Just Here For A Drink

[Indyrio]

His world tasted of blood marinade, a bitter spice he swallowed sparingly between staggered breath. What viscous liquid he hadn’t ingested formed a murky pool beneath a bended knee and slackened jaw, silver strings of saliva hanging from his bottom lip like loose threads from a broken spider’s web. Even the smell of blood mixed vaporously with his own body odor, Indryio’s clothes lacquered with sweat that seeped down every inch of tanned flesh. He was a pitiful mess, but nothing appeared to be broken; a good sign he wagered given the circumstance. Every attempt to move had been met with his body’s refusal. Where before the rush of adrenaline had been his catalyst, what remained was no more than a lump of wiry flesh supported by a bag of bruised bones. He may as well have been unconscious for all the good he was now, eyesight hampered by one that was swollen to a bloody pulp with the other drenched in salty sweat. Even if he had the faculty of his legs to bear him, he wouldn’t know where to go. A prospect he would have found humor in were he of a more discerning mind. Alvadas was, after all, not a place even the seeing could navigate. A sudden sound of shuffling movement appeared beside him just when his arms were shaking from their final stand against gravity. Initial instincts had him grabbing defensively at the man’s offered sleeve, ineffectual in its purpose other than to make helping him a greater chore. But when he realized a moment later that it was a helping hand serving him, Indyrio’s grip loosened and recognition floated to his creased brows. Muttering a word of gratitude through a thick slough of blood, he found the world dizzying upon his feet, doing his best not to impede on the other’s own. “I… I don’t even… know your name. But I thank you… stranger.” For all the halfblood knew, he could’ve been in the caring arms of Smirk and was being led to a back alley to be beaten to death. But the proportions that carried him didn’t seem to match the larger sum of the brute he’d winded within the first second of contact. Something felt genuine, if not slightly off kilter with this one. Indyrio owed him a debt of gratitude, whomever he was.

[Ronar Bolbek]

The walk home was tedious and the slumped man across Ronar's shoulders did not help a thing. The man had tried to speak but it sounded strained and painful for him. "My name is Ronar. I am a friend. You need not worry now, I will help you." A thought crossed Ronar's mind at this point. This man was all but helpless, and hanging on to his life by little more than the sinews which held him together. Ronar could do anything he wished to this man and he would not be able to fight back. He could tie him up and gradually, bit by bit, he could beat him to his death. He could experiment on him with poisons, something he had always wanted to do. He could even start his own collection of human prisoners, with this man as the first in his collection. "Oh yes, I will help you..." However tempting as these sick little ideas were, something deep in Ronar made him twinge to keep the man alive. He recalled the vigour in which the man had fought, he remembered how viscous he could be in battle. Not even Ronar wanted to take away such a strong life. Besides, if the man was kept alive, he would owe Ronar his life, and being owed that debt would mean more to Ronar than having a mangled body chained to his wall. It took around 30 chimes to find his house, it seemed Alvadas was being good to Ronar today. Taking the key in one hand and balancing the man while they stood still, he put the key in the door and turned the lock. The man swayed in his semi-conscious state and bowled Ronar through the now open front door and onto the floorboards in front of them. The man landed next to Ronar with a thud, seeping blood from his face. It was hard to tell if the man was even breathing due to him being in such a bad state. Everything in the house seemed in order. Ionu seemed to be treating Ronar with especial attention this day. Things had been going too easy for him. Ronar pulled the key from the door and put it back, on its chain, around his neck. He dragged the man in a slightly haphazard manor over to the side of the fire pit, in the centre of the room. He kicked the door shut in the process to keep any prying eyes, or sudden harsh weather from disturbing his work. Poking the embers of the fire pit seemed to liven the flames only slightly. This gave Ronar at least a small amount of light with which to work. He grabbed his bag, which was placed against his table, in the corner of the room. He took from the bag his eating knife and used it to cut up the wool coat he had also taken from the bag. Tossing the bag aside, Ronar took the strips of wool and proceeded to mop the blood steadily dripping out from the man's face. Awkwardly, Ronar pulled the clothes the man was wearing off his upper body to reveal his chest. It was bruised, but was nothing compared to his face. Using two strips of material tied together, Ronar did his best to secure the man's ribs. He could not tell of they had been broken in the fight, but it was safer to put the precaution in place. Ronar stood up, made his way to the corner of the room to the far left of the door. Placing two hands on the foot of the bed and gritting his teeth against the blaring pain in his side, Ronar dragged the bed over to the side of the fire and knelt down to the side of the man. His left hand went under the man's neck and his right under his legs. The pain almost put Ronar on the floor himself, but he knew that the man was in a worse condition and so had to be looked after first. The man looked to have passed out a long time ago, but he was breathing, if in a somewhat erratic manner, as Ronar lay him down on the bed. Ronar relaxed slightly and pulled his chair over to watch the man in his sleep, the hard work was over. He realised though that the rest of the night would be spent tending to the man's wounds. All of this and he had never even been given a name. What the room looks like now