Placeholder Meh, Close Enough... (Noven)

[Nathaniel Ankah]

"Larry" sputtered once, shock taking the place of pain for that particular instant. His eyes crossed and tried to peer down at the blade impaling his throat. His hands padded feebly at Nate, and they could have been pleading or clawing.

He didn't know or care.

You took the money? Then you take the risks.

Just as Nov's playmate started screaming, the bigger man twisted the kukri, altered and tightened as his other hand gripped the man's hair-

-and he ripped the kukri out the man's neck. Sideways.

It was a strain, even for someone built like Nate and with a blade that finely-honed, but the thing was done, and nasty for the doing. Half Larry's neck became a gaping, red maw tinged with loose strands of yellow muscle and tattered skin, wiggling like loose teeth in a trembling mouth. Blood exploded like a geyser over Nate, into his open mouth, starting him off grunting and cursing as he let the man slump down, now gratefully dead.

He looked to his side... and his jaw dropped. Apparently, he'd been the nice one.

Whatever agony Nov was inflicting, it went beyond muscle and knuckles. Nate had seen enough to know died at work, and Sunberth being Sunberth, working for pain and suffering without discrimination. Broke Nose's face was a rictus of unbelievable agony; pain beyond the limits humans were meant to endure. Finally his trembling, choking, tear-and-blood-stained face just... gave up.

He slumped back. The two old friends looked at each other. For a moment, Nov might have seen the rest and disgust he'd seen in others, when they'd seen the terrible proof of his god's favor. But of he did, it was the work of a blink, all moment... and then something else was there. Even amid the blood.

Nate pointed at him with his blade and said in definite big brother tones, "We're gonna talk about that later..."

He let the little pantomime play out with the kid, concentrating on the sounds from the stairs and the information imparted. Nate felt his gorge rise again as he heard... things he wished he hadn't. Things he wished he'd never hear again.

Moans for fake and forced they may have well have been mechanical. Grunts and squeals from gagged mouths, always preceded by the whip crack of leather or starched birch on flesh. Sobs. Whimpers. Leering voices that drooled over that pain, that staining humiliation that never, ever washed out-

Not now. Not here. You're on the job, and that racket may have got him moving.

"Right." He said with a grunt, unlimbering his mace and walking over. "Watch my back and the doors. Try to avoid anyone but this Rohs cunt."

Without warning or even inflection, Nate raised the mace high, bringing it crashing down in a blur and low whomp of falling metal-

-smashed Broken Nose's forehead clean through the back of his head, and took his face and brains with it.

"You remember, Nov." The older man said, voice chiding despite the iron in it, shaking off the loose bone fragments and grey matter from his mace with a single, well-practiced motion. "No survivors on this one. If they're with him, if they were part of it, they die. All of them."

Them they were moving, past the doors and "erotic" paintings on the walls, visions of beauty and love that turned hideous and abhorred in that pit. Nate bit down and counted door numbers, keeping his mind in the now, kukri sheathed, mace in hand.

He could taste the pain. The sweaty, rutting, sexual nature of it. The violation of skull and flesh, packaged and ordered and sold like prime-

Meat. Just meat. Nothing but-

"Oi, fuck's going on?!"

Number 10 opened and a brawny hulk with a beard stepped out... fresh blood on his knuckles. Drugged out giggles came from the room, but Beard had eyes only for the fast-walking Nate.

"Get back in there," Nate said bluntly, not even trusting himself to glance, "None of your business."

Beard didn't budge, with the famed, stupid bravery of all those who would try and stall a blood-covered man six-and-a-half-feet tall, holding a mace as long as his forearm. As Nate got closer, he put out a hand.

"Hey, don't act the-"

"CUNT!"

A tidal wave of memories that Nate so didn't need right now rushed out of him in the form of a no-hesitation headbutt. His crown crashed hard into the middle of Beard's face, and Nate felt a delicious shiver as something snapped under it

-and followed it a tick later with his mace swinging up, underarm, between the hulk's legs-

-just as other doors opened.

Way to follow your own advice, there, Nate.

[Noven]

With the screaming gone and throbbing surges of blood lust temporarily sated, Noven could hear at last the trademark sounds of unimaginable torment.

Vexing was a straightforward sort of pain. A visceral experience that brought along with it no strings, no ulterior motives, only agony in the most literal of its forms. In that sense it suited the young merc and his old, calloused heart. He had neither time nor patience for doing anything other than getting straight to the point. And, more often than not, his curse helped him do just that.

But the dark acts that took place in the rooms vibrating with helpless cries and suffering above them...those created the kind of pain no amount of time or kindness could wash away.

In his mind, those who sank to such unforgivable depths did so at the cost of their humanity. They sacrificed every shred of their own decency so they could swim in an endless sea of vice. Ignored every warning along the way so they could gorge themselves on lust. Preyed on the weak because they cared for nothing beyond their own needs and spurned the right choice at every turn in the name of greed and cowardice. There was nothing pretty about some of the things Nov had to do to survive but even he knew the difference. Those disgusting fucks upstairs had forgotten long ago and were past any chance at redemption. They couldn't be reformed anymore than piss could be turned into wine.

When a man has lost himself to the point where he uses children as playthings, there is only one way left to deal with him.

You kill him.

Fortunately, Nate seemed to follow the same line of thinking before they'd even set foot in Van Marx's den. The older merc laid out their usual plan of action: watch his back and murder every guilty man in sight. Granted, the latter part wasn't exactly what Nate had said, but Nov figured that was how things were going to end up one way or the other.

Like a dark omen for things to come, the taller of the two men raised his mace and smashed his first victim's brains to bits. Nov winced but showed no signs of remorse. He had known what he was getting into; things rarely turned out differently when it was him and Nate versus Sunberth's vilest scum.

Shaking off pieces of skull and flesh, his partner reminded him that no survivors were to be left. Everyone that was connected with Rohs was as good as dead.

Yep, this sounded more like it.

"Aye," was all Nov said. He had no problems with these terms. None whatsoever.

As they snuck up the stairs, the cook pulled one of his Tamos and kept his left hand free. He preferred his fists over anything else most of the time, but there only two of them and however many of potential Daggerhands. No point in taking any risks just for the sake of one's ego.

No sooner had he thought this than some burly, bearded fellow stepped out from room 10. The sight of him, knuckles bloody and delirious laughter following his wake, made Nov sick to the core. It didn't take a genius to figure out what more or less had been going on in there. Neither he nor Nate was willing to look within that room to confirm their assumptions. The latter ordered their untimely witness to get back inside, but this bearded village idiot seemed not to have heard a single word.

As a result, both his nose and balls were smashed, the doors around them burst open at the commotion, and then all hell broke loose.

Nov had had his eyes trained on the other doors long before Nate initiated his friendly chat with Beard the Idiot. The first one that opened revealed a stringy looking fellow with a greasy hair and two gold teeth, leering as he locked eye with one of the unwelcome strangers. Noven leered back and was forced to wait only five ticks before One Eye decided he could take down at least one merc before the others caught wind.

What a petching wasted attempt at glory.

As soon as One Eye got within two feet of them, spindle-like arm raised with a dagger in hand, Nov caught the man's wrist, broke it with a backwards snap, and sank one Tamo into his throat. By the time One Eye fell to the ground, gurgling his own blood, Nov had already pulled out his dagger and moved onto the next foolhardy victim.

He had only enough time to glance back and see if Nate was still alive. Otherwise, the cook's attention was focused entirely on killing and not being killed. Sometimes he felt he could hear whispers...dark urgings in a dark place...but he ignored them the best he could. It helped that Nate was now the center of all attention, being the height and wearing the amount of gore that he was, and there was no shortage of attempts at taking him down.

At least one made an attempt with nothing but his bare hands. Nov found his spirits heightened immensely by this, despite his new opponent being a whole head taller and at least two times bulkier. Resisting the instant urge to take the bigger man down with Krysus's favor, the cook watched him barrel towards them until the very last tick. Then he stepped aside, enjoying for a brief moment that look of stupefied surprise on the thug's face, and turned to grab the man by his long, convenient braid. Parts of it had come undone, presumably amidst his raucous bedroom activities, and made for excellent purchase. With a fierce yank backwards, he went crashing to the ground and laid there stunned for no more than two breaths.

Unluckily for him, two breaths were all Nov needed to position himself on top and make to grab for his head. He was too strong though for the cook to simply manhandle and fought with the ferocity of a wild animal. At some point Nov found his own neck being grappled by bulging, sweating muscles. But he managed to sink his Tamo into said muscles half a dozen times before the thug finally let go to avoid the pain.

Once he did, the merc was back on top, this time foregoing any attempts at brute force. Instead, Nov gripped his opponent's wounded arm and called on his mark. There was no use in denying Krysus's tempting whispers all the time.

He left the man to howl himself dry. Nov was all too aware that between rooms 1 and 14, even with a few already taken care of, there were plenty more open doors to be dealt with. Another glance let him know Nate was still alive and kicking but, but he only had about a couple breath's worth of rest before additional shouts of challenges could be heard.

Petching hell. How many more were there?

[Nathaniel Ankah]

There was no room for conscious thought anymore. Like he'd told the harlot Matthew days before, fighters that rose above didn't think in the moment: they lived it. They acted. No hesitation, no slip or pause that could be used against you in a fractured tick. You moved and moved again until the other guy was down.

Nate never had much time for the Dragoons, but he did appreciate the way they trained. Every well-aimed arrow, every adroit cut of a sword, it was the product of bells, days of tedious practice that used thousands of arrow, dozens of swords and buckets of sweat. For what purpose?

To teach your body, not your mind. The slow was the dead in a brawl, any brawl, and that training gave you speed.

Well, Nate had been training, too. Twenty years plus, scrambling in the shit and gutters of Sunberth, and you know what? He was still there.

Bearded screeched and it changed in an instant from a bullish roar into a feminine shriek as two... no, make that three things between his legs shattered and burst. All thoughts of revenge for his broken nose were obliterated along with his genitals and he crumbled, folded over-

-Nate pushed him quickly back into his room and kept moving down the hallway, mace already cocked back-

-for the closest one that opened, surprised punter stepping out-

-wide eyes incredulous behind the leather mask that covered his face, nude save for that one item-

-barely enough time for a yelp before the mace hammered into the side of his head and that delicious crunch reverberated down the length of it, into Nate's arm, his chest, his soul, his balls.

It was always a sweet feeling. Very... definitive.

But he was far from a master with it.

The next room was a twofer, apparently: two gangers with shoddy tats and glazed eyes piled out, daggers in hand, just in time to catch the sight of Gimp Mask hitting the ground with half his head crushed into the rest of it. Like Nate, they didn't hesitate; unlike Nate, they were ready.

He tried to backhand but it was a sloppy blow, without form or accuracy. One of the gangers with a pierced brow swayed away from it and slashed low, forcing Nate to backpedal-

-opening him up to the second, face marred by a patchwork of black ink, to lunge at his stomach-

"Fuck!"

He only just twisted away, but the blade still creased his side, grinding against ribs as it pierced flesh. The pain was... good, though. In a way. It chased the fear away, replaced it with a cold, vicious "how fucking dare you?!".

Nate bought his knee up hard between Face Paint's legs, doubling him over with a squeal, swinging again for Brow, who ducked under it, charging forward with the dagger high-

-and the three of them fell backward in a messy heap of tangled, thrashing limbs, Nate's free hand coming up to grab at the falling wrist, stopping the dagger as his back hit the floor-

With a growl he lunged forward and sunk his teeth into it until salty blood filled his mouth and Brow screamed and the knife fell from his fingers-

-elbows hammering and lashing out wildly, smacking Face Paint around the head as he struggled to breath and forget the eruption throbbing from his crushed testicles-

-dropping the mace, groping for his kukri-

"Fucking shyke!"

Two-on-one, both atop him, confined spaces... even a big brute like Nate knew this wasn't good. He needed to take care of one, fast-

-lashed out with his free hand, the one not seeking his blade, gripping Face Paint around the side of the head-

-and jamming his thumb into the nearest eye socket until it sank into that squishy, popping ball up to the knuckle.

More screaming and frenzied wriggling from beneath him, like a horse was bucking atop him, getting in the way of Brow as the thug spit curses at his erstwhile ganger-bro, snarling at him to move, get out the way, let me finish-

-the big cunt slashing up at him with his kukri-

-slashing open his face, curved blade destroying his upper lip and nose, sending him reeling back and clutching his face-

-letting Nate hammer the blade into the back of a sobbing, roaring Face Paint's neck. He spasmed just one, twitched as his nervous system tried to fight the fact he was dead, then went limp. Nate hauled him off him and lumbered to his feet, more doors opening, blade held in an unsteady hand...

Number 14 opened. Someone almost in Matthew's class of looks emerged, though his were the product more of perfumes and lotions than natural beauty... and Matthew didn't have that fierce contempt in his eyes. Some spark that said Rohs hated all he saw and didn't just want it dead, gone, vanished, but violated first. Made to pay for the affront of even existing in his world.

Nate smirked at him and spat blood, most of it his own, and pointed to the pretty boy.

"Time for a chat, ya-"

Rohs spat something in an alien tongue and his hands whirled in a brief, complex whirl of movement, coming to rest as if they were holding a ball that wasn't there-

-then was-

-made of flickering flame.

"GLOWER!"

Glowers. Fireflies. Sparkies. If wise mages in robes, bearing staffs and minds filled with arcane knowledge, could craft a refined name for one of the djed arts, it would take a Sunberthian street rat about an hour to make up some equally appropriate title, bereft of all dignity. Both Nate and Nov knew most of them, though of course they didn't come across them often. But glowers...

They could shoot fire. Believe me, in a gang scuffle, in a confined space, with little cover, it counts.

"DOWN!"

Nate dropped to the floor and hoped Nov did the same. Face Paint, still reeling from his disfigurement, whirled around instead at the crackling noise behind him, eyes widening in horror as Rohs-

-flung the ball of flame down the hallway, aiming where Nate had been-

-and finding Face Paint in the way instead.

Syna bloomed within the corridor, and flew like a falling comet... right before it bored into Face Paint's torso and blew him back in a cascade of sizzling meat and cooked organs.

Rohs was already running for the window.

"MOVE!"

[Noven]

oocsigh...a crap version but better than nothing. still feeling the pangs of loss but it's alright, life goes on.

It didn't seem like it would ever end, but eventually there were no more bodies to dodge, stab, or tackle that weren't already lying bloody on the ground.

Nov sat amidst a heap of tangled bodies. Most were dead, others not long from the same fate. Taking a precious moment to catch his breath, the cook glanced about at the scattered array of corpses and weapons. It was relatively quiet--barring sounds of Nate's ongoing skirmishes--and the eerie stillness was punctuated now and then with a rasping death wheeze or spasm.

The last one to go down had come narrowly close to taking Nov with him. Skinny, twitchy petcher with a pair of stilettos and no penchant for glory. He'd come up on the weaponless younger merc from behind, having waited until one of the thugs had fallen. Nov heard the telltale intake of breath before murder all too late and spun around with only enough time to face his death.

But then, lucky day, one of the poor sods Nate was pummeling doubled over at that exact moment and knocked Knife Boy off balance.

Nov felt the sting of incredibly fine blades slash across his chest as his attacked regained footing in less than a couple of ticks. Knife Boy swore. The stilettos had missed the intended destination of his victim's life veins. Not the most glorious of game changers by far, but it was all the edge Nov needed.

He'd lost his Tamos long ago in the chaos of close quarter combat and had only his bare fists for damage. Fine by him. Nov abandoned more artful techniques for simple, unfettered assholery.

He kneed the guy in the balls.

After that it was quick work, taking the skinny man and his flashing stilettos out of the game. By then though Nov was forced to sink to the ground with the rest of his former opponents in sheer exhaustion. He gulped in lungfuls of air and his muscles protested every added movement. It was a minor victory just being able to retrieve both his Tamos from amongst the bloody aftermath. Plus, the smell of this much piss, shit, and blood was getting to be a bit much even for his tastes.

He didn't have to wait long after that for their real prize to finally make its appearance. Several doors swung open, but only the one leading to room 14 mattered.

From its weathered frame stepped a man who groomed himself way too often for Nov's liking. Businessman and Whore Master Rohs had a look of something akin to nobility about him. Sort of. For a brief moment, Nov was reminded of the pretty faced harlot he and Nate happened to both know by coincidence. Just a moment, and then he dismissed the idea entirely. The guy had a gleam of greed and scorn that made Matthew look almost saintly in comparison, profession and all left brained tendencies considered.

He was a revolting little shyke, even to their standards, and he was going to die.

Still reeling from a rainbow of ailments and emotions, Nov watched as his partner beat him to the punch. Nate addressed their target with enough brazen cockiness to do any thug of the Berth proud. A spit of blood to show his true regard and a degrading command to accompany it.

Well, half of a command, because Rohs was mumbling some foreign tongue before Nate could finish. The very sound sent Nov's hackles on the rise; he didn't need to understand to guess what might be coming next.

No wonder the little petcher had been able to survive for so long. He was a fucking--

--GLOWER!

Nov was already as close to the ground as he could be when Nate shouted to get down, but he rolled over a few lifeless bodies just in case as Rohs hurled a ball of fire down the hall. It screamed in white hot fury and hit some unlucky thug with merciless force. Suddenly, the scent of seared flesh overwhelmed all others, making the mercenaries' butchery look like child's play in what little remained of the burnt man's insides.

Fighting down a bubble of irrational fear that both fire and stench triggered, Nov kept his wits focused on Rohs. The slaver was making a beeline for an open window now. They had to stop him, or risk losing him in the twisted maze of endless alleyways.

Rising to feet, the cook propelled himself toward Rohs. He pushed off against walls and open doors for added momentum, using the narrowness of the hall to his advantage. Lacking in Nate's size meant he had the slight advantage in speed and it was paramount that he made every tick count.

Nov slammed against the edges of the window to find nothing but Rohs's hand still connected to the sill. Not bothering to hesitate, he withdrew one of his Tamo's again and spiked it through the slaver's pale, well manicured hand. The blade effectively nailed flesh to wood and it was rather satisfying, hearing the spineless bastard's agonized wails.

The merc was about to gloat in well deserved victory when the wailing stopped and Rohs began mumbling again.

"Oh, fuck," was all Nov managed before a ball of flames came flying straight for his face. He dodged it only just barely and watched as fire went hissing within a hair's breadth of his head. Literally. As in he could actually see the smoke curling from his singed hair.

Distracted as he was, Nov failed to take into consideration what damage fire could do other than burning the ends of his hair. Roh's fireball landed in the cheap, wooden ceiling and sent an entire section of charred building bearing down for the cook's unsuspecting head. He completely lose sight of Rohs in the rain of ash and wood, covering himself with his arms to shield against the falling onslaught.

"Nate!" he shouted through the chunks of debris, "Get 'im!"

[Nathaniel Ankah]

He couldn't see. He could feel his eyelids as he blinked but no matter how often he did it, nothing met his mind but stinging darkness. For a moment he panicked, memory replaying that fireball burning through the luckless thug in front of him, searing across his vision, leaving him broken and sightless-

But there was no flaming heat. Just... warm, wet, stickiness. Nate felt his face... and it was swimming in...

Whatever had been inside Face Paint. His twitching, smoking corpse was in front of him, white ribs exposed, hole blasted clean through him like someone had balled a human-shaped melon. Viscera, effluence, blood, liquidized fat, it was splattered over the walls and the hallways... and Nate.

"F... Fuck... me..."

As he staggered upright, he saw the events of ticks unfold as if he were watching a bell, nothing but throbbing, ambient, hissing static in his ears. He saw Rohs leap out the window and Noven most snake-fast to intercept him, Tamo flashing like fangs-

-Rohs shriek pierced the throbbing deafness. Nate saw his frantic fingers waggling just below the window where Nov pinned him, breathless glee etched on the cook's face-

-until it crumbled into shock and he went hurtling back-

-barely outrunning the fireball that Rohs launched up and into the window. It flew fast as a swallow, hot as Syna, exploded against the ceiling in a spray of burning plaster and falling woodwork, half-burying Noven-

-the fingers vanished with a yelp. Nate blinked hard... and remembered the task at hand.

He's getting away. Lost sight of him now, and you'll never get it back.

His ribs screeched. His eyes stung like bees were building a hive. He coughed smoke and he spat ash... but Nate moved. Lumbering at first, remember how his feet worked, mind fixed and bullying his big body into obedience. Noven's frantic shout only goaded him on, and by the time he reached the window he was somewhat back to himself, hands slapping the singed sill, eyes flashing about-

-catching the figure clutching his ruined hand, lurching down the street, tumbling and cursing and sending a hand cart of apples spilling and rolling across the road-

"Up!"

He reached down and roared as he got a grip on Noven's shoulders, drowning out the agony in his side, sliding an am under Noven's armpits as they got upright and-

"Follow me!"

-gripped the edges of the windowsill and swung himself over and out into the open air. His arms nigh-creaked as they took the strain, Nate suddenly dangling from the window, maybe ten feet off the cobbles-

-and he remembered the sordid exploits of his past. Pursuits and evasions, chasing down debtors and rivals, outrunning the bigger fish across tenement, slum, warehouses, graveyards, storefronts, fences-

Bend your knees and roll!

He did just that as he let go and felt something twist just before the point of fracture in his leg. He swallowed the pain and beat the ground with his fist, channeling his fury, his frustration-

No time! Move!

He jerked up his gaze and saw that multi-colored mop bobbing further away, swing into an alley, and Nate left Noven where he was, trusting him to catch up. The younger man may have had to rely on agility and speed to work through the crowd; Nate had no such problems. He pushed and shoved and barreled people out the way, heedless to their cries, smashing through the sea of humanity until he skidded down that same alley, not slowing down.

His lunged burned. His heart roared in his ears and sweat mixed with the foulness splattered over his face and the taste running into his mouth made him gag. But Nathaniel kept running, kept that fucking monstrous trash in his eyes, until-

-Rohs was hammering at a door, shouting obscenities mixed with pleas, casting a quick look over his shoulder-

Fear. Stark and straight, no chaser, hold the ice. It healed Nate faster than a dose of Tavra Juice and he grinned like a nightmare through blood and bodily fluids. His mace swung at his side and just as they got close-

-the portal swung open and Rohs fell inside. Shadows loomed inside, bulky and glinting with unsheathed weapons. Rohs shouted something in an unknown language, face streaming with sweat, shaking...

They can't keep it up forever. Over... something, they call it, when they use their magic too much. He's weak. Has to rely on his muscle. Well, fucking fine. We're better with the muscle, anyway.

The door slammed shut, bolts rammed home, and Nate swerved but didn't slow, eyes flickering madly, searching, hoping-

-for the ground floor window. He gulped, cast a prayer to any god who would hear it-

"Ready to earn, boy?!"

The bravado of the doomed. Always in fashion.

With a yell part agonied and part joyous, Nate threw himself at the window frame, free hand cover his face, ready to explode like his own brand of fireball in that pit of snakes and whoresons.

[Noven]

One moment he was buried in ashe and debris, coughing hard enough to up chuck his own lungs. The next, a pair of iron hands was dragging him out of the mess and one, brawny arm hooked under his to keep him steady. Nov recognized his partner's voice long before anything else. It was loud, which was good. He needed something to re-orient himself to after that petching blast.

Nate was shouting something again. What? The cook shook his head to clear the fog of confusion. Follow? Follow wh--

Out Nate went, sailing through the window.

Through the fucking window.

"Son of a..." Nov muttered, running up to the very edge of the sill to make sure his friend hadn't splattered his brains all over the cobbled stones.

Seeing that Nate hadn't and was already pelting off after Rohs, the younger merc darted his gaze left and right to find a different route. Even if he did jump he would be treading the same path as his partner. There was no way he'd shove through the crowd as easily and he'd lose sight of both men in a matter of chimes. He needed to find an alternative. Fast.

Within no more than two or three ticks Nov spotted an adjacent rooftop suitable for his height. Clambering out the window, he held onto the sill as his feet touched a ledge wrapping around the building.

One, two, thr--ah, fuck it.

The merc leaped, his heart catching in his throat as all four limbs windmilled in the empty air. Then he slammed into the next building, arms barely holding onto the roof. He heaved himself over the edge with a series of agonized grunts. Krysus, it hurt. His ribs were smarting from what was sure to become a bruise in a few bells.

No matter. He and Nate would both have plenty of time to nurse their multitudes of wounds after this rutting job.

Noven bolted across the sooty rooftop. He must've looked a right proper nightmare, covered in ashe and more ashe and whatever partial souvenirs his former opponents had left, but no thoughts were spared for such trivial shyke. All that mattered now was keeping his wits about him and sights locked on either Rohs or Nate. Every now and then he would propel himself onto a different rooftop, but the claustrophobic nature of Sunberth's architecture made this relatively easy. Minus the occasional stumble and fumble, that is, but he was no graceful swan amongst acrobats. Good enough that he wasn't lying dead on the ground below.

Pretty soon Nov was somewhere in between partner and target, the three of them forming an ever shifting triangle. Sometimes Nate or Rohs would take the lead. Other times Nov would execute a lucky leap and end up right on the slaver's tail. In the end, however, all of them ended up in the same destination.

He sat crouched on the last roof top of a single story building, watching the slimy son of a whore beg himself onto the other side of that door. Sniveling weasel. Must've run out of juice to be looking so suddenly desperate.

Great, the cook sighed to himself, thoughts laced with acid. Another safe house.

And as if that simple fact wasn't upsetting enough, Nate went full battering ram and exploded himself through one of the windows.

"Gods dammit!" Nov swore and jumped down from his perch. The crazy bastard was going to get himself killed one of these days. And not far along would be Nov, scrambling to keep up with his friend's seemingly inexhaustible battle lust.

Ah, well. At least it had been fun.

Now, as a native to the Berth, Noven had a special appreciation for his guts. Not just in the physical or ballsy sense, but also the instinctive, almost omen-like sense. So when Nate burst into the safehouse like a reckless canon ball his partner chose to act on a hunch.

Edging along the walls to avoid being seen, the cook crept sideways until he found what he was looking for: a smaller, seemingly abandoned door at the back of the building. Before it was a dingy alleyway with heaps of refuse and other foul smelling piles Nov didn't care to identify. It looked to be as likely of a place as any, so he kept watch from the dim corner and waited.

He was rewarded not ten or so ticks later when the door flew open and out popped a bald, scar ridden head. The thug made an all clear before Rohs himself stumbled out into the alleyway.

"T-Thanks, I owe the B--"

"Save it for the Boss himself, little man," Baldy spat, clearly upset at having his precious time wasted. "We'll take care 'o this, but ya owe him yer entire left nut for a mess with this much stink. Now get the fuck outta here before I toss ya back to those cunt mercs."

Dickless Rohs did a few more bows and scrapes of agreement before scampering off as commanded.

Right into Nov's closed fist.

For a light weight like Rohs--and one who had been throwing one too many fireballs around for that matter--punching out his lights was easier than taking a piss. Nov picked up the skinny man and stuffed him in a barrel of sticky, slimy garbage. Yeah, right where the fucker belongs. Fat chance of him getting out of that when he wakes up, weak as the little shyke was.

Now, onto bigger, badder things.

Baldy was just in the process of closing the door when he heard Rohs's clattering footsteps end mid stride. He hesitated, debating whether he should check on the spineless rat. What was one more dead child slaver to the Boss anyway?

That hesitation was all the time Nov needed to grab the latch, yank the door open, and stab Baldy in the throat when he came tumbling down the small set of steps. A gurgle of blood and wide-eyed look of disbelief later, he was dead. By then the cook was already inside the building. He wiped his Tamo on some moth bitten curtain and ran towards the sounds of furious battle.

First non-Nate head he saw he sank his Tamo into its skull. The hapless thug went down without a sound and it took his comrades a moment or two to realize another enemy had entered the fray.

Leaving his first Tamo to favor his second, Nov leered like a wild man and beckoned for the next batch of dead men to approach.

"C'mon lads, who's up for a dance?"

[Nathaniel Ankah]

Adrenaline is a wonderful thing; one of the greatest gifts the Creator gave humans. But marvelous as it is, steep the odds it can make a man overcome, it doesn't last forever. It's a chemical high, and there's a crash for everything.

In Nate's case, it came rather literally.

"ULDR'S COCK!"

Trav and the lads were busy enjoying dinner when the ruckus at the door started. Tarik opened it up with a grumble and a curse, echoed by all when that weasel Rohs collapsed inside. But the boys at the table were muscle, not brains, so they just sat, chewing steadily like cows. Let Tarik handle the pretty little fuck. They still had to finish their-

-then two hundred plus pounds of exhausted, wounded, infuriated brawler exploded through their window and landed square on the table.

Shocked, insensible chaos for a moment, and Nate seized the chance it gave him. In a blink he saw none of them were Rohs, nor Noven... and that meant he didn't have to hold back. The table collapsed under his weight and he started lashing out with his mace, backhanding hard and low-

-gaining a screech and a crunch of bone as Evan went down with a scream, shin smashed-

Then the retaliation started. Knees and boots raining down on his squirming form as he swung at anything that came close-

-knocking Trav against the wall with a blow to the stomach, half-digested noodles bursting from his mouth as he fumbled for his dagger-

-strong hands gripping his lapels and just enough time for him feel himself jerked up and see a forehead crashing down-

-smashing him across the nose, stars blooming and burning into life across his vision-

-a blow to his hand, taking his mace from him-

The roar in his veins started to putter and cough. It only lasts so long. Now he had to rely on sheer stubborn "fuck this, I am not dying today".

It was close, vicious, nasty and there was nothing resembling order to it. Headbutter reared back for another crack and Nate's hands shot up, lactic acid burning through his veins as he gripped the man's skull, thumbs finding his eyes-

Pushing. Hard. Until the roar became a scream became a squelch and nameless matter soaked his knuckles-

-and Trav kicked him hard and clean across the ribs, making some dent and send tendrils of pain shooting across his side, doubling him over in pain-

-right hand groping down at his boot for his Last Resort, left hand flailing, punching, slapping, giving him a precious tick or two until-

-his right grasped the handle of the punching dagger, three-inch triangular blade between his fingers as his hand closed into a fist-

Trav cursed again and slashed down with his dagger. Nate screamed like a kicked dog as his left forearm was laid open, falling away from him, letting him see Trav tower over him like a giant, dagger raised again-

-and with a whoof of exertion he punched up between his legs-

-burying the punching dagger between the man's legs, and twisted-

Another scream. They were all blending together. From the crippled man in the corner; the blind man clawing at the viscera running down his face; from Trav, clutching his his gushing privates and wailing high and loud like a whelping bitch... blood and yet more blood soaking through wood and utensils and shattered crockery and cooling noodles from Dim's just up the road.

Nate was in the middle of it all, panting and hawking up blood and too weak to even get to his knees. He had to grit his teeth hard and find every screed of his strength just to push himself into a sitting position along the wall, where Trav had finally managed to push down his pain and find his rage-

-but not before Nate grabbed his arm and pulled him down, half-collapsing himself as he did so, jerking Trav down into his lap like he was comforting a child-

-punching into the side of his neck and skull, over and over, handle of the pushing dagger bruising his palm as he tore hole after hole after hole...

Fresh mutters. Unblemished bodies. He sat there with his eyes half-closed, wounds of the brothel and the chase and the brutal scrap finally robbing him of his energy... just looked at them with Trav bleeding out across his lap and Headbutter finally still and twitching in sleep or death, he did not know... Evan trying to crawl to the door, bone winking at him from his broken shin...

"Well..." He panted, throat burning with every syllable. "... whenever yer... yer ready..."

There were three of them. Nate knew he was a dead man... and then one of them went down without a sound, like the thread of his life had just been snipped by a god... and the other two turned to see Noven smirking behind them, body of Tarik at his feet, remaining tamo held lightly in his hand.

"Took ya... fuckin'... long enough..."

[Noven]

"Oh, didn't see you there Nate," Nov retorted, leaning sideways to greet his battered and bloodied partner. The guy looked like he literally swam through a sea of gore. "Krysus, you look like shit. Better get you cleaned up once we're finished here eh?"

"Oi," one of the remaining thugs snorted like some over sized pig, "the fuck you mean fin--"

Nov swiped his Tamo across Big Pig's face. He didn't get much damage in, only a small, vivid red line across one unshaven cheek. Big Pig's initial expression of shock at the stranger's sudden attack had morphed into a gloating leer.

"Missed me, little man."

The cook leered back and Big Pig's look of confusion returned. It suited that big dumb face of his.

Without any rebuttal to precede his next move, Nov lunged forward, grabbed at the thug's sliced cheek, and flared his mark. The roar that erupted from Big Pig's mouth spewed a rain of spittle and deafened his attacker's ears, but Nov hung on with savage determination. Unfortunately, the hulking man still had enough piss in him to take a swing at the cook's head, coming narrowly close to breaking the smaller man's neck.

Nov twisted his body to one side at the last moment and watched as a single, meaty fist swiped right over his nose. He was still staring in surprise that the lumbering oaf moved as fast as he did when another ham-handed blow forced Nov to retaliate. Gods above, he was quick.

This time Big Pig, still howling his lungs out, had taken a resounding step forward and made to grab for an arm or fistful of clothing. And he actually caught the former, causing the cook's heart to skid to a momentary stop. The merc knew that if such a simple maneuver succeeded he would be as good as dead. All the enormous fellow had to do was give Nov's arm a good snap or twist and he would be pretty much useless for the remainder of the short lived fight.

So it was that when the thug yanked Noven forward to presumably tear his face right off his head, the cook raised his second Tamo and pierced a thick layer of fat to reach Big Pig's vulnerable little life vein.

A fountain of blood splurted everywhere. Nov backed away from his victim's stunned face as the vise around his arm loosened. There was no avoiding being soiled so the younger merc just stood there, face half turned and eyes closed as Big Pig's blood speckled itself all across his face, chest, and arms.

When the looming thug finally went down, a surge of relief rushed over Nov's awareness. He was so tired and filthy and sore. All he wanted was for this day to be over.

Alas, they still had one last thing to take care of.

Actually, make that two, considering Big Pig wasn't the last enemy standing. Nov's eyes darted all around the room but caught no sign of the final lackey. Shit. If the survivor managed to escape and inform his boss of what the two mercenaries had looked like...

Things weren't going to go well for the orphanage if they didn't track down this fucker. Fast.

No sooner had he thought this than a strangled cry of frustration echoed off the alleyway walls. If they were lucky, it meant that the remaining thug was trying to help Rohs out of the barrel of shyke and neither merc would have to run all around the city looking for one potential rat.

"Birds and stones, Nate," the cook grinned as he offered a hand to pull his old friend up. "Birds and stones."

By the time they reached the alley where Nov had left Rohs stranded, the surviving lackey had managed to get his slaving charge halfway out of the barrel. Determined little fucker, I'll give him that.

"Hey," Noven greeted. Both thug and Rohs gasped and swiveled toward the mercs' direction with slack jawed terror. "Going some where?"

Before either could answer, the cook strolled up to the barrel and sent a swift kick at the overly humanitarian thug's gut. Poor lad doubled over and groaned as he sank to his knees. For Rohs, Nov reserved a special move he liked to call Nose Smasher, in which he unceremoniously but effectively smashed in the slaver's pretty little nose. That ought to get him to stay put.

"So," Noven spoke to his partner as he admired his own handiwork and wiggled his ungloved, crimson veined fingers around a bit, "now's as good a time as any for that talk you wanted. I won't be much use for conversation in the next chime or so, other than beating out some answers from Pretty Cunt here."

[Nathaniel Ankah]

Nate's first thought was to help his friend - really? So quickly again? - when he vanished after the last man. Stupid, really.

He lurched and stumbled over debris and broken bodies like the wreck he was, only to find Noven quite comfortably holding court over a pain of groaning, fetal forms. When he glanced over and spoke, Nate just rolled his eyes and gasped air back into his battered lungs.

"Oh, yeah, no... no problem..."

Well, "considerably smaller" problem, anyway. The final, valiant thug watching Rohs' back was still trying to get to his feet when Nate's boot hammered him around the face, stretching him flat on his back.

A weight like an elephant's straddled his weary form, thick legs pinning his arms at his side, slow but methodical hands searching pockets, pant linings, his collar, shoes...

"Ah... very nice, my son..."

The Last groaned as he felt his brass knuckles taken from him. Nate turned them over in his barely-steady hands. Solid brass, by the weight. None of that tin or pig iron shite that dented and crunched around your fingers after a good punch. No, this beauty would stay firm and nasty well into a brawl...

Alright. Time to make use.

He let the Last see him slip the knuckles onto his meaty hand. Even with his size, they fit well enough for him to grip the little handle in the bottom tight and not worry about petching up his fingers. He flexed his fingers... looked down into a face that was... oddly expectant.

"Get it... over with."

"You talk; I'll think about-"

"Letting me go?"

Ah... this one knew the rules. No pleading. No begging or wrangling for mercy. He'd been long enough on the streets to know men not looking to leave witnesses when he saw them
The Last leg his head loll back on the cold cobbles, irritated sigh escaping his lips.

"Fuckwit over there, with your friend? Tell you all you need to know."

"But not you?"

"Gave my word."

Nate nodded. The two men shared something as he raised his metal-wrapped fist. Not friendship; not empathy, for what or that can there be between killer and killed? But there was a glimmer of... understanding. The Last had come to the final rest of all his kin and kind; the fate he'd long-known and secretly accepted, even if he laughed at Dira over all with his fellows. But not today.

That day, he spat to one side and met Nate's gaze. Unblinking.

"Hurry it up, b-"

Nate's arm fell like a comet; he hoped hard enough to kill the Last. The man's nose shattered like it was made of clay, fragments smashed back into his brain. His eyes post focus, blinking out of mindless muscle memory, unseeing as Nate-

-drew back the gore-smeared knuckles and hit him again... and again... and again...

He could have used his knife. Part of him wanted to, sparing this one tough fuck the horror of having his face so ruined not even his mother would be able to know him. But Rohs was still here, still needed to be broken, and sure as Nate was that Noven's weird little... hand could help, he knew this would, too.

Seeing a man'a face destroyed with brute force will do that to you. Blow after blow that crunches through bone and pulps flesh into bloody paste, obliterates features and turns staring eyes into wads of leaking fluid, broken sacs of jelly, teeth into scattered shards of ivory on the ground...

Nate got up from what he's done, using the Last's breeches to wipe the knuckles clean. Once they were gleaming again, he managed a slow, chilling smile that covered his exhaustion we'll... and leveled it straight at the terrified, interrogated Rohs.

"Beat hurry and speak, boy... or you're next fer the block..."

[Noven]

At first, Nov wondered if his partner had a thing or two to get off his chest, given the way he was smashing their last thug's face into pulpy, unrecognizable bits. But then he glanced over and understood.

Rohs looked like he might have shit himself at least twice in that appropriately stinking barrel of trash.

The cook gave a somber moment of silence in acknowledgement of the now faceless thug's loyalty. A quick check beneath the hem of his shirt confirmed all Noven needed to know.

Daggerhand. Time to go to town.

Rohs blubbered for a few ticks following Nate's none too subtle demands. It seemed like the shyke stained slaver might actually crack without having anymore parts of him broken. Nov felt somewhat sorry to end things so easily.

But then, at the last possible chance, he decided to grow a spine. "I-I can't t-tell you nothin!" the man who used to have a perfect nose sputtered. Flecks of blood popped into the air as he spoke, his lips having caught the earlier down flow. "The B-Boss will do so m-much w-worse to me than you f-fucking cocksuckers ever could!"

He laughed then. Hysterically, the delirious nose bouncing off cold, uncaring stones that lined the alley walls.

Nov knelt beside Rohs and folded his hands. His complete lack of concern hushed their refuse-encased captive, who was beginning to fear he might very well be eating his own words soon.

"Maybe you're right," the merc agreed calmly, shrugging. "Or...maybe you're so far from it you'll be wishing you'd betrayed your precious Boss in the next sixty ticks. Say, what do you know about Krysus?"

Rohs looked like he might puke he was under so much naked terror.

"Y...You're lying..."

"Nope," Nov countered, shaking his head as he held up his left hand. "Not lying."

The slaver made a noise that sounded something like a petrified squawk. "No, please!" he sobbed, leaking all kinds of unpleasant liquids. Man, just when they thought he couldn't abandon any more of his dignity. "Don't do this!"

Heh, never knew the sight of my hand could cure stutterers.

Not everyone on the streets of Sunberth knew who Krysus was, but she was important to those who cared to know. Namely mobster Bosses who liked to employ professional interrogators. Ones that had the ability to make truth spill from their victims' mouths with a single touch.

"Goddess of pain and murder," Nov answered his own question with a sort of slow, seductive glee. The crimson veins webbed over his skin seemed to throb in response to his own growing excitement. He couldn't help it. It just came of its own accord in moments like these. "With her special little gift to make special little worms like yourself sing."

The cook lifted a single finger and let it drift near his victim's smattered nose. Rohs writhed helplessly in terror, taking turns between squealing and sobbing like a pig at the cutting block.

"What do you want? What do you want from me?!" he cried. "I don't know anything! I swear!"

Nov tsked. "Just tell me one thing: who is the Boss?"

Rohs started weeping in earnest now. "I...I can't tell you. He'll d-do things to me...I just can't...please, I don't know nothin'...just a business man I swear..."

Rubbing at his temples, the younger merc sighed. "Alright then, you asked for it."

"No, plea--"

A look of confusion overrode Rohs's scared-shitless expression. Instead of Vexing him, all his interrogator did was make a small nick across the exposed flesh of his arm. He had barely felt it. Maybe they were really going to let him go...

That's when Nov pressed his finger against the tiny wound and Rohs's world burst into a universe of razor sharp pain. He mewled for a bit, but the wound was small and not enough to knock him out completely. "That's just a little something to start you off," Nov explained almost congenially. "Next up is your sorry excuse of a dick."

He poked the end of his Tamo against the slaver's crotch and Rohs all but fainted from the very thought.

"Okay, okay!" he screamed. "Please, anything but that! I'll give you the name." It took a while for Rohs to collect himself again, panting from sheer exhaustion after all his crying and begging and pleading. "They call him Silver. Mister Silver, if you're feeling extra polite. They say it's cause he's got a honey sweet tongue and plenty of--"

"Just cut to the chase," Nov interrupted in disgust.

"Alright, alright. I don't know his real name. Who even knows if he's got one." Rohs was recovering nicely now. Practically his normal, slimy self again in no time at all. "But everyone knows him as Silver."

"What's he look like?"

"Er, well," the slaver balked, "I dunno...dark hear, lean and mean? They all look the same to me."

Nov nodded. "Thanks Rohs. You're a real pal."

A glimmer of hope sparked in Rohs's eyes. Then they widened in unimaginable pain as Noven sank his Tamo into the slaver's heart and flared his mark. Foam roiled at Rohs's mouth before his eyes rolled back and his spasms died to a halt. "That's for all the children, you sick fuck."

With a tired sigh, Nov cleaned his Tamo haphazardly and turned to look at his partner. "Had enough today yet, Nate? What say we dump this body somewhere and get the petch home?"

It was hard, resisting the crazy amount of singing and dancing he wanted to do at this tiny shred of information. He'd waited so many years to get this much closer to fulfilling his vendetta. It was all the cook could do not to run through the streets shouting for Mister Silver to show his whoreson face right then and there. But there were other things to be done first. Like tending to their wounds, and lying down, anywhere, not moving.