Being partially unconscious with several cuts, bruises, and a dislocated jaw was an interesting phenomenon. While your brain was attempting to shut down, rest and recuperate, waves and waves of pain shuddered through your body, reminding you that you were alive and in danger. Needless to say, it was not a pleasant experience.
"She's mine!" The voice crashed through his head, its echoes of rage kindling a little more of Rorick's cognitive process. Flashes of what occurred blinked into his mind, his unconscious trying to decipher why he was on the floor, teetering on the edge of an unfortunate end to his young life.
Violence, there was definitely violence, and blood, most of it Rorick's. A tattooed man, cruel eyes and a rough demeanor. Another man, Garin, who fought like a viper, and had the snake's grin as well.
"I was fighting, losing. And I got hit, hard." But that wasn't it, not all of it. There was something else, a voice, like a ghost in his head, calling, pleading.
"Amora..." He whispered, inaudible muttering due to his lax jaw. Eyes shot open, wide with fear, Rorick set to assess the situation. Garin was gone, upstairs with an unconscious figure, poor thing. The loud man, with his vile tattoo, motioned threateningly at Amora, her lithe frame shaking visibly. Rorick shifted his feet, ever-so-slightly, and met a solid object.
"My sword," he hoped. Looking up, Rorick saw his adversary's attention was still on Amora, a threatening figure angled at his long-time friend. He would have to move fast, a feat nigh impossible for him, still recovering from his near unconscious state. It would be simpler, smarter, to lie still, to wait it out and move later, nurse his wounds and live to fight another day. Luckily, Rorick had a tendency to ignore the smart choice, always in favor of the right choice.
In a flash, Rorick was standing with sword in hand, his feet having trouble finding steady ground. His gave sweeping the tavern in a wild frenzy, Rorick searched for an advantage, a chance to win. He found it.
Alcohol has many uses, ranging from sterilization of wounds to inebriation. Another intriguing aspect of the glorious liquid was its propensity to flare up when presented the suitable catalyst. Like fire.
Or a bar candle.
Time seemed to drag in Rorick's mad dash for the candle and drink, the tattooed man finally noticing the doctor's sudden reappearance. Whole seconds ticked by, seeming like hours in their length. And then, it happened. The drink spilled, the candle fell, and a column of fire began to rise, slowly, but enough to merit attention.
And then he ran, leaving the tattooed man to deal with the emerging flame.
"Amora! Come on!" Rorick shouted, his words lost in his slurred speech but their meaning clear. Grabbing his friend, perhaps a bit to roughly, Rorick rushed out of the increasingly burning building. And he kept running, and running, and running until his lungs burned and exhaustion made his limbs weary.
Finding a dark corner, for they were in abundance in Sunberth, Rorick sat down on the rough ground, catching his breath. Grimacing for what was about to come, Rorick set his hands on his jaw, steeling himself once again.
His jaw came back into place with an unsettling pop, and the scream that followed was neither masculine nor dignified.
With a cough, Rorick let his tired limbs drop to the ground. His smile, though ragged and painful, was wide with relief.
"Ghost, we've got to stop meeting like this."
OOCI just wanted to say to everyone that participated in this thread, I'm extremely sorry for disappearing unannounced like I had. With school starting up again, I found myself with less and less time to check up on the threads I was in And in case anyone was wondering, Ghost is Rorick's personal nickname for Amora. |