact, but he didn’t exactly run away from sharps, either. Being fair honest, that knife and that ugly piece of weaponry made him like this Eon kov even more, in a way that lay somewhere south of attraction and west of fear. Excitement, maybe.

Tom’s lip twitched, and the look he gave Eon was almost coquettish. “No, no, see, love—” He waved a hand, oddly prissy, shaking his head as if he were trying to explain a terribly embarrassing misunderstanding. When he spoke again, his voice was conspiratorial-quiet. “I ain’t here to buy. Goods or services, though, uh, I can’t say I hadn’t considered supportin’ your business. Just so happens I’m here ’cause a little birdie” – he put weight on the word – “told me you been forgettin’ to pay what’s due in the Rose, an’ that just ain’t the way of it. Now…”

He was a practiced intimidator, if nothing else. Pushing himself up off the wall and rolling his shoulders, he let all the warmth drain out of his smile. Now the twist of his lip was cold, and he looked down at the Bastian from his full height, looked right down his broken nose. His hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger, and he sucked at a tooth, seeming to consider his next words. Seeming.

In situations like these, he reckoned, words weren’t as important as the weight they bore. The way you said them, the syllables you threw around and the syllables you bit down on, the sibilant hisses you spat. Now, paradoxically, his tone was still friendly. He was still smiling, after a fashion, though it was a cruel curl of a smile. His black eyes glittered.

“Seein’ as I’m sure this is a misunderstandin’,” he sighed, almost casually, “I’m just here to remind you to pay up, ye chen?” He lifted his brows. “Maybe we ought to get this sorted now, nanabo, before sap’s spilt over it. I’m a gentle lamb, really. I wouldn’t want that.”

Someplace else, a dog was barking, the yapping and howling distorted by the echoing maze of alleyways and back-streets, dripping gutters and crumbling stone. Somebody shouted; shutters slammed. The barking stopped. It was quiet, and with night falling, the little alleyway was looking dark indeed.

Tom cocked his head in turn.
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sat Aug 24, 2019 3:22 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Benton Borteillo
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: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Tue Jun 25, 2019 1:48 pm

Vortas 8, 2713
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Benton released a little exhale of a giggle, his tongue trapped between his teeth as he shook his head. He opened up his figure, turning his feet towards his companion and flicking his weapon from his shoulder back to his side where it rocked anxiously for a lick of crimson.

Pay? What in the hell is he talking about? he thought to himself. He knew he had wronged a lot of people, but he couldn't think of one specifically who would be out to send a man after him. And- gods, was his heart that loud? He could feel it climbing its suffocating weight out of his throat to scream at the world around him in panic, could feel it pulsing in his fingertips, in his legs, in his chest, in his head. He could still feel that burn of alcohol settled into his stomach and esophagus for the night, a good pain that he craved despite. He could still feel the cold of Vortas sneaking under his coat sleeves like an army of cold-bloods looking for something warm. His facade was practiced, though. Years of practiced emotions. He turned his head with his eyebrows pushing to embrace each other to show he didn't quite understand.

"Best to stop listening to the birds, mister. Leadin' y'down the wrong paths, they are. Though, I don't mind when faces like yours get lost on my grounds," he suggested coyly, pushing off of the stoop towards the man. He cursed himself for not getting the shop unlocked- smaller than the other man, he was sure he could've used some climbing, some dexterity, to his advantage. Now his back was against the door, and now the only way was forward into a night so dark that it settled solidly onto his eyes and limbs, perching unseen to weaken him. The man- he had ignored Benton's outlet for a name- crept forward, too. Benton walked slowly, lightly. He kept the flail loose, no need to engage- not yet.

Gods, he was fucking tall. Benton's heart pulsed more in his throat as he crept forward, but, no, he wasn't scared of a fight. He loved the thrill of a fight, the instinct that could consume him during one, that could push every drop of chaos out of his mind and into his limbs. It was without the organization, the disappointed pre-planning of war, without the vigilante's disadvantage against the Seventen. No, human to human, Benton could fight and be liberated by the feeling of controlling his own life, even if he was fairly broke by the end. He sized up his competitor. Maybe Benton should have let Grif take another drink, should have walked home with the idiots, if only to give him a little more ensured time with the few he loved, but, no, he was here, and he had a stone flail in one hand, had a knife ready, had a few drinks just starting to creep through his system, and had a few years of fighting on his shoulders.

He'd be fine, eventually. Maybe. He sized up the flail in his left hand, placing all of his prayers into it as he smiled down at his trusted protector. Then, Benton dove low and to his right, slamming his left hand back first to send the heavy end of the spiked flail air borne before bring it back forward to drag through the air, aiming to introduce the weapon to his companion by landing solidly in his right side before diving under his arms to his left. Contact or not, he hoped that his dive was low enough to dodge the man and come back up for air beyond him, hoped he could regain his balance out of the man's reach and come leaping in for another blow, this time, the flail raised over his head.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Tom Cooke
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Fri Jun 28, 2019 11:44 pm

Castle Hill The Rose
Evening on the 8th of Roalis, 2713
You could’ve sliced through the tension in those moments like it was butter. Tom kept on studying the Bastian’s face, almost unblinking; he was trying to gauge how much of this ignorance was play and how much of it was genuine. Didn’t much matter, in the end: whether he didn’t know about Hawke or just didn’t give a damn, Tom reckoned there’d be plenty enough sap spilt by the end of the night.

So he didn’t budge an inch when Eon stepped lightly off the stoop, though he did roll his shoulders a little, shuffle his feet, loosen his stance. His palm was still resting lightly against the pommel of Ish’s knife, but his hand was ready and restless. Though Tom’s eyes stayed locked on Eon’s, he was watching that nasty piece of work at the kov’s shoulder dangle on its chain, all bristling sharps; he lowered it to his side, then, but it still looked ready, just like his other hand on the knife at his belt. Being honest, Tom was more concerned about the knife. The other thing, far as he could tell, was all show. Couldn’t imagine it’d be too practical in a fight; he reckoned he had as much chance of hurting himself with it as he did anyone else.

At the kov’s coy remark, he stayed silent, but he quirked an eyebrow. A faint smile tugged at his lip. There was silence for that one brief moment – then a scuffle, then a whirl of motion in the dark.

The man was like a weasel, and for once, Tom cursed his size. They moved at the same time. Tom tore the knife from its sheath, surging forward. He’d have sworn he had the little kov pinned against the door, but he was too fast; the Bastian dove to the right even as Tom’s inertia carried him forward. He heard the snap of a taut chain and the whistle of air as the head of the flail sailed just past his right elbow, nicking the fabric of his old coat. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, too, like a shark’s hungry mouth. Everywhere at once.

He thought the Bastian might’ve gotten halfway down the alleyway by now, might’ve satisfied himself just making a run for it – if Tom’d been in his place, that’s what he might’ve done. Then again, Tom liked a good fight, especially when there was whisky in his belly, and evidently, he wasn’t alone. As he twisted around, he saw another blur of motion, the glitter of eyes in the dark. Saw something hurtling through the air, something he tried to follow and couldn’t. Underestimating this Eon’s scrap was his first mistake, but it wasn’t his biggest: his biggest mistake was in underestimating the flail.

Tom didn’t even see it before he felt it, and when he felt it, it was like a bolt of lightning. White-hot, molten pain. He staggered back, hissing between his teeth and clutching at his mouth; blood bubbled out between his fingers. For a moment, everything was a mess: his vision seethed with pain, and he couldn’t make anything out in the dark. One of those laoso spikes had caught him in the face. His mouth was a mess of blood and torn flesh.

There was no keeping track of the thing. That was it. Eon’d been using it long enough to know it, to feel where it was in the air like another limb, to know what inertia’d do with the chain and the weight of the head; to Tom, though, it was a wild thing, a mad bird wheeling about with frenzied wings. He couldn’t keep an eye on it when he had Eon to keep an eye on, and then there was the knife—

Tom let out a roar and barreled forward, knife drawn. He feinted to the left at first, as if to land a blow in his left side, but then threw himself to the right, grabbing for his arm and raising Ishma’s knife – aiming to catch the chain of Eon’s flail.
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sat Aug 24, 2019 3:22 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Benton Borteillo
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: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Fri Jul 19, 2019 10:51 am

8 Vortas 2713
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Benton barely registered the fact that he had landed the flail on his opponent's face until he stumbled back away from the man and felt the thick warmth of someone else's blood drip from the flail onto his hands as he held the weapon above his shoulder. His breath was heavy as it clawed out of his throat and dropped into the air between them. He readied another swing, unrelenting in his onslaught. He couldn't let up, especially not as his perfect opportunity arose.

The other man stood now in some slight form of shock that Benton knew well from various fights: the shock of being kissed by a weapon that looked like it was only for the show of compensating for whatever Benton lacked in. Yet, he was kissed by the spikes, and the tainted iron smell of blood was in Benton's nose and mouth as his opponent's hands moved instinctively to the pain in his torn cheek as crimson ink dripped down his neck and into his teeth and clothes. Benton took half a second to calm his breathing.

He loved this, this moment in the fight where he could turn off the world outside of a ten-foot-radius, this moment where he could forget to think and simply act, a method he already excelled in, and have it actually work to his advantage. There was no time to think here in a fight, or your opponent would get a step ahead, no time to speak less you wanted to take a solid blow to the jaw. No, there was only time to acy, and act he did, wanting to make the other man regret underestimating him.

He rushed forward for another blow before the other could act, but, with a yell, his partner rushed forward, too, knife drawn high. He looked rageful, now, as one may expect, and the blood still oozed from his wound, making his dark eyes all the more intimidating. In the surprise- no, fright- of a huge man barreling at him with a knife above his head, Benton hesitated half a step. As the man dove to Benton's right, Benton dove left, feigning to dodge out of the way too late. Yet, the other was perhaps faster than Benton had expected. He changed direction quickly, catching Benton's dodge in a collision of body to body, knife to chain. In near slow motion, Benton watched in wide-eyed horror as, like a child's game of rings and pegs, the knife raised above the enraged's head collided with the chain of his flail before sliding through a link with a metallic chink on impact. Benton's arm, in the middle of executing another blow to the head, caught in the air, and he was ripped back by the sudden tautness of the chain hooked airborne above his head. He yelped like a pup as the pain and shock rushed through his over-extended shoulder, all inertia suddenly halted on contact as the taller man, for a moment, hooked his fish. He kept his hand on the flail tightly, not wanting it to be ripped away and used against him, but it and his fellow's knife were trapped.

In hand to hand, Benton knew he was had. This man was huge, and his scars only told Benton that he had beaten many, many other men. He was inches away from this man, and he needed to- well, he needed something, some out. He shook the shock of happenstance away. The blood was loud in his nose and on his tongue.

He snaked his hand up the chain of the flail, wrapping his arm in the chain. The likelihood of him getting it free now was low, he thought, as he looked up at the hook. He would either have to meticulously remove it, and sling the chain above his reach to get it off, and he simply didn't have the time to think about all that flail and knife and-

Knife, Benton's mind flashed, and he could feel his own knife cold against his leg. Yet, the knife was on Benton's left, and his left arm was hung above him. Frantically, he grabbed for the belted knife with his right hand.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Jul 20, 2019 6:33 pm

Castle Hill The Rose
Evening on the 8th of Roalis, 2713
This was turning into a hell of a fight. It was panic’d driven Tom to throw himself at Eon, panic and rage at having his lip split open; now, the feeling that rushed up in him was something else entirely. The inside of his head felt full of color, bright against the black night. He was just drunk enough that the world felt warm and vibrant, not yet sloppy, but pleasantly out of focus. There was blood in his veins and he was alive, and that was what mattered. Didn’t matter if he lived past the hour, ’cause a life without this feeling wasn’t worth living.

It’d been a gamble, that move, trying to spear that chain like you’d spear a fish. Tom hadn’t expected it to work. At best, he’d’ve missed and dodged away and figured out something else to do, before that heavy murderer’s pendulum swung back and took his whole godsdamn face with it. At worst – well, hell, that was just it, wasn’t it?

When he felt the tip of his knife slide neatly into the link, he let out a garbled bark of a laugh. Then – chunk came the collision of the knife with the brick wall behind, the blade carving into the mortar, trembling with force. The flail’s head cracked, too, against the wall.

And then Tom was pressing in closer, lip curling back from his bloodied teeth. For a handful of tense seconds, neither of them seemed sure what to do. It was dark, and Tom’s sight pulsed with the blood that rushed in his ears, and all he could see was the glitter of the Bastian’s eyes in the shadows. A few locks of dark hair’d slipped out of Tom’s bun and hung in his face, frazzled, stirred by his heavy breath. The Eon kov’s grip on the handle of his weapon was tight, and Tom’s arm’d started to shake with the effort of keeping it pinned.

He didn’t reckon he’d be able to hold on much longer. The thought sent another surge of adrenaline through him like a jolt of lightning; his heart thudded through his bones. His grip on the knife tightened, white-knuckled. He winced. He hadn’t expected Eon to be this strong; if he’d managed to hook the thing, by some Circle-clocked miracle, he’d expected to be able to wrench it right out of the little kov’s hands.

It wasn’t exactly a disappointment.

“You gettin’ tired, love?” he snarled, leaning even closer. Underneath the thick, heady smell of blood, Eon might’ve caught the faintest whiff of lavender.

Then Tom’s eyes widened. He’d just caught some movement from below, and he saw the Bastian’s hand darting to his belt. “Vrunta,” he hissed under his breath, shifting his weight, but it was too late. Something sharp glittered in the space between them, glittered against the dark. For all he’d underestimated the flail at first, in the past few minutes, Tom’d gone and forgot the knife.

He felt something white-hot in his side, like the knife might’ve found a home –

That was when Tom brought one knee up, and hard.
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Sat Aug 24, 2019 3:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Benton Borteillo
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: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Sat Aug 24, 2019 2:59 pm

8 Vortas 2713
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Benton smiled, his breath heavy through his teeth as time was halted temporarily by the stalemate of flail and knife stuck between the loose bricks. Here was a moment where the fight could be laughable, laughable because of the sheer unbelievable happenstance of his partner's move, laughable at the fact that, if this man had approached him anywhere else, Benton would've tried to pull him into his bed for the night by now. And, laugh Benton did, breathily, the sound of his laugh embroidered with bouncing nerves exhilarated by the fight.

"We've only just started dancing, love. How could I be tired of such a partner already?" Benton said gently, and then all friendliness, feigned or flirty, was once again masked by a spray of the perfume of the fight as Benton reached across himself for the knife on his left, awkwardly bring the blade from its holster on the left to slash right towards the man's side. The angle of the knife and its movement, pointing directly ahead as it moved with latitude, did not allow it to nest in the man's flesh, instead leaving a long gash like lightning in a dark sky- executed in less than a second, but stained on the senses. Contact was a minor victory, a battle in this war. Thus far, Benton had been protected from too much of a beating, his speed and small stature somehow working to quite an advantage. Perhaps it was Benton's undying faith of weaponry that made him forget that his opponent knew much better than Benton how to use his body. It was obvious to Benton, however, when a sudden nausea, a sudden pain, seized the lower part of his abdomen. His stomach felt like it was swelling, filled with hot air and about to take flight out of the tight space of his digestive cavity, but not before heating every other organ like an iron. It felt like a deep bruise between his legs- an ugly one that presented all the colors of bruises from greenish-yellow to grey-purple to spotted black- had been hit with a red hot poker repeatedly. He was able to keep his balance, barely, as his body seized and he relied on his suspended flail to hold him up. He felt his grip loosen on his weapons, but he was in too much pain to put anymore energy into them as he bent over himself, ready to puke and groan and blink away a deluge of tears, but certainly not ready to fight.

"Fucking cheap," he groaned, trying his best to sift through pain to get back into the situation. He needed his flail back in his control, and it was hard to do much more than collapse into a sad ball of the misery of manhood on the chilled ground of Old Rose. So, rather than think, Benton did just that. He tightened his grip on the flail, and, pulling the ground up to meet him, Benton fell to the ground, unsure of what he was truly trying to achieve besides getting the flail back to himself.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Aug 25, 2019 3:50 pm

Castle Hill The Rose
Evening on the 8th of Roalis, 2713
Always worked. Well, almost always, with the obvious exceptions.

Despite the sudden, chilly line of contact at his middle – he couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think of how deep the Bastian’s barb might’ve bit – he felt a wash of satisfaction. The chain of Eon’s flail went taut as he lost his footing and sank; Tom could see the agony spasm across his face.


Roll
SidekickBOTToday at 3:25 PM
@ Graf: 1d6 = (1) = 1

Still, the sudden weight was too much for Tom’s already-strained wrist. The chain dragged Ish’s knife down, the tip of it hissing against the brick. He tried to hold onto the hilt, but his palm was already slippery with sweat and blood. All the muscles in his hand were cramped. When Eon yanked his flail downward, hama’s knife went down with it, ripped rudely from Tom’s hand with a burning pain.

The weapons clattered against the stones as Eon crumpled.

The motion set Tom off-balance, and he lurched forward, scrabbling at the brick wall. He bit his torn, split lip hard, hissing a string of curses. It was starting to sting laoso, and he could feel another burning snarl of pain at his belly, could feel the chill air against his skin where Eon’s knife had torn his shirt. Trying to keep his breathing under control, he felt it with his free hand, expecting the worse.

Another wave of relief swept through him. He could feel a slick of blood, and he knew the cut was deep, damned deep – but not deep enough. Couldn’t be hurt too bad, if nothing was spilling out of him. He shut his eyes, snorting in a breath through his nose.

When he opened them, the Bastian was still curled up like a pill bug on the street. Tom heard him say something, and it took him a moment to process it. Fucking cheap. It tore a snort from him, unexpected and unbidden. Then a bloody curl of a grin.

“What can I say? I like to treat a kov.” It was barely audible, a husk under his breath. He pushed himself back off the wall.

He staggered a little, trying to get his bearings. He couldn’t think about the knife or the flail; he couldn’t think. He didn’t think the Eon kov was much better off, though: he looked as if he was still trying to get himself through his own pain. It was a funny little breath of a moment, just a pina manna time to think in the wild, thoughtless rush of the fight. Couldn’t let it last too long, Tom thought wryly.

Hocking up bloody spittle, he turned his attention back to Eon. “Ne personal,” he said lightly, raising his heavy brows.

Then he aimed a kick, the hardest kick he could, at one of the Bastian’s legs.

“Who’s your fuckin’ King?” he snarled, taking a breath – then lashing out with another kick. “Ye chen? Who’s the King?”
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Benton Borteillo
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: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Mon Sep 23, 2019 2:02 pm

8 Vortas 2713
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Benton was dizzy with pain, a pain that moved through his body through his very blood, through the oxygen it carried, through his neurons. He wished for some unconsciousness, wished for a kick to his head to knock his vision and feeling into darkness. He wished for curtains to be pulled over his eyes, to end the show, but Benton was still conscious, and, consciously, Benton was scared. He was absolutely scared. The thrill of the fight had been shaken off by the impact with the ground, and now Benton felt what perhaps he should’ve felt the whole time: fear of this giant of a man whose dark eyes bled with death as he glared down at Benton’s sprawled body, his silhouette so small on the cold cobblestones of the night. His right leg was hooked around the stoop, his left draped across, and the rest of him sprawled like a thick liquid thrown out on the street. The cold seeped from the ground up into his body as he lay there, every blow sending his joints colliding into each other. Tears stung his eyes, and, this time, Benton didn’t blink them away, relishing in a feeling other than pain as the quiet tears traced their fingers down his dirty face. For a moment that claim years of space in his memory, all he could do was lay where he had fallen, lay unarmed as he clutched his flail to his chest and struggled to breathe as every blow pushed him farther into the stoop of the building, every blow took his breath away before he could catch the last one. The pain came in waves and, as he tried to breathe, the tide came in and choked him. The man kicked again from so dizzyily above Benton with a halo of dizzy street lights ringing his bloodied head, and this one hurt differently.

The sound of ragged breathing from the two was joined by a crack, a crack that made Benton sick and teary-eyed, and hyper-aware at once. It was a cold pain that shot up his leg, but a hot pain that shot down through his foot from mid shin. His mind was suddenly awake, screaming in pain over every other thought Benton had. He screamed over every call out in the traffic of his head.

Benton no longer needed to win. Benton’s victory would be getting away, would be hobbling home alive tonight. Flight had pushed fight out of the way, and Benton’s breathing squeezed his lungs painfully with fear. He tried to push himself up from his back, tried to simply stand as the sound of the world drowned itself in the thickness of the air. Yet, as he tried to stand, to run away, all he could see was the angle of his right leg, now bent twice to bend around the stoop. He was lightheaded, his body trying to dull his pain with delirium to allow him to run away. Yet, he couldn’t run. He knew he couldn’t run.

Instead, Benton rolled backwards, the pain in his leg cold in his chest as if the blood from all his wounds and bruises had suddenly frozen in his veins. His limp leg followed, bumping into everything possible on the way. He was crying, was nearly sobbing, nearly shutting down as he tried to retreat in perhaps the most humbled way- rolling in the filth of Old Rose Harbor’s streets. Once out of immediate reach, it became crucial to Benton to get up. He struggled to anchor his left leg, then dug the handle of his flail between the bricks of the street to replace his right leg’s strength. He lifted himself slowly, but as fast as he willed his aching body to move. He wobbled on his left leg as he brought his flail up weakly. He would protect his life with what he had, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it.


In hell I'll be in good company.
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