PM to join A Chance Encounter. [William]

[Sh'Ky Naes]

Sh'Ky Naes

Autumn 23, 514

Sh'Ky didn't know what would happen after he stepped out his door. If he had, he might not have left the house. Walking down the dusty alley that passed for a street in Sunberth, he idly glanced at the wretches around him. He realized that he'd been thinking about leaving, more often than not. And the plan was always to get out as soon as possible. But the plan was shot to hell, five years ago, in a dusty alley, behind the Pig's Foot. When Rastia died. And ever since then, he found that he'd no reason to leave the 'Berth. But maybe... it was time to go see the world, outside of this pissbucket. Lhex's left nut, that was Ras' last wish, for him to move on and leave. But... he still didn't have enough coin, or enough opportunity, or enough of whatever he needed at the time. Growling, he gritted his teeth.Never enough of anything! Never enough mizas, never enough! This world of simple survival was not enough for Sh'Ky. But it was all he had.

As he stumbled past an open side alley, a rough voice called out, directed at him. "Hey, you, red trousers, stop." Like an idiot, he stopped, pausing in front of the alley, forcing the foot traffic to shunt itself around him. Four scruffy-looking young men in yellow vests sidled up to him, encircling him. Looking down at them, he arched his eyebrow, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword and saying, "Yeah? Whaddaya want?" The gang members chuckled, mock punching each other's shoulders. Their leader spoke. "Y'hear that, fellas? He wants to know what we want, in our territory? And he's wearing red, too! Looks like ya got cocky, ya Hawk vagik." Cocking his head, Sh'Ky gave them a quizzical look, and pulled his sword out a quarter inch, gripping it firmly. "I don't know if you think I'm in a gang, or something, but I'm not. I don't know who you are, or who these... Hawks are."

Grinning like wolves, they pulled out assorted clubs, hatchets and knives. "Riiiiiight. Of course you don't. And we're not the Coyotes! Get 'em, boys!" Unsheathing his sword fully, Sh'Ky shouted, "Thirty-five Gold-Rimmed Mizas for whomever helps me out here." His voice carried over the crowd, causing most of them to disperse. Like 'Ky knew, you shouldn't get involved with gang violence, not where friends and family could be bought for a few dozen golds. Of course, Sh'Ky's common sense couldn't help prevent idiocy on the sake of others. Falling into his square stance, he swore under his breath. "Petch these idiots."

Other's Words Common Fratava My thoughts NPC's Words
Alt:
Dallen McHenderson

[William Hart]

A hot loaf of fresh bread. A treat he hadn't had the pleasure of partaking in for longer than he cared to admit. It was wrapped in cloth, bundled like a newborn and tucked in his jacket. He didn't want someone snatching it away. More than one set of eyes followed him as he walked home, attention caught by the mouthwatering smell. He kept his gaze forward, painting a scowl on his face.

William's features were gaunter than usual, giving him a haunted look, and most of those he passed posed no threat when there was a sword buckled to his hip. Hopefully he could recover the weight he'd lost, now that he had steady work again. He refused to go to bed hungry again. Will promised himself this fiercely, and he tightened his greedy hold on the bread.

But things couldn't go off without a hitch. It was Sunberth. He could feel the change in the crowd before he even saw anything. Tension moved through like a wave in the bay, and a hand instinctively fell to the pommel of his longsword. He kept walking despite the sensation of unrest, knowing full well if he stopped to look that he could become involved.

If he looked at someone wrong in these streets, they might take it as a challenge. Will was almost clear when the man's voice rang up above the din of the congested crowd. Most stopped to watch, others glanced over but quickly turned to leave. And Will did the opposite of what he'd been meaning to do. He joined those who stopped and turned to see the commotion.

Gang troubles. That was clear right from the moment he saw the pack closing in on a single, armed man who obviously had no backup plan. He shouted an offer to the surrounding crowd, and no one moved to accept it. Money was a language everyone here spoke--most never had enough it to get by, so any opportunity to make some was considered seriously, if not jumped on like a pack of rabid animals. Yet no one moved. More people scattered in fear of being caught in the middle, but Will's feet stayed rooted to the hard-packed dirt.

Gods, he exclaimed internally. He was too much like his father, and it was going to get him thrown into a hole in a ground too. Gingerly, as if handling delicate glass, he set his loaf of bread on a nearby crate. With both hands no free, he ripped his longsword from its scabbard and joined the lone man's side. The gangsters sneered and laughed, still confident with their numbers. Will ground his teeth and spoke to the stranger beside him.

"You had better not get me killed," he growled, taking a defensive stance and leveling the tip of his sword at their opponents.

OOCSorry it took me so long, I had to run off to Kansas for family.

[Amon Torque]

Amon had been walking along the dusty road, perhaps aimlessly, perhaps he was walking to the little known gem of Sunberth, the library. Life was like this lately, after the food shortage had ended, and the scavenging was over. Amon had time to stop simply surviving and time to start living again. It felt strange, and unnatural after the struggles earlier this fall. His sales were increasing lately but so was gang activity. Amon did not mind the large ones, for they ignored most of the common folk. It was the little ones, the ones that found a decent fight exciting, it was these gangs that Amon fought. Whether it was a fight won from a dark alley, watching someone be mugged and shielding the attackers eyes, striking with precision and silence, or an messy outright fistfight, Amon would step in.

And that was exactly what he was planning on doing, with the blade of his kukri reflecting in the sunlight, which drew the attention of one of the gang members across the circle formed around the two men, clearly the targets of the ambush. The gang member that eyed the blade cried out with a loud, "Jack! Behind you!" The cry did not register before Amon made several deep slashes across the mans back, trying to ignore the blood and cry of the stabbed gang member. It was no skill that allowed him to do this, simply knowledge that being slashed at did not end well.

He had lost most of his sympathy for these kinds of people, praying in groups on anyone who caught their eyes. He made a few more hurried slashes, before attempting a stab that proved pretty useless, only going in an inch or so, with a small grunt, before driving the curved blade toward the mans back again, for Amon had no idea how many cuts it would take, then proceeding to raise a leg and kick him, slamming him toward the ground.

Amon turned to the other members, clearly infuriated by Amon's disposal of the man on the ground. Amon growled menacingly, a trick he had learned from his mentor. Magic would be of no use, with the crowd watching like hawks, eyes locked on the fight, yet bodies unmoving. Any magic would result in him becoming the enemy, maybe even the enemy of the people he was trying to help. The kind eyes that Amon usually bore were non existent, the glow from the sunlight was gone on the overcast day, his face showed no fear, and no remorse for the dead man. To those around him, Amon looked like a fierce killer, but really, he was just doing a favor for the two men. He had no idea if they were con men or thieves, he honestly did not care.

A quick shuffle through the perimeter allowed him to get closer to the people he was helping. Amon let out a quiet mutter, "cash or no cash, just don't die." He turned left and right, staring into the eyes of every man surrounding the trio, examining them for signs of weakness. His hand held the kukri with the best form he could muster, which honestly was a guess at what should it was supposed to look like, preparing for the fight about to come. With the free hand, he clutched his vial, tucking it under his shirt. He decided it may be necessary to use its contents afterwards, and would not dare to have it broken.

[Sh'Ky Naes]

Date

"You had better not get me killed." Sh'Ky grimaced at the man's words, grumbling, "I hope we don't get killed, either. What a surprise." Shuffling forward to striking distance, Sh'Ky had just begun to perform an overhead, downward left diagonal cut with his blade, when a cry of, "Jack! Behind you!" Rang out, and a shorter man ran into one of the gang members, stabbing him from behind. This, Sh'Ky reflected, was a man who followed his credo of not getting involved in prolonged conflicts.

"Cash or no cash, just don't die." The man's words confused Sh'Ky a bit. Was this man... showing concern for a stranger? Such situations were uncommon in Sunberth, and even more so for one of his profession, who took other's money for a living. ... Huh. Surprising. Pulling his blade back up, tip skyward in a ready position, he grabbed the short hilt with both hands and did an overhead cut downward at the gang member that called out to the corpse called 'Jack'. Catching him in the left shoulder, the blade sank into his collarbone, spraying blood onto the steel, and the dusty road. However, the man didn't fall, and scraping a cleaver along Sh'Ky's left forearm, peeled away about two inches of his skin, causing the blood to ooze out, rather than spurt. Cursing, he yanked out his sword, which let the blood flow freely. Within seconds, the light left the gang member's eyes, and he slumped down, hitting the dusty street.

Hissing out curses, Sh'Ky backed up, behind the two men, cradling his left forearm with his right hand, still holding his sword, however. The wound hurt like hell, and he wasn't about to put any pressure on that arm anytime soon.

[William Hart]

"Gods," he exclaimed as he watched the situation turn sour in the blink of an eye. Some stranger appeared from the crowd behind the gang, and before Will knew what he was seeing, sunk a blade in one of the mens' backs. Everything moved in slow motion. The gang stared at their comrade, dead and slumped in the dirt in a growing pool of blood. They could see the ugly wound in his spine, the back of his shirt torn open by the blade. When they shook off their surprise, they all leapt into an uncoordinated, wild attack. One went for the stranger beside him; the one whom he'd jumped in to help. Another came at him.

William cursed loudly and incoherently as an axe came down toward his head, its wielder screaming his revenge. Moving on instinct, he dropped his sword and grabbed the man's forearm in both hands, stopping the axe's descent. They struggled with each other momentarily, thrashing and kicking and vying for the upper hand. Will grunted and tried to knock the gangster's feet out from under him, but their legs tangled and they both went down, him on bottom. They hit the ground hard, jarring bone and making him lose his grip on the man's arm.

He felt the heavy hilt of the axe clip the side of his head and rattle its contents, sending him reeling. He was so weak, and had lost too much weight. His strength wasn't what it used to be. William panted heavily, scrabbling at his attack's face. He felt teeth close around his wrist and bite hard, then hot wet blood. Will screamed in pain and jammed his thumb into one of the man's eyes, digging it into the corner until he felt it give. Their screams mingled, then the teeth were gone from his skin as the man reared away from him, clutching his face. Blood ran down the gangster's cheek from the bloody socket hidden behind his hands.

Will scrabbled desperately for his sword, but it had been kicked away and lay several yards away in the dirt. Cursing, he started to crawl toward it, but a white hot agony burned the back of his leg under the buttocks, stopping him in his tracks. He screamed again, and when he turned to try and fight off the pain, he saw a bloody face sneering at him, and a dagger embedded in his leg to the hilt. Desperately, he lurched toward his discarded blade. When his fumbling fingers closed over the leather grip, he turned on one knee and buried the edge into his attack's exposed ribs. His arms were raised above his head, and in his bloody hands, his axe. The look of surprise froze on his face, and when Will ripped his blade free, he fell and lay face down in the bloody dirt.

[Amon Torque]

Amon looked approvingly at the skill of the slender man, quick on his feet, and precise with his cuts. He winced when the same man he was watching was cut, a little blood pouring out, I will have to help him out when this is over, Amon thought to himself. It was only after the sharp pain on his left arm reminded him where he was, he spun around looking angrily at his attacker, a tall man, mostly neck, with dark brown hair.

After quickly glancing at his wound, nothing major, more of a testing cut than a real slash, he gazed wearily at the man, and decided to play dirty. He knew in a real fight, no matter what the circumstances, the better trained man in front of him would win. And there was no honor in killing, so why pretend to be honorable. With that thought, he disregarded his instincts and kicked the ground, releasing a cloud of sand and dust into his opponents eyes. Improvised, of course, but something improvised is better than just having a stare off with someone holding two daggers.

Of course Amon was still weak with his weapon, in fact he only knew how to stab and slash from watching fights on the street, but he did know from practicing on his poor wall that a couple good slashes were just as effective as one death shot. So Amon struck out into the dust storm, punching and slashing, making contact with metal and flesh, he did not really know how long he was going for, but he did notice the appearance of a gash on his left hand. It was mostly flailing, cutting and stabbing at air, but it didn't matter, as long as it worked.

The dust in the air cleared, showing the results of the fight. A surprised look on Amons face showed as he stared at the tall man in front of him, bloody, but still standing. Amon took a step back, but was too slow, seeing as a thrown dagger slashed deep into his arm, causing him to drop his kukri. Amon's only triumph from the fight between him and the dark haired man finally showed itself, as Amon watched the same man he had assaulted sway too and fro, before falling to the ground, unconscious from blood loss.

It was then that his other wounds started to throb, the warm crimson blood dripping out, Amon's face contorted slightly, and he knew if he tried to fight with his wounds, he was as good as dead. He eyed his companions desperately, seeking refuge with them, which was little consolation, considering the loud cry coming from a man on the ground, a dagger buried deep in his leg. Amon winced empathetically, backing up toward him, hoping to be a little bit of help. Why in the world did I choose to help? Oh right, doing the righteous thing and making friends. Great idea Amon... Amon thought to himself.

With no weapons, and a cut arm, Amon relied on his only tactic left. Raising his good arm and putting a decent glare on his face. He looked around, eyeing if his companions were doing any better.

[Sh'Ky Naes]

On account of the idiocy of others, Sh'Ky got into this fight. And just as quickly, he, with the help of the others, got out of it. Four other men lay in the street, dead, and Sh'Ky stood above them. Maybe not gracefully, but he had won. Wiping his bloodied sword on the already red cloth of his pants, 'Ky sheathed the blade, wincing as the cloth of his jacket rubbed against the flayed area, causing him to hiss emphatically, sucking in air. Looking at the short man and the warrior both in turn, he decided that the warrior needed the more help. Nodding to the men, he said, "Thanks for the help. We'll talk later. You're both bleeding altogether too much." Then bending down, he put the warrior's arm over his shoulders, pulling him to the side of the street, if he'd let him. If he didn't, or after he did, Sh'Ky looked at the short man wearily, and sighed. Pointing at the warrior, he said, "Could you sit down next to him? You both need to rest, and bandage yourselves. I'll take care of the bodies."

Grabbing a corpse, 'Ky began pulling the bodies to the side of the road as well, but a slight distance away from the injured men. Wouldn't do for the bodies to bleed on the two men. As he grabbed the fourth and final gang member, he noticed a loaf of bread on a crate, miraculously not stolen. It must've belonged to one of his companions. Even if it didn't, they needed. Picking it up, he realized that the bread was still warm, causing a mouthwatering scent to waft to his nostrils. Holding it in front of the men, he asked, "Is this here loaf either one of yours?"

[William Hart]

William was so focused on the dagger buried in his thigh that he didn't realize he was being carried out of the way until he was there. When Sh'Ky laid him down as carefully as what was probably possible, he mumbled something that could have been an apology if it were legible. He couldn't really blame the stranger for what had happened. He'd been dumb enough to jump in and defend him. How could he be surprised? Will considered pulling the thing out, but when the tips of his fingers brushed the bloody hilt, he shied away from it in pain. Instead he left it there, tense and breathing slowly, deliberately. With his head in his hands he tried to think of anything else to drag his mind from it.

All that seemed to nag at his mind though was how could possibly afford a physician for this? After a while he heard the stranger's voice again. The question made his head come up sharply, and though he regretted the jerking immediately, what was more important was what was in his head.

"Mine," he claimed, sounding like shit and feeling even worse. But no had stolen his meal. That was enough to lighten his spirits, if even a little.

OOCSorry for the late reply. I got a new job and the place just opened, so it was busy the first week.

[Amon Torque]

(Really sorry about this, do not know why it is making this happen O.o)

[Amon Torque]

"Sir, I have no idea who the petch you are, but there is NO way you are going to pull that dagger out. Alright? I happen to have experience with this. I can help you, but you have to stay still, alright?" Amon told William hurriedly, seeing him touch the dagger cautiously. This wound would be the deepest he had ever treated, and would come with great difficulty. Amon mentally listed everything he would need for the task at hand, checking it off it was in his backpack, which was strew to the side of the battle. Stitches, sanitation, bandages, herbs, waterskin, flint and steel, pot, and oil. Got everything. Good. Amon did not really care if the man wanted his help, or even if he wanted to help the man, but instincts took over, and Amon's philosophy forced him to help. Take a life, save a life, he thought, sighing in distress, he now owed two lives directly, plus others indirectly. "I can't help you before I help myself, alright? Just a minute." Amon rushed to his bag, his arm gushing with blood. Opening the bag with one hand was much harder than it looked, seeming nearly impossible, so he took his teeth into play, pulling aggressively and happy to see it open. His healthy hand reached in, taking out a already bloodied rag and a length of rope. He put the rag over his crimson arm, tying the rope around to apply pressure constantly. Carrying around oil for a quick fire had finally come in handy, and along with a board yanked from the side of an old shop, worked to make a quick flame. Amon grabbed the waterskin and poured a gracious amount of water into the pot, then moved the heavy iron pot directly into the fire. He threw in his makeshift bandaids, cloth strips cut from his old apron, and a needle. Mashing garlic into just the juice proved nearly impossible with one good arm, forcing him to improvise and cut it in half, toss it in, and hope for the best of the properties to be maintained. The rag on his arm had become wet with blood a long time ago, and was quickly seeping onto his backpack as he dug through it, reaching for his herbalism toolkit and staining the bag crimson. As he took out the small case, his hand also latched onto his little jar of 'wound balm', or so he called it. Amon's body was forced to contort into an unnatural position to be able to grind his dried alfalfa into a powder with the mortar and pestle in hand. The water had begun to boil, and Amon knew if much more time passed both his and his newfound injured partner would be infected with something truly nasty, maybe resulting in blood poisoning and then death. So he acted fast, setting down the ground up alfalfa and using a thin spoon to fish out both the needle and bandaids, which was a daunting task to complete without burning himself. He laid out the bandages to cool on his backpack, not giving the needle a chance to cool. As if it was not hard enough to thread a needle on a normal day, the high stress situation made Amon's hands shaky as a wet dog in the snow, forcing him to try nearly ten times before actually getting the clear thread into the eye if the needle, and it was all he could do not to chuck it as far as the eye could see from frustration. He untied both ropes that were applying pressure, then used the bloody bandage to wipe the warm red fluid off of his arm. He could now see the cut, and scooped some balm from the jar, applying lots of pressure and making a funny looking wince as he rubbed it into his wound. The hardest step of operating on oneself is the stitches, or so Amon would tell you after this experience. Crossing his own body with his arm to stitch felt unnatural and incorrect, but Amon did not have many options at the moment, and was forced to tale the best one. As he began to stitch from side to side, it felt a little better, but it was not as neat as it would have been on a regular patient. Amon snipped the end of the thread and tied it off, tossing the needle back into the boiling water to clean it the best he could. He applied balm to the outside of the stitches, and then went to help out the man with the stabbed leg. Amon took a quick assessment of the wound, entry point, and everything in between. "We're lucky this is a clean cut, and a thin dagger too. You are not lightheaded are you?" [/color]