Closed Not My Day

[Roscoe]

72nd of Spring, 514 AV It took Roscoe a moment to realize that his horse had stopped moving. It felt like he’d been on the Kabrin road for an eternity. He had resigned himself to spending the day watching the ground move past and smoking his pipe. It was a soothing combination- watching the ground just keep on moving, his hat tipped down over his eyes to block the suns light, and smoking the tobacco he’d picked up in Syliras. That was probably why everything blurred together the whole trip, and why it had taken him so long to realize he wasn’t moving anymore. As he pulled the pipe out of his mouth, he was left with that strange feeling you get when something sits in there too long, like you’re taking off a piece of you. It had gone out long ago but he found he was still instinctively making small pulls at a regular pace, no matter how hard he tried to stop. He lifted his gaze gradually from the ground and raised the front of his hat, until it was tilted over the back of his head rather than the front. It was a gate. For a moment he was completely taken aback by the existence of anything but grass and road, but as he adjusted to being aware of the world around him again, he slowly pieced it together. The sound of running water was audible at this distance. And he thought he could hear the bustle of a town. “This must be Kenash!” He exclaimed, taking a moment to adjust his jaw and spit that rotten tasting saliva that builds up when you don’t talk for too long. He quickly stretched his arms to get the feeling back in them, packed and lit his pipe, and took a deep pull. Letting the smoke roll ever so slowly out of his mouth, he took a moment to consider what he might find here, when his thoughts were interrupted by a strange blue beetle landing square on his forehead. This caused him to suddenly inhale the pipe smoke and led into a coughing fit. Somewhere in the commotion, his horse decided it was time to keep moving, and together they marched into Kenash. ===================== He had managed to regain of his horse after the coughing passed, which ironically did nothing to perturb him from continuing and taking more pulls on the pipe. At this point he had made it into Kenash proper. As he rode down the the road, he tried to go as slowly as he could to take note of the different storefronts. ‘Rarity Butchers’ ‘Draer’s Bottled Dreams’ ‘Sweet Secrets’ He almost had to chuckle at some of the names on these shops. It’s like they were trying to win a beauty pageant, not sell wares. But apparently that was just the way things worked in Kenash, as he had understood it. Posh people living and acting like posh people. He’d hoped it hadn’t been as bad as people made it out to be- he didn’t like coming into a new town knowing from the outset he was going to have problems with people- but it looked like that was how things were gonna be. Eventually he found himself at the front of a large building called the ‘Traveler’s Complex’. It seemed as good a place as any to hitch his horse, so dismounted and tied him up. He would’ve just walked on inside and gone about his business- and things would probably have turned out very, very differently- but the letter caught his eye, poking out of a saddle bag, taunting him. He remembered when the mysterious young woman gave it to him, telling him it was from his father. He couldn’t bring himself to just throw it away, but he didn’t want to open it either. But as he stared at it now, it itched at him, at his soul. He had to know what it said. “Tyveth guide me as I seek the truth, Wysar help me to abide by it…” He mumbled to himself- a short prayer he had often found brought him comfort in times past. He reached into the bag and pulled out that devilish piece of paper. Taking one last pull on his pipe, he dumped the ashes and stashed it in a saddlebag. Then he set to opening the letter, that he might finally know the truth he had never before been privy to. Roscoe, Is that the name your mother passed on to you? I must apologize as she only reached out to me once after you were born, though she never mentioned anything specific about you within the message she sent. She only told me that you remained in Sunberth, and of course my mind wandered to you on occasion even if I had no proof you were my child. Yet I felt it. I felt the same connection upon seeing you as I do with my son, I somehow knew that you were in fact my child right then and there. I didn't know who you were with but you looked to be in a better place than I could offer, as I myself have had a rough time raising my other boy. How I wished I'd stepped up to you then, offered to bring you home with me to Zeltiva. These eight years I've spent looking for your other family members has been hard, but alas the task I'm leaving behind is even harder. I know I can count on her to deliver this letter to you all the same, as she is a resourceful and resilient woman. But now I've digressed. No doubt you know from reading the words above you now know that this letter is from you're father, but now its time I explain to you just who your father is exactly. My name is Burten Maze, and I've lived my life as a sailor in Zeltiva. That and some pretty bad choices is what led me to meet your mother, which I have to say I'm deeply sorry that you've had to grow up knowing nothing about who you came from. Either way I've done a lot of things I'm not to proud of, and would certainly tread back in time to correct the wrongs I've done. Even so that doesn't mean I can dwell on these regrets, since I know my time is coming soon. I know good and well that I'm bound to die myself, as death is no stranger to me anymore seeing as how I've managed to evade her time and time again. This time though I will welcome her with open arms, knowing that my own son will be a father all on his own. Oh, the two of you would've got along so well. He grew up to be a fisherm…... Roscoe lowered the letter in disbelief. “He was a coward…” He mumbled. He hadn’t even tried to know his own son. He could read the regret in his letter and the- the selfishness. The cowardice. Dodging responsibility for his actions. Changing the subject bringing up his other child. Talking about his mother. “He didn’t even write this because he cared.” He said, no longer mumbling to himself. He tried to keep speaking but the words wouldn’t come. What could he say to express this rage? This anger put to shame anything he had ever felt. He couldn’t think. His vision blurred momentarily. He could hardly breathe. He knew he had to control the situation. He couldn’t be interacting with someone in this state. He might kill them. He wanted to kill everyone in this petching town. He quickly crumpled the letter and stuffed it down a saddle bag, and started walking back down the path. He remembered seeing a store that had Ale in the name. Maybe they could give him what he needed.

[Roscoe]

He walked as quickly as he could but every moment felt like an eternity. He could feel every footstep. Every bead of sweat on his face. Every shift in the wind. There was nothing automatic anymore, he had to breath, had to inhale, had to exhale, had to lift his feet, move his legs forward, drop feet. Every moment was racked with pain and anger and regret. Old wounds opened, new wounds were created. He hadn't felt like this since Andreas died all those years ago. And now it all welled back up. He was pulled back through time with each step, forced to recall it all. He wanted to stop the thinking, numb the pain, make it over this mountain, but there was nothing he could do. Until he had a bottle in his hand, he was at the mercy of his emotions. Of his memories.... =========== 'Ros, why are you crying?' The 6 year old boy was hunkered down on the ground outside the tavern, curled up and crying. He raised his head so that his eyes could meet those of Andreas. 'The other boys... They hurt me.' He struggled to hold back the tears as he spoke. It was clear in the sunlight that he had several scrapes and bruises on his face. 'They took the mizas you gave me...' He spoke the second sentence with regret, turning away from Andreas and staring back at the ground. He prepared himself for a beating, losing money so foolishly like that. Running with that crowd. He was expecting punishment. But it did not come that day. 'Ros, I think it's time you learned something about your old man.' Andreas spoke calmly, even warmly, if only slightly. He dropped down onto the ground and sat next to Roscoe, leaning his back on the wall. 'When I was a young man- hell, even when I wasn't so young- I used to be what they called a mercenary." Answering the curious look on the child's face, he explained further. "That means that I was a warrior, like in the stories I used to tell you. I was paid to kill bad people. Do you know what I mean when I say bad people?' 'You mean people who do bad things like hurt and kill, right?' He responded, his childhood innocence showing through. 'No, Roscoe. Those aren't the things that make a man bad. I'm going to tell you about bad people now, and I want you to remember this. There are people in this world who lie, who cheat, who betray. People who subjugate- that means they enslave- other people to do their work for them. And even people who allow themselves to be enslaved. Do you know what all of these people have in common, Ros?' The young boy pondered for several moments, but failed to make the connection. 'No.' The look on Andreas' face grew stern. His old wrinkles showed as his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed- he was clearly getting angry just talking about this. 'None of them is willing to face reality. The liar denies the truth. The cheater can't win on his own. The traitor lacks the ability to advance properly. Those who enslave are too lazy to do honest work, and those who accept slavery are too lazy to provide for themselves. All of these people have a disease- not in their body, but in their mind. They are weak, Roscoe. And it is up to the strong to cure that disease.' The old man paused for a moment, and simply breathed, calming himself down. 'What you need to hear is this: Days will come like today, when you get hurt, when you get knocked down. But to surrender to that, to let yourself be walked on, is to be weak. Be strong Roscoe. I know you're strong.' ======== He was almost there. The store was finally in sight. He had been walking for perhaps two minutes, but it seemed to him as an eternity. He'd had less exhausting years than the last five minutes. But he was so nearly to the bottle. The elixir that promised him release and relief. A reprieve from the old memories. He could read the sign on the outside of the building. 'Draer's Bottled Dreams'. The words etched themselves into his mind. If they'd give him a drink, he would never think bad of the name again. As he approached the building a group of three men happened to be walking down the path. Laughter echoed from their midst as jokes and stories were traded back and forth. In the commotion they's lost track of what was going on in front of them, and disaster became unavoidable. One of the men walked right into Roscoe, right outside the door to the shop. For Roscoe, everything seemed to stop for a moment. It was as if he had been plugging a leaking dam, barely holding it together, and someone had come along and smashed the thing open with a hammer. And once that blow was struck, there was no going back. No amount of 'sorry's, or 'excuse me's could put it back together. The water would come, and it couldn't be helped. Not by anybody. "Oh, pardon me sir, I didn't see y-" The man wasn't even allowed to finish his sentence before a fist plowed right into his cheek. It was a strong left hook, sending the man stumbling backward onto the ground. His friends were quick to jump in, one man on Ros' right, one man on the left. The man on the left swung wide at Ros' face. He ducked, and returned fire by jabbing his right fist into the mans gut, doubling him over. Doing this cost him the ability to block the man on the right however, had put all his weight and strength into a right hook, coming down onto Ros' forehead, as he was still crouched from ducking. This laid Ros' out onto the ground, where he stayed for a moment to collect his senses. The man approached and delivered a swift kick to Ros' gut, which he endured, and then caught his foot during the next kick. Twisting the mans leg, he pulled him down to the ground and crawled on top of him, delivering a slow but strong punch to the head to keep him down. In those moments he noted that the first and second men had just about collected themselves for a counterattack. He knew he couldn't take both of them at the same time- he had gotten lucky to get the both of them down at all- and tried to think of how he could even the odds. His eyes dashed around the street frantically. All he found were horses and onlookers, many of them quite clearly entertained. Then he knew what he would do. If he could get the fight into Draer's, he would stand a better chance. They'd have furniture, or at least a bottle or two to smash on these fools' heads. So, choosing the man on the left as he was closer to the door, Ros picked himself up and launched into a charging tackle, wrapping his arms around the man while he was still getting re-oriented, lifted him slightly, and rushed them both through the door. 'Well, I finally got here, at least.' Roscoe thought to himself, ever so slightly amused at the circumstance. As they entered, Roscoe looked all around. Shelves of ale, barrels in the back, it looked like. But shelves of ale all over. This would do very nicely. Still holding onto the man, he twisted his body to get momentum and launched him into a shelf of ale bottles, breaking the shelving and destroying most of the bottles. The other man quickly came through the door behind them. Roscoe threw a punch at him, but he was too slow and the man ducked, using the moment to tackle Ros and run him into another shelf, destroying it. They were racking up quite a lot of damage now.

[Vice]

Chaos was what this was. A filthy scuffle taking place in the reaches of a Dynasty-owned store? The perfect opportunity to gain some recognition. The keeper of the shop was affronted by the entire situation, scoffing before waving his hands about in exasperation.

"How... how crude! Really, now, young man. Is this all really necessary?!"

It was treachery in the first. A group being attacked by a man who, from the observer's viewpoint, did not sport the mark of a Freeborn. An attacker without rights to begin with was bad enough, for even the Freeborn had a measure of protection. This, however, was disastrous. A bottle of ale was stolen from the wall as one of the recovering members of the trio poured the contents down his throat, rubbing his fists afterwards with a laugh before looking over to the shopkeeper,

"Sir, we'll make sure that the - filth is dealt with accordingly. Of course, he'll pay for the damages. So sorry to inconvenience you, sir."

A smile was offered before the man, known to the shopkeeper as a local mercenary hired by the Dynasties, approached his quarry, his face still burning from the strike to the face. The Draer were a quick solicitor of services, the fact that they lived off of and so close to the swamps rendered services needed for jobs off of the plantations and the man, known as the Gray Fist, was more than happy to offer his services.

A single hand reached for the assailant's shirt, clenching his fists around the fabric and immediately throwing the assailant towards the cashier's desk. The man neither reached for a weapon nor did he step forward, instead looking to the storekeeper, a shrug moving his shoulders before he looked to the shopkeeper one last time,

"Just more damages for him to pay for, right, sir? Maybe, just maybe, you'll get to do those upgrades you've been looking at, eh?"

He chuckled before grinning at the man. Quickly enough, his attention was cast to the other two men, both assaulted and recovering from their separate injuries. They looked to the Gray Fist, a mixture of fear and curiosity in their gaze.

"Should we do anything, then? You look like you have this handled."

The Fist shook his head before replying,

"Tend to the shopkeeper, one of you. The other... find the nearest Draer and bring them here immediately."

The two nodded in response to their assigned tasks, one holding onto the shopkeeper and escorting him out of the shop as the other ran off, his head cast about in search of a Draer, and found nothing. He ran off, hoping the trip would be short.

Laughter bubbled from the Fist's lips as he looked over at the assailant, hoping that he had the gall to stand up and keep going,

"Are you still conscious, scum? You're not making good decisions. Petching with the wrong people. I suppose you're new to Kenash. Come, then. We'll show you how things are handled around here."

If Roscoe looked closely, one of the Fist's hands were covered in a thick, gray gauntlet, the other sporting a brand, fully healed and formed into a vicious looking scar.

[Roscoe]

Roscoe landed with a loud *thud* as he was thrown from the wrecked pile of broken shelves and ale bottles to the floor near the cashier's desk. In all the commotion a bottle of ale, broken or opened somehow, had poured out all over him. Aside from getting him dreadfully wet and soggy, it also served to cool his temper a bit. Now, lying on the floor, bruised and aching, Roscoe was able to properly assess the situation for the first time. There was some talking going on, but a ringing had begun in his ears that lasted a few moments and caused him to be unable to fully make out anything that was said. Raising his head, he was able to watch what looked like an exchange of orders being given by the man he had first punched out on the road. The shopkeeper was escorted out and the other man seemed to be going for help. 'Shyke! Shyke! Shyke! Shyke! Shyke! Shyke! Shyke! Shyke!' Roscoe berated and cursed himself for losing his cool so easily. For letting that bastard's letter get to him. As he looked over his opponent with eyes unclouded by rage, he realized he was knee-deep in something he didn't want to be knee-deep in. He was a tough looking petcher, that's for sure. When he had picked Ros up, he noted that there was a truly nasty looking scar on one of his hands, like he'd been branded or something. And the other hand had some kind of a thick metal gauntlet on it. And since he was the leader of these other two men, it could be assumed that he was probably the toughest of the lot. That's how it was decided when he was leader in Sunberth. "Are you still conscious, scum? You're not making good decisions. Petching with the wrong people. I suppose you're new to Kenash. Come, then. We'll show you how things are handled around here." He knew he should probably just stay down, just let the beatings come and hope he wasn't executed. But he could never let that happen. He knew that he couldn't let something like that happen. He'd spent years striving to be strong, like he had been taught as a boy. And being strong meant you never gave up, no matter what. Familiar words whispered themselves in his head. 'Never give up, never surrender, never compromise.' Teachings passed down to him by a man long dead. But they shaped him, they commanded his every step and breath, and he would not abandon them in the face of anything. He had heard Kenash was renowned as some kind of slavery city or something, and he knew that was probably where he was headed at this point. But that didn't mean he got a free pass on being a petching man. So he began to pull himself up. He got up on his right knee and threw his right arm on top of the counter to pull himself up. He was sore, sorer than he'd been in a while. He cracked his neck and winced at the pain and soreness that now plagued his back from being thrown like he was. But he could press on through it. At this point he began to frantically glance around the room, hoping he could find some way to work this to his advantage, and then he saw it: a bottle of ale sitting on the countertop, easily within arms reach. In his mind he concocted his plan. He would go for the bottle with his right hand, immediately launching it at his opponent. If he aimed properly, this could be a solid injury or at least force him to dodge, providing the opening he needed. He could then charge him and follow up with a strong punch, maybe an uppercut if there was an opening. If he could just make it outside, maybe he could get to his horse, and ride out of this mistake. So he began to execute the plan. His right hand quickly dashed to the bottle, his fingers clenching around the neck. He swung his arm in a wide arc and released the bottle, hoping his split second aiming was sufficient. He then pushed forward off of his right foot, launching himself at the man, his left arm already pulled back and ready to release a punch at his face if the opportunity presented itself. He knew he would probably only get one shot at this so he didn't bother with any kind of defense, he had to focus on delivering an incapacitating blow here and now, or there was little hope of him ever seeing the light of day again.

[Vice]

Ignorance. That was what this entire situation stank of. The cur on the ground reeked of it, his heritage likely streaming from one of the backwater towns of Mizahar. Cyphrus tended to live in relative prosperity, with an educated population in both Riverfall and Kenash, but Endrykas was not so. Though, the man did not look to be a Drykas. Possibly Sylira, but the Fist decided not to linger on the insignificant details regarding scum that would likely be shackled and enslaved by the Draer Dynasty in a matter of chimes. The Fist had an entire store worth of items to tear apart, a craving for destruction that was not met by the posh attitude of Kenash rising in his mind and materializing upon his features in the form of a grin. His armoured fist clenched for a moment as the other one rose, but it seemed, for the moment that his opponent was downed.

The mercenary took the moment as an opportunity to take another drink, the ale pouring down his throat in rushed gulps as he waited for his opponent to stand and be a petching man. What he did not expect, however, was the bottle that sailed through the air. The man's target was likely the head, but he missed, the heavy bottle shattering and embedding glass shards within the Fist's shoulders, but he was immediately met with violence in the moment of distraction. The Fist took a punch to the face, his neck leaning back in preparation to the blow as he grabbed at Roscoe's shoulders, gripping at his flesh with both hands, the steel studs of his gauntlet adorned hand tearing into the Sunberthian-born's skin as he dipped his neck back a second time. A fierce headbutt connected with Roscoe's skull before the Fist released him, his own head pounding from the impact as he blindly reached out in search of another bottle.

"Are you done yet, cur? We're destroying the shop and I don't want to be responsible for hiring someone to drag off the body when this reaches its logical conclusion. Give up, and I'll let you off somewhat. Just a moderate beating and a warning to be on your way. If not, I'll keep going."

The Fist flashed another grin, cracking the knuckles of his un-gloved hand as blood began to stream from an open abrasion at the crown of his head, the result of his headbutt. A small trickle of blood moved along the length of his face, dropping to the floor as he waited for the Sunberthian's answer. In either situation, he was prepared. He retained an aggressive stance, wide and prepared for an attack should the bastard try to catch him off guard again.

[Roscoe]

Roscoe crashed onto the floor, his attempt at escape brought to nothing by this man standing before him. He had taken both the broken bottle and the punch like a true champion, standing his ground, and even retaliating with what may have been the hardest headbutt Ros had ever experienced. There was no way he wasn't in pain too. As Ros lay there on the ground, he struggled to gather himself like he had been able to after last time. As his senses returned to him, he noticed all the wounds he had picked up. His chest throbbed, no doubt from the kick he had taken outside the store. Wounds on the back and front of his head. The one on the back, he thought may have been when he was struck outside and hit the ground. The one on the front- easily the most painful blow he had taken- was from that petching headbutt. As he thought, his head was suddenly wracked with throbbing pain, which passed after a moment. He would be feeling that one for a while yet. He noted blood, just a little blood, had begun pooling at the point where his head rested on the floor. Again, he had to give recognition to the sheer force behind that strike. He also at this point picked up on a wet feeling on his shoulder, and remembered the gauntlet, ripping into his skin as he was grappled by the man. In a final assessment, Roscoe decided he was really getting his arse handed to him. And in a way, he had a lot of respect for this man. He was strong, obviously experienced. A leader of a group, however small. He was bold, and savvy in terms of fighting, could take pain like a champion. This was the kind of man you wanted on your side when some idiot comes into your store and throws a man into your fine ales. Roscoe decided that if he survived this ordeal, and went on living without chains, he might have to have a drink with this guy. But that didn't change the fact that here and now, he was the enemy. And he was doing a damn good job of standing between Ros and his freedom. And that, well, that just wasn't okay. Ros knew he was already pushing it with this brawl, that if he went much further this could have some truly nasty consequences in terms of injury. But again, he remembered that phrase Andreas had taught him, he remembered the code he lived by. 'Never give up, never surrender, never compromise.' It didn't have quite as strong of an effect the second time. He thought of all the things that kept him going after the betrayal in Sunberth. He thought of all the strong men and women in the world who needed a leader. He thought of all the weak and worthless leeches destroying the world he loved. He wasn't a fool, he knew most didn't have the stomach required to make the changes that Mizahar needed made. It had to be him. 'It HAS to be me... Never give up, never surrender, never compromise...' "Are you done yet, cur? We're destroying the shop and I don't want to be responsible for hiring someone to drag off the body when this reaches its logical conclusion. Give up, and I'll let you off somewhat. Just a moderate beating and a warning to be on your way. If not, I'll keep going." Roscoe knew there wasn't going to be a time for him to get up and concoct a plan again. He was at this mans feet, and every moment he wasn't getting beaten was a mercy. But that had to change. He quickly decided what to do. Really, it was the only thing he could do, as he had little strength left and was still recovering, to an extent, from that vicious headbutt. He would taunt him, mouth of in some way, and when the blows came, he would try his best to catch his foot, or fist, or whatever came. If he could pull him to the ground, maybe even got on top of him in that moment, the scales could perhaps tip in his favor. It was a longshot, but it was all he had at this point. Roscoe pushed himself up ever so slightly, and spat on the mans shoes. "You best keep going then, mate. I'm about ready to fall asleep down here waiting for you."

[Vice]

The Gray Fist managed a scowl as he looked to the man set upon the floor, a grudging respect visible in his eyes. There was no point lowering himself for a strike. Rather, the Fist raised his foot in an attempt at kicking the fallen man, but the motion was half-hearted at best. Though, nearby, the beat of hooves could be heard as a carriage stopped approximately twenty feet from the shop. Footsteps followed, four in number as the door was opened.

There was very little effort on the Gray Fist's end to end this battle or to kill the man who had attacked him. There was only pity in his stare as he looked upon him, though as the door opened, all would stop. Feet wet from his travels upon the rivers of Kenash, Willum Draer held a harpoon in his right hand, three men surrounding him, each armed with a similar, if less ornate, version of the weapon. Meant for fishing, the harpoon was still a dangerous weapon, and the Draer's expression, stern and single-minded, would prove it to be so should Roscoe look upon the man.

A cough escaped the Draer's lips as he cleared his throat, commanding the guards to fan out with a wave of his hand as he called out,

"Halt, both of you. This charade is over. The two of you have ruined my family's shop enough as is, and I will not have you ruin it further. You there, traveler, I will have you stand and present your name to me. Explain to me why you have decided to destroy my brewery, and why I should allow you a chance to live. You have obviously deigned it worthy of your time to injure not one, not two, but three Kenash citizens, as well. Three counts of assault, vandalism, and destruction of property are crimes that are not tolerated in this city."

There was no need to report this crime to the Askara and their... Magistrate. The Draer could more than handle their own affairs, and Willum Draer was more aware of this than most. A dark expression marked his features as the triad of guards stepped towards him.

Willum Draer approached the Fist and the Sunberthian, a frown set upon his features as he looked to the mercenary,

"One would assume that a man with a reputation as notorious as yours would be able to handle an ingrate that is unarmed. A pity, perhaps you are undeserving of the title. In any case, you three, come. You will secure this... thing once he explains himself, and we will be on our way. Let us listen to his excuses, and I will decide his fate."

[Roscoe]

Roscoe lay there on the floor and watched a scowl form on his foe's face. He readied himself to deliver the kick Ros expected but it wasn't like he had planned. He lifted his leg like the fight was over, like it didn't even matter. Like he pitied him. Roscoe wouldn't give up, no matter what this man threw at him. He had learned as a young man that once you start a fight, you finish it. Period. But this one, he seemed to be less than fully invested in their scuffle at this point. Not that he could really be blamed, it had gone on longer than it ought, and Roscoe was all but finished. Roscoe asked himself if he would have mercy, even pity in this mans position? His mind ran to Sunberth, to the day that he met his little Kelvic friend Buras. He had shown mercy that day- no, no he didn't call it that. There was no such thing as mercy when your opponent had defeated you. You went on because you had to live in shame after that. You had to go through life knowing you weren't strong enough. That was no mercy. No, to have the pity of your foe was the greatest of defeats. He'd already felt that at the hands of his gang in Sunberth. That stinging pain he'd felt for years, knowing he had been brought as low as he could go, and he could do nothing to help it. He knew defeat, but he wasn't a fool about it, he knew a man could pick up and move on if he was truly strong. Defeat, even like this was just another way of becoming stronger. Maybe the best way. 'So, this is defeat... At least it's not betrayal...' As this truth began to wash over him, he let himself ease up more than he had since the moment he opened the letter. He let the rage go, and in truth he could hardly remember what it was that had really set him off. Something about his father. But it couldn't have been so bad, could it? As he lay there thinking through it all, the door suddenly was flung open, and in stepped several men. They all bore harpoons, at least that was what they looked like from Ros' vantage point. Or spears of some sort. One man stood out from the rest. His weapon was far more ornate in design than the rest of the men, showing obvious care and craftsmanship had been put into it. Probably custom crafted, as such things generally are. He had a dirty blonde head of hair, kept short and clean. He couldn't tell for sure, but Ros thought he could see blue in his eyes. The rest of the men- Ros counted three others- seemed to be arrayed around him, like you might see soldiers array around a hero in an old war story, like the ones Andreas used to tell. He noted a moist, dripping sound to their footsteps, like they were wet. That fit with the harpoons. He couldn't say for certain, but going on the evidence he guessed he was a Svefra, or at least a fisherman of some sort. And he must be a Draer as well, since the man stopped his fighting as soon as he walked in. Suddenly this man began speaking. "Halt, both of you. This charade is over. The two of you have ruined my family's shop enough as is, and I will not have you ruin it further. You there, traveler, I will have you stand and present your name to me. Explain to me why you have decided to destroy my brewery, and why I should allow you a chance to live. You have obviously deigned it worthy of your time to injure not one, not two, but three Kenash citizens, as well. Three counts of assault, vandalism, and destruction of property are crimes that are not tolerated in this city." It took Roscoe a moment to process what was said, but once it got through his still throbbing head, he began to pick himself up off the floor, taking probably a good 30 seconds to do so, and overcome the many sharp pains running through his entire body now. Before today he'd never realized just how sore it makes your back to get thrown through a shelf of ales. As he went through that grueling and painful process, the man- he assumed he was a Draer- continued speaking, this time directly to his men and the guy who was fighting Roscoe. "One would assume that a man with a reputation as notorious as yours would be able to handle an ingrate that is unarmed. A pity, perhaps you are undeserving of the title. In any case, you three, come. You will secure this... thing once he explains himself, and we will be on our way. Let us listen to his excuses, and I will decide his fate." Roscoe took a moment to think through what he would say, wiping his hand across his forehead and unknowingly smearing blood all over his face. After a second, he began speaking. "First, I thank you for the opportunity to explain. And I promise you'll hear no excuses from me- I'm not accustomed to lying about my own actions. I did do some significant damage to this brewery, yes. And I did harm three citizens of this city, yes. And I did it for no truly good reason. I found myself in a rage, quite unexpectedly, and I went looking for trouble. I found this man" He said, gesturing to his former opponent, "and his friends, and well, the rest is history. Now, I don't believe in running from the consequences of my actions. I place myself in your hands." The words pained him as they came out, like he was spitting fire from his lips. The distaste for surrender and defeat probably showed on his face as he spoke. But he knew this was the right thing to do. After all, being strong was about accepting reality. The weak made excuses. The strong owned their deeds, always. And he would never be called weak on those grounds. Never.

[Vice]

The Draer looked upon the man with a surprised expression. When the traveler spoke, he was surprisingly honest about his deeds and the reasoning behind them. Not only this, but the more important part of it was that it was spoken eloquently. The Sunberthian was proving that he had a head on his shoulders that wasn't filled with sod, and though none of the mercenaries knew it, Willum Draer saw what he perceived to be potential in his stare. The mark of a leader was that of eloquence in the midst of crisis, and Willum saw it in the traveler's demeanor and his tone. The Draer did not wear his feelings upon his face, deciding to keep the man in the dark in order to test his character. He decided, instead, to bring about only some of his intentions and leave the rest to Lhex.

The Svefra moved forward, looking to the Fist and calling to him. A quick exchange in Fratava was made before the mercenary collected himself and exited the shop, a breath taken in waiting as Willum Draer jabbed the butt of his harpoon into Roscoe's shoulder, employing very little force, though the edges of the wood would likely leave a small wound. The Draer paid it no mind,

"There is a carriage waiting outside. The man who you engaged will be waiting for you. Submit to him and the shackles he will place around your wrists, and we will leave shortly after. Rest... there is much to consider ahead."

The smallest hint of a smirk caught the Svefra's features as he turned and made his way towards the carriage, climbing into it just as the three mercenaries made their way behind Roscoe so as to escort him out of the premises. One of the guards whispered behind Roscoe,

"Is it true that you punched the Gray Fist in the face? How are you still... never mind. Might not be that way for long."

[Roscoe]

As he finished his defense- no, his explaining- the Draer took a moment to, Roscoe assumed, think it over. He didn't make much of a response to what Roscoe said in way of facial expressions, leaving him to ponder whether or not this man even cared for a word that rolled off of Ros' lips. Maybe, just maybe there might have been the slightest bit of surprise at first, but that would be expected in any situation where a criminal is want to confess his crimes in so earnest a fashion. It's not everyday some raging fool of a bastard child takes it upon him himself to beat your men and destroy your storefront, and then actually confesses that he's done it for no good reason and claims he ought to be held accountable. But such was the nature of the rules Ros lived by. He took reality for what reality was, not adding to it, not taking away from it, not demanding it be what it isn't. He liked to think of himself as embracing the truth of the world, even if it was grotesque, even if it hurt- as was often the case with truth. If he were destined for death now, so be it. He had fought as valiantly as he could, and had been bested. Clearly the gods had decided his fate, and there wasn't much he could do about that but pray. Which is exactly what he did in that briefest moment of silence. 'Wysar, god of integrity, I have walked the righteous path in this life. I have unswervingly extinguished the lives of those who deny the truth, and I will go now to my grave, or to my chains, embracing the facts of this reality. I thank you for establishing the way of truth, and have seen fit for giving me the integrity and discipline to walk your paths, no matter how hard. May your name be blessed eternally.' As he finished out his prayer, he noted that the Draer and his former opponent were speaking. It sounded to Ros' ears like Fratava, though he had been too caught up in thought and prayer to actually divert his attention to the words themselves. Ros gave himself an internal pat on the back for guessing he was a Svefra. After the exchange, the Draer man walked over to stand in front of Roscoe as the other man walked through the door. The Draer pressed his spear ever so lightly into Ros' shoulder. It stung, and though it was not quite enough to cause a real wound, it would likely draw blood and leave a mark. His eyes met Ros', and after a moment, he spoke. "There is a carriage waiting outside. The man who you engaged will be waiting for you. Submit to him and the shackles he will place around your wrists, and we will leave shortly after. Rest... there is much to consider ahead." The Draer turned around and walked out the door, heading to the carriage himself, as the guards gathered behind Ros and began marching him back out onto the street. Thoughts raced through Ros' head as he considered the parting words. Specifically his plea to 'Rest.... there is much to consider ahead'. The way Ros saw it, he didn't have much to consider. When you pull shyke like this, you end up behind bars or worse. If the rumors were true, then in Kenash you probably end up on the end of a chain, working fields 'til you fall over dead from exposure one day. A life of that sort wasn't the kind that you 'consider'ed. Or that you rested in preparation for. Something was off about this whole thing. And the worst part was that Ros had absolutely no idea what was in store for him. He had truly been thrown for a loop. As they marched out of the store, one of the guards remarked at him. "Is it true that you punched the Gray Fist in the face? How are you still... never mind. Might not be that way for long." He looked forward, towards the carriage waiting outside, and saw him there. His opponent, his better. He didn't speak- it wasn't becoming of a man who had lost to joke around about losing. But now he knew something about this man. Gray Fist. An apt name for a man who's primary weapon is his gauntlet. In the end, Ros was glad he'd fought Gray Fist and not 'Crimson Sledgehammer' or some other merc along those lines. As he approached him, he held out his hands, exchanging a brief, but powerful glance with the man before he clasped the shackles on his wrists. He respected these people. In some cities, Roscoe could've gotten away with foolishness of that caliber. He looked forward to learning more about this 'Kenash'.