[Open] What happens in the Basin...

... Stays in the Basin. Gale is looking to shake information out of a target.

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 153
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Crosspatch
Contact:

Wed Nov 07, 2018 6:37 am

Image
The Basin | Mid-Night
11 DENTIS 2718
There was something soothing about the crack of knuckles on flesh, the chorus shouting as various masses beat each other. That paired with the cheers and hollers as bodies punched and kicked their way, the faint clink of coin and bets sounding. Off into the night the Basin was alive; buzzing with energy with the noise reaching such levels that it became almost numbing. It was here that the lesser races showed the nature the Galdori desired; that they were little more than thoughtless beasts of violence. Ironic in its own way.

But the violence of the fighting pit was not why Gale Saunders was here. Leaning up against one of the stands overlooking the ring, the smith exhaled a plume of smoke. It drifted, taste resting upon her tongue, the aroma beating back the stench of blood and sweat. The cigarette hung loosely in their lips, shoulders shrugged up into the coat, hands deep into the pockets. The green orbs flickered, moving back and forth between the bodies. A fight had just finished; the body of the defeated being dragged out and the champion of that bout announced. The momentary basking in glory before the bets were taken for the next fight. The gaze lingered briefly, moving from bookies and gamblers down to the watching faces – eager to begin.

Inhaling, smoke filled her lungs breath held for a moment as the eyes searched. He should be here, somewhere. The bruising along her gut ached, muscles tensing in the discomfort. Her teeth ground together, a sharp grunt escaping as the pain eased away. They were going to find that bastard and the people he worked for; and maybe then start getting answers.

Three days prior a brute of a man made entrance into her forge; he claimed to be carrying as task. A demand was a better description, to drop everything that needed to be done to go and play retrieval. He made it no secret on who he worked for, the we became the Gentleman – but no further information could be garnered. Gale refused and the brute showed the consequences of refusal. Bruised ribs and a bloodied nose, the hissing reminder to not take the next job so lightly.

Gale winced. The swelling had mostly gone down at this point, but it was still tender. A thick purple bruise had stretched out from the bridge and into the sockets. At least now every inhale did not feel as if it was being squeezed through, instead it was replaced by snorting through liquid. The smoke blew through her nose, heat stinging and then soothing. She sniffed, grimacing as the eyes finally settled on the target.

Bald man, tattoos along the scalp, a thick layer of stubble. He was currently with two others, drinking some bottled hooch as they watched the fights below. Internally she weighed him up in her mind. He was easily a head taller than her, strong – probably worked in one of the mills in the day. Human too, there was no prickle of a field as he entered her space and pounded her into the ground. The eyes shifted, turning to the bodies around him. There were too many witnesses, too many others in general – she would have to wait until he went off on his own. Which in turn could be any length of time.

The smith puffed, gaze shifting to the fight below. The crowd was shouting once more, the pair within locked in grapples as they struggled. Some commentator was speaking out to the crowd through a cone, voice reverberating around the Basin. The crowd wooed and wowed as one was slammed into one of the fences, the retaliation of strikes exchanged back and forth. Her gaze shifted and returned back to the target, he was still there. That was something. When he went off alone she would have to follow him, and when there was no one about-

-how am I actually going to get him to give me information?

They chewed their lip with thought.

I mean, I’m not that strong. He is a lot bigger than me. I could try and get the jump on him. Catch him off guard. He’s been drinking, doesn’t mean he’s gonna be drunk however. I need a plan.

Dropping the cigarette they snubbed it out on the ground, “Shit.”
Last edited by Gale on Thu Nov 15, 2018 3:00 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 735
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal

User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 61
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Fri Nov 09, 2018 10:02 am

​​11th of Dentis, 2718
​​THE BASIN | MIDNIGHT
​​
Image
​​
​​Corwynn held no love for his Kingdom's capital, it was true, and yet the past few seasons had found him back and forth between Old Rose Harbor and Vienda so often that he was beginning to feel a distinct sense of self-loathing crawl under his tanned, tattooed skin. He'd worn his shirts buttoned so perfectly and his suits too presentable. He'd caprised the fields of too many dignitaries and businessmen all jostling to share their opinion on the clocking riot and the wick problem and the Resistance. He'd hardly collected a single bird in taxes from some on his route because of the destroyed businesses and ruined lives and strangled economies to wade through.

He was miserable in his own selfish, petulant way.

While it wasn't the best way to soothe the restless beast stuck in Vienda for a few more days, he'd settled in to watch a few mindless fights just to see if anyone tonight was worth bribing back to the Harbor with him just so he could pay for them to pound the snot out of that entitled piece of galdor-born magic-less garbage Yulina had begged to keep alive in the Rose Arena instead.

His beer was lukewarm. The crowd was almost as rough as the Dove on the nines. The place was far dirtier than the arena. Eyes followed the blond galdor as he settled alone at a tall table closest to the action, the Bad Brother not bothering to hide his field, aware of his nice clothes and the weighty comfort of his pistol tucked against his ribs.

The rowdy masses could just clock off this evening, as far as he was concerned.

A few knowing glances were exchanged with familiar faces, Corwynn never a stranger in the Dives as Silas' taxman. No one here owed and it was neutral ground anyway, and so the gunman tilted his head and let his crystalline gaze sweep over the fight below with a curl of his thin lips. Nothing special, the two beating each other bloody weren't the headline event despite all the coins being passed about. Too bad.

It was as he looked up that he caught just the hint of blonde hair in the smoky, purposeful darkness of the place, but the bruised young thing was only recognizable because that's just who the older galdor was—never one to forget a face. Far enough away that he wasn't about to make a scene of a greeting but close enough that he wasn't hidden from view, the Bad Brother simply grinned from over the rim of his beer and watched, attentions shifting between the fight and the blonde smith, unsure of her purpose but aware of the niggling feeling she wasn't just hanging around to watch two inept luggers make a mess of themselves.

Interesting. Reaching his five-fingered left hand into his dark, high-collared coat, Corwynn produced from within his silver engraved cigarette case, making a selection while watching the fight below. Bringing the hand-rolled paper to his lips, the sea-worn gunman didn't bother with a match, a quick word of Monite lit the thing, his field shifting like the smoke he inhaled, tightening against his person as he filled his lungs and relaxing again as he exhaled a slow cloud into the already saturated building, the sweeter, spicier scents of expensive Mugrobi blends filling the otherwise cheap, dirty stench of Bastian tobacco that already choked his immediate vicinity.

Tucking everything away, savoring the nostalgic flavors, he let the sounds of pummeled flesh and so much betting fill his senses while his sharp blue gaze moved to follow Gale more pointedly, uncaring as to whether or not he was perhaps a bit obvious in his curious leering. Patient enough, the galdor settled in and waited his opportunity to stick his aquiline nose where it didn't belong, just restless enough to find the prospect of trouble appealing.
word count: 701
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 153
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Crosspatch
Contact:

Fri Nov 16, 2018 7:38 am

Image
The Basin | Mid-Night
11 DENTIS 2718
Gale did not notice the Galdor that lingered among the others, or more correctly in the faint buzzing of the night lights, the thick casted shadows and the addled bodies they were for all intents and purposes invisible. Barely registered upon their mind; he was not the target for the night and therefore of little, current importance. The smith huddled into their coat, wincing at a brief unpleasant chill that travelled on the wind. Their sides complained to that. All of it was stupid, the mind flickering back and forth through the possibilities. What was the best option, if there was any?

Liberator gave a cold press against the base of their spine.

The waiting game was a torturous one. But they were a patient creature, and circumstance demanded it so.

A few patter of droplets caused a hiss, the eyes turning upwards as a few more fell. The overcast sky did little to help, sending the normally brighter heavens into a thick, oppressive darkness. A few more patters, Gale dipped beneath the small overhand of the stands, in among the supports for shelter. The eyes did not move from their target, the brute of a man who was currently heckling the brawlers below. Clearly enthused with the fight, he paid no attention to the complaints of the one beneath when he slopped his drink on them. When the offended rose, itching for a fight it took all but a single firm shove to send them toppling down the stands to the bottom. They disappeared beneath a mass of bodies after that.

Drinking continued for the brute easing back down into his seat and continuing his viewing.

Finding another cigarette, the smith fumbled on the matches and lit the end. A grimace as the bruised features were illuminated in the flame, the burst of heat stinging. Teeth dug in to hold it in place, wincing as they awkwardly inhaled the smoke. A snorting, gurgling noise rumbled from their throat, unpleasant globules gathering at the back. The cigarette was moved away, a hacking spit of mucus and some horrid copper after taste. The bridge of her nose burned uncomfortably, brow tensing as they attempted to resist the urge to frown. Doing so often provided even more discomfort.

Tobacco and nicotine filling their system, the smith watched the scuffle on the stand begin once again. Though this time with more notable violence. A smash of a bottle over the head, the bald tattooed man sent the offended on their way with the chorus of jeering. Others leapt on, beating away the thoroughly doused and cut off into the darkness away into the night. He was clearly not alone, or at least associated a bunch of blood loving hooligans. The smith lurked, staying out the way while they attempted to smoke their cigarette. Through the haze the brute moved, standing as he swaggered down the stands. The latest bout had ended, a few angry shouts breaking out from other onlookers where they had lost their money.

Head tilting, the orbs peered at him through the gap in the stands, they watched him trace around the edge of the ring. He shoved past; looping around the front of the stand Gale was ducked under. The smith moved, slinking beneath the boards above, gingerly treading between the stilts that held it in place. They became more aware then of the squelching mud beneath, the slopped mix from various liquids – they did not want to think too hard on what they were exactly. Onwards, they stole glances through the gaps, checking his position as he came to the end of the stand.

The smith froze in place, body stooped over, the glowing end of their cigarette providing the only illumination. He marched on past the side of the stand, lumbering form missing them entirely. There were less people the way he was going, the whistled tune still inaudible against the background din of voices. Gale squirmed out of the gap, feeling the faint pressure of cold rain dripping into their hair and slowly down the collar of their coat. He continued onwards, towards the back of the stands and out of sight.

Gale pursued. Cautious at first but eager to keep him in sight. It grew darker, eyes fewer, the whistling continued of some old folk song. The particular scent of urine caught Gale first, and peering around the corner showed the swaying shape facing a wall in the attached alleyway. The eyes flickered, noting that no one else was seemingly present. It was the best opportunity currently given, there was no assurance there would be another one. The brute literally had his pants down.

Lungs rebelled as the smith darted across the gap. Shoulder barged into the man, full weight thrown into him in an attempt to throw him off balance. He staggered, briefly, follow cut short while his feet slammed into the ground. Gale swung a fist, a broad one that strained against their torso. It slapped against the flesh of the abdomen, force causing the knuckles to ache. The most received from the tattooed man was an annoyed grunt, “You done?”

Gale was not given a chance to answer. The broad hand came over, firmly grasping them by the front. Dragged off their feet, shoulders were slammed into the wall. Their own hands raised instinctively, attempting to grasp upon the fingers as they squeezed in upon the throat. The burning sensation travelled down, the sides aggravated as feet wildly swung to find purchase on the floor – and did not find it. The tattooed man sighed, idly adjusting himself with the other hand, “Why am I not surprised it’s you?”

The air flow began to grow less, tightening and making it harder to breathe. A painful pressure that continued to grow, a low buzzing beginning to settle in. He sighed, tone clearly annoyed as he continued to press. The other hand pinched onto the jaw, “I’m guessing you didn’t learn from the other day not to cross us and the gent.”

Fingers forcibly turned it to the side. In the meanwhile the lungs began to grow tighter, air supply cut off by the choking. The hand flailed out at him now, struggling to claw at his arm. She saw the frown, the browless scowl studying her with annoyance. He was hardly trying, “See, I got no problem hitting people. Or having people wind up in a gutter with their innards out to the world. Even if they are a lady.” The smith gave an in audible rasp at him, face turning red as the mind panicked. The hot breath in their face as he leaned in close, “Cause shits like you really piss me off, and should get what’s coming to them. And any other time-”

The words drifted away, lips moving but mute to their ears.

“-I would. But our good Gentleman wants you alive.”

Gale’s head hit the ground before they even registered they were tossed aside. Temple slammed against it, pain numbing as they laid there down in the muck. Pressure still clung around, lungs fighting for air as the world turned above them. Blood rushed to the head, dizzying as bearings were lost. The heavy weight of the boot landed on their chest, the tattooed man leaning over, lips moving silently in their vision, “But didn’t say you had to be intact. So, shall we have some fun, girl?”
word count: 1252
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 61
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Tue Nov 27, 2018 3:24 pm

​​11th of Dentis, 2718
​​THE BASIN | MIDNIGHT
​​​​
​​The young blonde gunsmith moved with a purpose that the older galdor gunman clearly didn't have a clocking clue about, though he scanned the faces within the trajectory of the human and let his sharp, blue gaze wander over those he knew and those he didn't. Drops of rain fell into his already lukewarm, cheap beer just as a bald, tattooed bastard spilled his own onto a couple of rowdy ersehats seated a few stands below.

Corwynn studied the hairless brute's markings, his well-aged mind shuffling through memories like they were a deck of cards in the hands of a magician. Old Rose Harbor was perhaps a much more prolific breeding ground for criminals, Hawke never bothering to entirely snuff out the competition so long as they paid their taxes and stabbed each other in the back more often than they tried to pilfer from his monopoly too greedily. Vienda wasn't actually any less rife with crime, but most of it was upper class nonsense that overshadowed the budding crime lords and gangs that hid beneath the well-manicured surface of the Kingdom's beautiful capitol.

He was aware of many of them, not simply because it was the nature of his work for his King but also because he made it the subject of his own idle curiosities, always with one foot in Vienda simply because of his family name, his heritage, and his side work.

His lip curled into a chrove's sneer, nine calloused fingers reaching up to lift the collar of his oiled coat to keep the rain off the freckled tan of his neck's skin after snuffing out his cigarette in one of the rivulets of rain on his tabletop. He knew the face of the tattooed brute but not his name. That niggled at him, dug under his tattooed skin, and annoyed him immensely.

The blond galdor slid from his seat, aware that he'd lost sight of the young Saunders while he was distractedly attempting to place people in their proper organizations. Pausing to glance down at the fight below as it wound down, himself having refrained from wasting his money on such shitty combatants. The crowd could have made someone believe the bloodied bodies below had fought well, given the volume of their jeers and the coin exchanged, but Corwynn knew better than to waste his money on such trash so far from the Harbor.

The tattooed man lumbered away from his seat with all the grace of an intoxicated kenser, and the Bad Brother recognized the direction of his wandering even if he could no longer make out where the young smith had disappeared to. Perhaps they'd simply passed each other, but his curiosity was far too insatiable to ignore coincidences so easily.

Smoothing over the buttons of his oiled coat and comforting himself with the sensation of metal pressed against his ribs, he took his time trailing the bald brute because he had very little interest in following him toward some dark corner just to watch him take a piss.

Only it clearly took him longer than it should.

A few in the crowd leaned away from him as he picked his way through it, bending like grass in the wind against the weight of his obvious galdor field. His fingers were rolling up his sleeves even as a few more drops of rain began to fall steadily, and he arrived in the stench of the narrow alley to a scene and commentary he wasn't entirely expecting and yet also not surprised by.

Crystalline gaze flicked to the familiar young face, bruised and flushed by the struggle, pressed down into questionable muck by the boot of her tattooed target. Obviously, whatever Gale had planned had not gone in her favor. Corwynn felt no pressing obligation to necessarily step in on the poor human's behalf out of pity or sorrow over the threat of malicious self harm the bald man hissed so deliciously at her crumpled form, but he did feel a particular sense of duty to keep in circulation her unusually advanced form of craftsmanship, an elevated art form that the ersehole currently crushing her chest obviously had no concept of beyond the ink permanently left beneath his skin.

And his tattoos were rather shitty, had the blond galdor been pressed to assess them. He didn't want to be pressed to get that close.

Too late, though.

He'd probably be getting a closer look now.

This was an unusual place for one of his kind to be and he knew it, though the Bad Brother wasn't sure what place there was for him in normal society except when he pretended to be a proper galdor as it was. Then again, he didn't have a problem with throwing his privilege around when it suited him, and if he couldn't shoot the stray dog in the alley here in Vienda like he could back home in the Harbor, then he would make do.

The old pilot flew airships and shot guns, but he was still a galdor and his relationship with the mona wasn't a poor one despite his lifetime lack of good studying habits. He didn't bother to interrupt the beating as it unfolded, instead choosing to gather his field like a fisherman tugging in his net from the sea, the physical mona that called his aura their comfort zone heavy and willing. Blue eyes watched the breaking of skin and heard the sounds of suffering as if he was still watching the disappointing fight in the pit of the Basin behind him, calloused and distant from whatever the conflict between the pair of humans may have been.

But his Monite was a clear, deep voice, spoken with the authority of someone who soared above the dirt and grime that squelched against his expensive boots, dragging the oxygen itself from the tattooed man's lungs as if he was deflating an airship's fine control baloons, the air leaving his lips in a steady hiss even as the bald creature's face melted into an expression of panic and his wild eyes turned on the short, blond Brother who finally deigned it his moment to approach.

Corwynn held the man's breath his captive with his concentration, a hand raised and his four fingers splayed while he began to form a fist as if counting down to something, one finger at a time beginning with his thumb, skipping the puckered scar where his index finger had once been, and moving with agonizing slowness toward his pinky,

"If this is your idea of fun, you should be in the next round instead of whatever clocking sorry-ersed things are waiting in the cages." He growled, glancing toward Gale, "Let the girl go and I might let you inhale."

He waggled his pinky, clearly waiting for either compliance or a reason to suffocate the tattooed man completely, aware of the risk he took in the larger human's presence by stepping closer still, even if he didn't offer a hand to the young smith to at all assist her just yet, not interest in opening himself to the opportunity for either of them to retaliate. His whole hand moved toward his coat, fingers itching to reach inside,

"I can assure you the Gentleman isn't a fan of damaged goods, but that's perhaps just old me speaking with experience—"

The other man made a motion as if he was indeed obeying the galdor's request, easing up on Gale and beginning to raise his hands. It was with the look in his eyes that Corwynn saw a reflection of his mistake, suddenly aware that he'd let himself move too close in his confidence. He had but a moment to curl his fingers into a fist and yank what was left of the tattooed man's breath from his lungs with painful force and a few quipped phrases of monte, literally leaving a burning heat inside the man's chest as he charred the alveoli. The tattooed man exhaled smoke with a growl of surprised and angry hurt before bowling into the small-statured gunman and smashing him against the alley wall, coughing and sputtering but not yet entirely disabled.
word count: 1426
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 153
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Crosspatch
Contact:

Thu Dec 06, 2018 9:15 am

Image
The Basin | Mid-Night
11 DENTIS 2718
This, Gale, was not your finest idea. Perhaps next time you bring a friend, aye?

Bones creaked, fingers shifting to pry against the weight of the boot. A ringing noise took over, the sounds gradually returning. The damp of the mud stuck in place, a squelch of noise that sunk into the fabric of their coat. The cold of Liberator pressed against the base of their spine, stuck in place as they tried to wriggle free. A different slow suffocation, Gale snarled as the long arms swung down. The first slapped at the hands that tried to gain leverage, the other grasped them firmly by the collar. Awkwardly stretched, the brute leaned over, meaty hand squeezing the jaw before violently shaking the head side to side. Tongue lolling, they raised their arms across their face as the punch came down. Followed by another, then another, then-

There was not a fourth.

Peeling the arms back, Gale peered through the crack. The red turning skin, arms shook as the aches juddered across the forearms and into the joints. He was choking, attention turning to something behind him – what however was blocked behind the majority of his form. Blinking, they heard the voice of another purr out in the low light of the alleyway. The tattooed man released his hold, hands rising above his head.

Seventen? Ally? Or…?

Gale did not think too hard, letting the lungs splutter and deeply inhale the much needed air. Yet as incident began to change and twist, did the tattooed man’s ere move to a different target. Whoever it was quickly found themselves against the wall, no doubt spluttering as the hands of the tattooed man tried to find the neck. Slowly squeeze, stun and deprive of air. It would have been logical at this point to crawl away, slip off and disappear into the night.

“Oi, fuck face,” The smith spat as they dragged themselves upright; fingers dug into the dirt, form paused as they wrestled with what to do. Smoke, the faint scent of burning - the crashing against the alley wall. To their feet, the smith closed the gap. A full lunge, the arms clinging onto the tattooed man. Nails scratched, feet off the ground as they were swung back and forth. The climb began; every grunt as the hand came swinging back. Attempting to pry them off but failing to get purchase, “You forgettin’ to be payin' attention?”

“You bitch!” he wheezed when Gale’s teeth furiously gnashed out at the offending hand. Legs around his chest, the smith managed to wrap an arm around his neck. He threw himself back, a crunch of noise as the pair slammed into the opposite wall. Grunting, the smith held tightly on – refusing to give while the brute struggled. Fingers pulled, shoulders pressing back against the wall to gain leverage. Teeth bit him again, this time reaching around into the exposed side of his neck. He hunched over then, hand finding purchase on the back of her coat.

Eyes peered up, catching the shape of Corwynn. There was a brief quizzical look to him, before the lips peeled back into a wolfish grin, “How ye doin’ old man?”

Gale did not wait on an answer. Fist coiled, they struck against the temple of the tattooed man, their voice shouting in his ear, “Thought we were supposed to be havin’ fun ye dick!”
word count: 574
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
User avatar
Corwynn
Posts: 61
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Tue Dec 11, 2018 2:02 pm

​​11th of Dentis, 2718
​​THE BASIN | MIDNIGHT
​​​​
​​The tattooed human was far more motivated to retaliate than the Bad Brother had at all anticipated, the blond gunman having confidently and foolishly slipped in too close to a creature he'd just pissed off and injured. When the larger man leapt at him, still spewing smoke from his charred lungs and gasping for breath, Corwynn simply let him, relaxing into the hard shove with a pained grunt as the stronger man attempted to crush him against brick and stone.

He smiled, the amused expression creasing its way into his sea-worn, well-aged features and flashing back at the much larger man with the perfect whiteness only a galdor could possess. He took the meaty fists with the kind of experience his age implied, but when the human's hands moved to his throat, well, that was definitely crossing a line. His whole hand fumbled in his coat, reaching not for his firearm but for the knife he also hid there while his less whole, four-fingered hand curled in helpless frustration into the muscular, inked wrist of the brute that held his shorter, lighter form pinned against the wall.

Crystalline blue eyes widening even as his fingers found what they were looking for, Corwynn gasped for air and attempted to get a good grip on his blade, twisting and scrambling for his feet to find some purchase on the ground or against the wall. Suddenly, just as he closed his fist around the small hilt of the thing, the bloodied, dirty blonde face of the young smith appeared over their tattooed friend's shoulder and had the older galdor been capable of inhaling again, let alone laughing, he would have.

As it was, he was too busy counting down the moments before he ran out of the breath in his lungs, slowly drawing his knife while Gale had the inventive audacity to sink her teeth into the disgusting brute, suddenly released so that the larger human could deal with the offending youth by slamming them backwards.

Taking a deep breath once freed from the grip of suffocation, the Bad Brother coughed and wheezed, blade a flash in the dark, rain drops sliding down the polished metal of the knife he held in a reversed hold, finding his footing again before he leapt forward,

"Same shit, different city. I suppose I should clocking enjoy the change of scenery, though.." He responded with a smirk, such an eerily calm expression despite a brief near-death experience and the pressing matter of melee. Corwynn was, honestly, just in his element and clearly had no complaints.

The blonde smith was pounding knuckles into the tattooed human's skull, distracting the man as he reached up and curled his thick fingers into the Gale's clothing, gripping them from behind as if he was preparing to toss them up over his head and onto the ground. As his arms lifted, the older galdor saw his moment, quickly landing deep, back-handed slash across the larger man's gut before twisting and shoving the blade all the way to the hilt into one of his thighs.

Not sure if he should be killing the beast or just assisting in disabling him, the blond gunman aimed to bring him down to the ground as swiftly as possible instead, turning his body to step out of the way instead of being crushed under his superior muscle mass, already reaching for another sharp object hidden on his person,

"Having fun, is it? You want to have your way with him, then? Go on." Corwynn was already gathering his field again, willing to assist the blonde human in finding the upper hand for whatever reason they may have wanted.
word count: 653
Post Reply Previous topicNext topic
  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest