Wrecking Ball (Noven)

by **Razkar** on March 13th, 2014, 11:40 pm

"Cheva's fuckin' cunt..."

Walden looked up sharply from his card game at his bodyguard's hushed, stunned words... and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the reason for them. The men around the table did the same and the whore busy working on the budding crime lord's crotch shrunk away as... it approached.

It looked human. Vaguely. Under the lashings of blood that had stiffened and hardened to black scabbing across his flesh; under the tattoos and the scars and the blood-smeared cloak... one could imagine it was once a man.

Then you looked in those black, cold eyes, and a Myrian looked back.

The rest of the tavern seemed to shrink away from him as he strode through the throng, but not a pint nor tankard ever left a hand. As he passed, a chorus of muttering grew louder and more distinct; even the scum that would butcher a man just to pass the time were disgusted by the dripping figure that approached their table...

... and stopped before Walden's two watch dogs. The same ones from before, only now they weren't trying to stare him down. They'd laughed when he'd said he'd go alone; scorned him for a fool and actually tried to convince Walden to forget about the savage, fuck him, he isn't coming back.

Now he was, and he help up something bloody, hairy... and with the tips of a pair of horns just visible on the flap of skin that was left.

"It's done." Razkar said, addressing the seated organ grinder, not the blocking monkeys in his path. "I want my gold."

Walden shook himself from the shock and got to his feet, remembering the plan. He picked up an unlit cheroot and stuck it in his mouth, until he heard that growling voice rasp out: "Why not here?"

"We'll, ah... do this outside. Lot of gold, lot of eyes. Better in the alley."

Trap.

The word snapped through his mind like an arrow through the still jungle. The Myrian blinked as he processed Walden's scowling face, senses heightening even as he watched the man, weighing him... and finally nodded.

What have you got to lose? Really?

Some small voice he couldn't quite make out told him he did have something, spurious and uncertain though it might be, but he ignored it. For two nights he'd slaughtered strangers in the Pit; he'd just done the same on the streets, and he was far from done and as of yet, no-one had yet killed him.

Would Walden be the one? His dogs? Some band of thugs outside? Razkar was a warrior; he wanted a death in battle, bested by someone more skilled, more cunning... not a knife in the back from a Sunberth rat... but that mattered less now.

He followed Walden outside, the two watch dogs behind him... at least until he just glanced over his shoulder, and they backed a few steps. Good. At least they were learning some healthy caution.

The alley was an alley like a billion in the multiverse. The requisite startled cat ran away with a yowl as the door clattered open and the cobbles shone like worthless diamonds thanks to the frost and Leth. The two mutts fanned out, checked the ends of the alley... then nodded to Walden, who walked out and stood by a barrel of burning garbage.

Razkar grimaced; Walden didn't. After a lifetime around shit, one learned to live next to it just fine.

"You sure you got the lot?"

"Twenty-three," Razkar replied blankly, hands idly tattooing a beat on the hilt of his gladius as Walden's eyes widened, "Including Cedric."

"Gods... don't bugger about, do you?"

"I wasn't paid to."

The human snorted with a smile and Razkar's hackles went up again. There was a... congeniality to the man he didn't trust. He smiled like a friend and tossed the clinking bag from hand to hand when he got it, voice light and airy... coaxing.

Ah. Of course.

"How would you like... thrice this amount... every season?"

"If I worked for you alone, yes?"

"Why not?" Walden tossed the bag over and Razkar's free hand snatched it out the air without even looking, stowing it away under his cloak... and fastening around his kukri as he did so. It wouldn't be long coming, now. "You butchered a whole gang in one night. By Syna's rise, the entire city will be abuzz with it. Nearly two-dozen, Myrian! What I could accomplish with one such as you in-"

"No."

There was no hesitation in his answer, and Walden's face fell. Razkar had learned to recognize that look: a barbarian who had finally met someone who didn't have a price. Nonetheless-

"Four times." Now the watchdogs turned and glared with indisguised anger, but the Myrian ignored them... and so did Walden. The pudgy racketeer held up his hand, fingers almost trembling. "Five times! That's a thousands mizas, just for-"

"I know what it is, and my answer is the same. I am not for retainer. I am for hire. Being tethered to some human like a bidden dog-" he paused just long enough to flash each of Walden's thugs a look "-is not for me. That is all I will say."

Walden stood there and Razkar watched his face lit by the flickering torches, making it look even more like it was sliding back and forth between outrage and disbelief. The Myrian wondered when it had last been that a man had turned down a thousand-

"Two thousand." Walden choked out, glint behind his eye like a man about to spring. "My brains, your steel, we'll carve out enough to make a fortune, and empire in this town. That's more than-"

"You're a middle-ranker with delusions of grandeur, human." Razkar said, and even the watchdogs' jaws clicked open in shock. Walden looked about ready to faint. "You have the guile and the connections and the muscle to do very well for yourself, especially since the Daggerhands are gone. But your ambition far outstrips your real assets... and if you try to reach it, you will lose. I am done talking about this." He turned to go, leaving the red-faced human behind. "If you need me again, you-"

"Wait?!"

Something... wrong, about that. It didn't reek of the desperation that Razkar had been expecting. Instead, when he turned, he saw a cold calm in Walden's eyes that spoke of...

What is is? What does he know? What does he intend?

Even in his depression Razkar couldn't switch it off. That primal voice he'd heard before a thousand times: the voice that had kept him alive for years in the jungle, then for years again in the barbarian lands. Walden bit off the end of his cheroot with solemn slowness... then carefully lit it from a twig pulled from the fire... taking his time...

He's taking too long. Why?

His body tensed, almost twitched, and his eyes flashed around to see nothing but the deserted alleys and the rooftops above, chimneys steeped in shadows. The door behind him was closed still, and yet... and yet...

Something is coming.

Eyes that had lost all interest in Razkar save for a problem to be solved regarded him through the smoke and his watchdogs closed in at his sides.

"Well..." Walden said, knowing his man would be in position by now and awaiting the signal he was currently smoking. "... too bad for you, then."

Now put a quarrel through this savage bastard and let me get my gold back.

OOCAll credit to Noven for the twist!

by **Noven** on March 14th, 2014, 10:25 pm

oocno way dude, the credit is shared

He ran, he ducked, he crept, he dodged. To the rest of Sunberth, Noven looked to be yet another slum-bred loon with more than a few loose screws rolling around in his head, likely chasing phantoms in a fit of hunger-induced hysteria. Or perhaps running from the blood soaked scene of stiffening bodies at King Cobra's former headquarters.

Didn't matter. It was all the same to them. They'd seen worse this past Winter.

Well...on second thought, maybe not worse than the gruesome display of mass human butchery down the block. Better wake up the kids, Marion! Time impress upon them the reality of what awaits disobedient children: a cannibalistic, axe wielding Myrian itching to peel your scalp like a ripe orange and sport it on his back as a fashion accessory.

Noven shook his head as he abandoned his temporary cover behind a flaming barrel and struggled to keep up with his target's pace. The carnage back at Cedric's was no sight for a child to see, but what could anyone do? Those who weren't fortunate--or unfortunate, depending on one's perspective--enough to have parents eager to show them the dangers of being a gang member were forced to even grislier degrees of trauma. Street urchins no older than nine or ten were scrambling with the rest to snag a good piece of loot. And more than a few of their malnourished bodies would be numbered amongst the dead to be burned that night.

Once they were well past signs of activity, the cook was forced to slow. There was less bustle and noise to cover his movements, and he could tell by the way strangers stared and tracked him with beady eyes that they had entered another gang's territory. Nov was fortunate that the night was no longer as cold as it once was during Lady Winter's reign, but he still raised eyebrows from those he passed and felt his muscles twitch under the occasional breeze.

Before he could think of some way to remedy his little problem, however, the Myrian ducked into a building, sparing the thugs outside guarding the door not a single glance of acknowledgment. Nov cursed. How would he follow now? Assuming he'd even be allowed to enter, he'd blow his cover as soon as he set foot within the tavern.

Looking around, he scanned the structures nearby. Maybe he could get to the roofs and eavesdrop through an open window.

Shit. That sounds stupid, even to me, the cook was forced to admit. He'd tried it once and the results had been utterly humiliating. But what other choice did he have? The longer he stayed out here the more likely he was going to end up with his throat cut. Better move and think along the way than stay put.

Nov stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and strode down the street, making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone and everyone. A quick circuit around the building the Myrian had entered helped him form something resembling a plan. There was a stack of crates there, and an overhanging from a roof over here. If he could climb up and maneuver himself close enough to a window, perhaps he could salvage his hare brained attempt at spying yet.

Rounding a corner as though intending to relieve himself, Nov vanished behind the stack of crates. Then he emerged again somewhere near the top and scaled the wooden boxes as quietly as he could manage. The roof was still a bit over his head, but no matter. The cook turned spy braced himself before he leaped up and threw out his arms, dangling from the edge and stifling a wince of pain as his bare chest hit solid wood.

With a faint grunt of effort, he hauled himself onto the roof, one inch at a time. Once that was accomplished he moved about in a low crouch, careful not to make himself visible to the thugs below. Nov paused to rest by a shoddily constructed chimney stack. He needed a moment to think, and to catch his breath. "Just a little more," he whispered to himself. There was a window with figures passing by it not far below, A few more feet to cover and he should be in business...

Noise poured out onto the street as a door burst open. Nov nearly lost his footing at the unexpected commotion, but he caught himself just in time.

One, two, three, four...Four figures, he counted, shrouded in partial darkness and headed down an alley all the way to his right. He resumed his creeping steps and followed the voices.

"You sure you got the lot?"
"Twenty-three, including Cedric."

The young man's eyes widened in recognition at the second voice.

Myrian.

He followed their conversation with ease from his vantage point. More flippant words, then the clink of coin. So, the foreigner was hired for the job. A fellow merc. Small surprise there, though he hadn't struck Noven as the greedy type. And, boy, could such an impression not have been more apt.

His jaw dropped when the mobster offered more and more mizas, culminating to the mythic proportions of two thousand gold. And it dropped further when the Myrian once again refused. Two grand was more than anything Nov had ever dreamed of. What could be driving this nut to be refusing a lifetime's worth of luxury and ease?

The cook more or less got his answer in the words that followed. Krysus petch me sideways. The man had balls of stone, Nov had to give him that. He could practically taste the tension in the air now, fueled to mountainous proportions by the Myrian's disdainful explanation.

It seemed the meeting had come to an end. Blood encrusted savage was turning to leave, mobster boss dangling at the very end of his rope.

"Wait?!"

No...something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Unease crept along the young man's spine as he continued looking down. The mobster was stalling his rejector, a look of deadly calm gleaming in his eyes as he lit the cheroot betwixt his fingers. Then he took a generous huff and blew out a stream of expansive smoke. As it curled up into the night air, effectively clouding most of the Myrian's vision, Nov caught it. A flicker of a glance to a vantage point on his right.

The cook swiveled his head in the same direction. What he saw made him forget how to breathe for a tick. All this time, and he hadn't noticed.

Lying belly down, not ten feet from the novice spy, was a lean looking, humanoid shape, half-invisible in the darkness and sporting what appeared to be a large crossbow in his hands.

And a bolt pointing straight at the Myrian.

Nov didn't have time to think. He just did. "Hey!" he shouted, just as the man readied himself to fire. In a violent jerk of shock, the crossbow was sprung into action and the quarrel planted itself firmly into the adjacent wall.

The assassin snarled and scrambled to his feet when he noticed the other rooftop dweller speeding towards him. But, by then it was too late. Nov didn't bother with courtesies of a fair fight when he aimed a fierce kick at the crossbow and went straight for a wide eyed, slack jawed face. The little cretin was fast, though, and under the cover of darkness managed to evade Nov's punch and roll out from under him.

Seething in annoyance, the cook grabbed at what he guessed to be the man's leg. He was right. Sort of. His fingers caught the edge of a boot and sent his unwilling opponent crashing back down to the roof. In the process of fumbling for more purchase, Nov felt his hand brush over the distinct shape of a broken quarrel. Without hesitance, he snatched it up in his hand and speared the pointy end through the squirming assassin's left calf.

And when he did, he flared his curse from Krysus.

The howls and sobs of agony that followed were deafening, but Nov was thankful enough that the rat had stopped trying to escape. He picked up the crossbow beside writhing limbs, inspected it as best he could in the dim light, and gave up before tossing it down the other side of the building.

Then he leaned over the edge of the roof, hoping none too worriedly to find his ticket to truth still alive and kicking.

by **Razkar** on March 15th, 2014, 12:22 am

A hidden crossbowman. Fucking figures.

Afterwards, Razkar would grudgingly decide that he could appreciate Walden's strategy. The mobster had seen him in action: he knew few in the city could match "The Scalper" blade-against-blade, and those that could were beyond his resources. Even overwhelming him with numbers would be dicey: first of all, how would you disguise them enough, and secondly, would they even be enough?

But a single man, well-hidden and with a good aim, firing from the shadows at an unarmored target? Yes... that would work. Utterly bereft of honor and decency as it was, Razkar could understand. "Not how but how fast" was what they'd trained them to live and fight and kill by in the Taloba Army. Fair fighting was alien to the Children of Myri, when fighting the barbarian races, anyway.

If it worked, it would have worked well.

Yes. "If".

But when that oddly-familiar voice rang out and the quarrel thudded into the wall a few feet from Razkar's head-

-all eyes turning to it in shock, Walden most of all, jerking his head up despite his rodent instincts telling him not to look away from the fucking mark, trying to spy the scuffling above them.

Not his attack dogs, though. They knew where the danger was; so did Razkar-

-and he was already moving with all the fury his gnosis could afford him.

His kukri flashed perpendicular away from him, appearing like a glinting blur from under his cloak, slashing at about throat height towards the mook on Walden's left, hand darting for his weapon-

-then screeching as his face was carved open, ugly and unshaven mud made positively hideous by the sucking, blood weeping maw replacing a nose, an eye, his chin, falling back and covering his face as if in shame.

Not your finest cut, but... still learning.

Before the kukri had even stopped in the backhanded blow, Razkar lurched forward, throwing his leg up like he was trying to kick a ball over a house-

-right between Walden's legs-

-and the still-stunned mobster went down with a stunned gasp and then his face frozen in silent, shaking agony.

"Petching-"

That was the last man's epitaph. He didn't waste time going for his weapon, just lunged at Razkar, foot lashing out in a carbon copy of the Myrian's own kick-

-only to hit nothing as Razkar twisted to his side, removing the target, left hand lashing out, fingers and thumb held together like a U-shaped claw-

-his thumb aimed straight at the charging man's eye.

Few people realize how easy it is to burst an eyeball. In most forms of fiction, they're pressed or squeezed or poked and while the result is lots of pain, there's never anything more than that. No retinal disconnection or trauma. No scarred cornea or trauma. Just enough pain to get the point across... but Razkar wasn't about pain, despite the rumors.

He was about winning the fight, and he knew exactly how much pressure to apply-

-to bury his thumb into the human's eye up to his last knuckle, and feel that deliciously familiar pop under his nail.

The bodyguard screamed and flailed but Razkar held grimly on with the rest of the hand, fingers splayed about the man's temple, thumb deep in his eye socket, all thoughts of flight vanishing from the man's pain-maddened mind-

-until Razkar's kukri delivered him, thrusting upward under his chin-

-spearing into his mouth-

-and then his brain.

He coughed one, then fell back, Razkar barely managing to get his hand and blade out in time before he was pulled down with it. Walden retched on the ground at his feet, but there was nothing left that time-

-Razkar kicked him around the face, hard, just to keep him there, stepping over his traitorous employer to the staggering, blinded, bleeding figure at the wall.

"Hey?"

The first bodyguard turned, flinching-

-silver flashed again, a short distance, a defenseless target-

-and Razkar stepped and looked away from the arterial spray that filled the air like a fountain shot through a sieve. The bodyguard clutched at his throat now, mutilated face forgotten, falling to his knees... falling into somewhere else after...

A screech like a demon being tortured split the sky and Razkar looked up in horror. The crossbowman was apparently not having a good day... or maybe it was someone else? Either way...

"What the fuck is he doing up there?"

"Uh cahn... mek thus... bedduh..."

Razkar didn't so much as look down as he... examined. Like one would something unpleasant on your shoes. Walden ignored the look, smirking through bloody teeth and a broken nose and balls that would never peek from his pelvis again.

"Gold... I cahn... give you..."

Razkar shook his head as a teach would at a pupil that just won't learn, and unsheathed his gladius. Walden was plotting to the very end, promises tumbling from his lips until Razkar raised high his weapon, then screamed pleas to anyone there, anyone, who could finish this job and be rewarded-

-by a man with a gladius through his face.

Razkar felt the corpse twitch once and then pulled his blade free with a wet, grinding sound, metal scraping on wood. He shook his head again and sighed, as if he regretted what he'd done... when in fact he just lamented yet again the stupidity of the barbarians.

They'd even fuck up a murder in Sunberth. Isn't there one like that about piss-ups and breweries?

But one question was unanswered: the crossbowman had been distracted; attacked, even, and perhaps killed. Who did he have to thank? And where did he know that voice from. The Myrian peered upward and squinted, silently thanking the person that-

-was looking over the parapet-

"Oh, are you fucking joking?!"

Bodies at his feet, blood on his blades and brain matter coating one thumb, Razkar slapped a hand over his eyes in frustration. Of all fucking people to have to owe his lit to...

His glare struck the nervous-looking boy and he gestured down to the end of the alley. Once Noven met him down there, Razkar would appear, arms crossed against his chest, disapproval radiating off him and carefully masking... the necessity of Noven's actions. And their repercussions.

"You saved me." He said simply, black eyes daring the... whatever he was, to make a big deal of out of. "So what you ask, I will answer. Now, however, I'm exhausted, so we're going home. Both of us."

by **Noven** on March 17th, 2014, 5:53 pm

Nov wasn't entirely sure what he had expected from the Myrian in the aftermath of attempted assassination and timely heroics, but the gore encrusted and disapproving visage he was met with as he peered over the edge was...not surprising, all things considered.

"Oh, are you fucking joking?!"

A grin split the cook's face, only to be replaced by nervous caution as a soft sob broke out behind him. If the bowman decided to come at him, Nov would have no choice but to put the scrawny fellow down for good. He didn't relish the idea, anymore than he did each time he was forced to flare his mark. The hired marksman wasn't a Daggerhand--Nov had made sure of it--and, for some reason, killing him held much less enticement without the wrath of vengeance fueling it.

Judging from the Myrian's fierce glare, though, it would have to be be fast, whichever course of action he chose in the end. With a huff, Nov nodded at the signal toward the end of the ally and turned to take one last look at the petcher he'd vexed.

It was dark, fortunately for both of them. That meant the bowman had no way of recognizing his mystery assailant in the future. And, it also meant if the little bugger put up a fuss in his pain-induced stupor, Nov could end things with one less face to hang around his revisiting nightmares.

A nudge of his foot against the man's bony side, however, made it clear enough the bowman was no longer a threat. He was so weakened by and freshly wary of his cursed agony that even if he had the strength to try something at the last tick, he wouldn't dare risk a second touch. Well, Nov decided, it was high time for some recompense then. He bent to yank off the tunic from the unlucky sod and pulled it over his own, considerably more dense frame. It was a bit tight around the shoulders, but it would have to do.

With that settled, Nov padded across the roof to where the pile of crates had been and lowered himself down. He did so quietly, careful not to kick the edges of the walls or knock over one of the crates, mindful of his recent bruises and scratches. It was good that he'd found the shirt; it provided decent protection against rougher edges, and it would deter at least half of Jillene's inevitable scrutiny. He wasn't quite up for playing One Hundred Questions with the Isur once they returned to Sunset.

Granted, walking in with the Myrian would provoke questions enough. But the proprietress would have enough sense not to raise them until her cook was amongst less threatening company.

A grunt of effort and leap off of the last crate later, Nov rounded the corner and met the Myrian face to face, crossed arms and all. The man looked peeved, but then again who wouldn't after having to kill twenty six mobsters in one night.

"You saved me."

Nov trailed his gaze to the side for a moment, wondering if this was some kind of trick question. "Yeah.." he answered, meeting the Myrian's colorless eyes one more. Slowy. Warily. "I guess I did."

At the man's willingness to provide answers, Nov's heart lurched with anticipation. But, alas, his questions would have to wait. At least for a little. Home was as heavenly a thought as thoughts come right now and he had no objections to the Myrian's directives.

As they began their trek back to Sunset in silence, the young man mulled over all the things he wanted to know. He decided he would leash in his excitement for the morning; both of them sorely needed the rest. Plus, he was pretty sure the death soaked merc beside him would give answers proportional in quality to his mood. And his mood right now was not something Nov even cared to attempt describing.

He would wait. And, come morning, he would have his answers.

by **Zandelia** on April 12th, 2014, 1:19 pm

Noven :

Notes :

Open Wrecking Ball (Noven)