Roalis 51, 2716
The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
Ensign Harold Potiphar, dearest small-statured, good-natured, well-meaning, clumsy as a kenser Pots, was not at all expecting anyone to throw anything at him, let alone a ladle straight into his bespectacled face.
"Tocks—" He squeaked, thankfully finished speaking his very polite Monite, but losing his concentration and brining both hands to his face with a whimper of pain that raised in volume until it became a high-pitched but very official-sounding tone of voice, "That's assaulting an officer, spoke!"
"By the Lady, it sure is. Tsk. What a shame. Even foreign spokes can't respect our uniform when we're trying to keep the peace, Ensign." Sergeant Valentin smirked, though his expression was forced because he wanted to hide the chagrin of his Ensign accidentally catching a bystander in his spell. Maybe the dark-skinned witch was innocent, but then again, with a clocking throw like that, maybe she wasn't. His baton now at the ready, he used it to point at the four suffering creatures who were swatting, rubbing, and clawing at their faces, though the spell was quickly fading with Pots' injury and distraction, directing them back toward the shade of the dilapidated building in order for them to press themselves against it, "All of you sorry lot against the wall, stand apart, and everyones' hands where I can clocking see them."
Pots groaned, a large bump and bruise marring his face above his eye, making him squint and forcing him to remove his spectacles, which were, thank the Circle, not shattered. He picked up the ladle and shook it at the Mug who'd chucked it at him, "I'll keep this for evidence, missy."
Rhys tried not to roll his eyes, aware that the younger, dark-haired Seventen didn't at all seem interested in growing up some days. Or perhaps the tall blond just took his rank and title too clocking seriously when there were godsbedamned riots to worry about. He couldn't say, but he assumed it was an appropriate mixture of both,
"Knock it off, Pots."
"Now," The Sergeant hissed through his teeth, pointing first at the older, round man who'd been wielding the dress like a weapon, "Name and tribal affiliation?"
"Junta. Beren's m' name an' I gots m' writ right here, officer. I ent a spoke, I'm jus'—" He was fumbling in his patchwork vest, dark eyes on Rhys who was admittedly very tall for an Anaxi galdor. He seemed to be reaching in and lingering, either because he couldn't find the paperwork he claimed he had or because he was searching for something he shouldn't have.
Blue eyes narrowed and the young Valentin gathered his field, his words in Monite quick and made quicker still by a sign in the air with two of his fingers, his spell adding a very, very convincing weight to his words that seemed to fill the space between the chubby wick's ears and cease the movement of his hand almost immediately, Rhys' persuasive but gentle use of magic full of an implied command that wasn't meant to be impossible to deny so much as highly recommended, "Stop. Remove your hand from your vest. Let's just settle this calmly, shall we?"
"Yes, sir. Of course, but jus' lemme get my writ here an'—" The dark-haired wick hesitated, caught in the spell but still able to resist. Rhys hadn't really wanted to use full magical force and his spell had been mere suggestion, not forced compliance.
"Gun!" Potiphar squealed at the sight of the butt of a small flintlock, the two wicks next to their dress-wielding opponent immediately panicking and dropping to the ground as he drew the weapon and leveled it at the tall blond's chest.
Firearms were the boon of the Resistance and the bane of galdori society. They were rare and illegal, sure, but all it took was one stop clocker to have one and gollies could be dropped like flies caught in an electricity spell. Abso-clocking-lutely terrified of them, Rhys knew only a small number of self-defense moves to counter the deadly things, and all of them were meant for close combat. Which meant, of course, that he had to get closer instead of farther away. Godsdamnit. Fucking wicks and their stupid in-fighting. Did they forget they were oppressed? Surely not.
Had the portly older man with his feeble field been further away, he could have opened fire on both himself and his Ensign before either of them breathed another word of Conversation. There was no time to speak more Monite into a spell and no chance of surviving if he'd tried, so the Sergeant simply moved, and quickly, stepping forward instead of to one side, literally straight for the wick and his gun. Panic filled him, the kind of deep and biting fear that crippled most sang in his veins instead, lit up his nerves like the streets of Vienda on Clock's Eve. The portly older man was not at all prepared for a physical retaliation, and as Rhys all but leapt into his personal space, his field hardening into a barrier of determination and anger, he was too slow to turn and fire the pistol into the Seventen's ribs as he'd wanted to.
Instead, a baton was swung upward, smashing into the wick's wrist with the crack of metal against bone and knocking the volatile weapon from his hand while the rotund merchant howled in pain. A follow-up swing brought the same baton crashing downward at a merciless angle toward the side of the man's head, just as the flintlock hit the ground and—thank the whole Circle—didn't fire.
Pots flinched, cringing as if he'd expected it to even as the offending merchant groaned and dropped to his knees, Rhys hesitating to strike him again because out of the corner of his eye, one of the other two wicks was diving for the still live weapon,
"Fuck th' brigk!" She was growling excitedly, the tall blond aware he wasn't fast enough to stop her and his poor Constable just looking up in time to see the movement, madly attempting to intercept.
Last edited by Rhys Valentin
on Thu Jul 26, 2018 11:26 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1094