Flashback Killing Jokes

[Konrad Venger]

19th Bell
Seaside Market
33rd Day of Summer, 500AV

"Little fuckin' sod is dead when I fuckin' catch 'im!"

That outburst was but the latest in a long series of reiterations that added up to the same general sentiment: Warrick was bloody annoyed and much aggrieved and desperately looking for someone to take his agitation out on. Konrad wasn't keeping track, but he'd guess it was have to be the twentieth-

"I swear, by the gods and their bastards, when I get a petchin' hold a' him..."

Make that twenty-one.

Warrick's little posse of sycophants and hoodlums echoed their chieftain's displeasure with nodding heads and similar pledges. All of them were gathered around "his" table at Breccia's place, stained wood littered with half-empty bottles and cracked mugs. They'd been there for bells, stewing in their anger and telling everyone walking inside how the petching comedian who'd insulted their "good" name was a dead man.

Konrad was pretty much around for the occasional free drink. He ran with the Daggers, that much was known and understood. Breccia and his mob were affiliates, hangers on, sprats swimming in the wake of Robern's shark.

Still. It was a distraction from the boredom. Not like he had much else to do that night.

"How we gonna catch 'im then, boss?"

Warrick glared through a fug of booze and the ink covering his face. Quaro's eyes darted around the table, looking for support among faces that were carefully avoiding them. Konrad knew better; he knew Warrick's mood. Any target was better than no target at all, least of all the right one.

"How'dja bloody well think? We start crackin' heads and spreadin' the word. We run with the Daggers, 'member? Someone's gonna talk. Someone'll tell us, an' when they do..."

Konrad tuned out the rest; he'd heard it all before. Pain, revenge, blah-blah-blah. He'd a sneaking suspicion that Robern wouldn't even know Warrick's name, let alone value him as under the umbrella of his protection. Some street-wit putting up murals literally painting Warrick as a coward, a loser and a boy-lover was hardly a reason for him to mobilize his private army. So he drained his cup and waited to see if it would be filled again.

"We've already put the word out," another of Warrick's goons said, smacking his lips and relishing grog so potent it could anesthetize an elephant. "Jus' a matter uv'time."

"Yeah, well, time's movin' too petching slow, innit?" Warrick had his knife out again. Carving at the table and daring Breccia to say something about it. "Longer he stays out there, putting up that shite, the worse we look. Soon as word of that bounty gets around-"

"How much?"

Ah, now, that would provoke a reaction from Konrad. The table swiveled its attention to the boy barely twenty winters in the world with the eyes of a man who'd seen a hundred. They didn't flicker around. They focused on Warrick and it was him who had to wince as he looked, not wanting to stare too long at that twisted face.

"Fifty mizas!" He said, voice suddenly booming, echoing off the walls, mention of that kind of coin getting everyone inside interested. "Anyone tells me who it is been putting up that filth about us! They bring me his head-" he held up his purse and shook it, dozens of coins inside singing out a melody of avarice "-I'll make it a hundred."

Konrad nodded slowly, lips curled up in consideration. A fine amount. Keep him warm and fed for a season, maybe more, with plenty leftover for wine, women and... well, not song. He wasn't much for that.

"That and my thanks, of course," Warrick said, reclining in his seat, taking in the tepid little room like it was his own empire. "Always helps to have the gratitude of a man o' influence, eh? Well, that's what you'd-"

"Er... boss?"

"What?! Gods, I was... fuck, forget it, wadaya want, Meril?"

The street rat by the window swallowed and nodded to the world beyond it, pointing at something likely to make Warrick's night even more unpleasant. "You're, ah... you might want to see-"

WARRICK LIKES TO CROW,
BUT WHAT HE LOVES, FRIENDS,
IS HIS MOUTH WORKING HARD,
AT SOME MEAT BELOW!

"-this is a fucking outrage!"

The words were hardly worthy of a Zeltiva sonnet, but along with the crude picture in the middle of them, Konrad had to admit, the effect was... striking.

There was Warrick, or at least his over-sized head, covered in squiggles roughly like his face, on his knees and taking something distinctly personal into his gaping maw. You couldn't see who it was he was pleasuring, but the sight of him noshing down was more than enough.

It was five feet across. And the paint was wet. Whoever it was, they'd slapped it on the wall across the street from Breccia's while Warrick had been inside.

"Unbefuckinglievable-!"

With a roar and watched by his men, Breccia at the door and half the sodding street, Warrick unsheathed his sword and started hacking and slashing at the brickwork. Over and over he blunted his steel against his grotesque reproduction, but hard as he tried, as many sparks as he struck and gouges he made, when he was done, sweating and panting and growling, it was still there.

"I... wan'im... fuckin'... dead!"

"Aye, boss," one of his goons said, with a very ill-advised sigh, "We 'eard you, we've been 'earin' you all-"

"You fuck!"

Warrick was on him in an instant, all his hate and impotent rage finally let loose. Otis' "brothers" scrambled away from him as their leader hurled himself at him, slashing his shirt and half his chest open in a fury. Every blow that came down drew more blood, Otis starting to cough it up, on his back and helpless, one hand up-

"Piuh-Please, boss, I-"

Warick hacked half his hand away and didn't slow down. His men watched, sullen or stoic, forcing themselves to learn from Otis' fatal error. All save Konrad. He'd seen the sight before, countless times. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the wall. His nostrils tingled as he looked closer, and he leaned in... breathed deep.

He heard somewhere that smell was the key to the deepest memories. Not touch or even sight, which was what everyone assumed. The right scent or stench and you could be thrown back decades. Konrad wasn't going quite that far, but he knew familiar when he smelled it, and closing his eyes... he saw a store. Barrels and pots. Brushes and the sensation of having to cover his face whenever he walked past.

Whoever he is, he's got balls. But he should have done this somewhere the paint would have dried before we found it.

Warrick was doing nothing but cutting apart twitching meat that used to be his underling. Rivulets of red were pouring through the cobbles, matching the scarlet scrawl proclaiming him as un-manned and un-worthy on the wall. Konrad spared one final glance at the pieces of Otis large enough to warrant it, and turned his back on the whole sorry collection.

An idea was forming. Well, the objective, at least. A fat purse in his pocket. Working back from that, he had to get it, and that meant finding a man... which he now had some ideas on.

He wound his way through the streets, heading north back to Dagger territory, hoping Three Eyes would be sober enough to watch his back.

[Konrad Venger]

Devane knew he was getting older by how much pigment he could make before he had to rest. When he started, his wrists and arms were strong and supple enough that he could reduce a barrel of bricks to dust, or pulp a whole basket of parsley or sage. Charcoal was easier because it was so brittle, but his hands were black by the end and his lungs full... and then, that wasn't so much a problem when he was young.

But nowadays, he had to stop after a bell. He set down his pestle and rubbed his sore wrists, wincing at the crackling pain building in them. Gods, he shouldn't have sent him his boy early tonight. They had a whole day of grinding and mixing to do in the shop and he wanted to make a start. Just a few hours, he recalled with scorn, I'll be fine, lad, don't worry.

"Gods save me from my own stupid bloody ego..."

He got up on equally sore legs and shuffled across his modest little business. The stench of eggs and clouds of dust and ground pigment was... well, he barely noticed anymore, actually. Devane often wondered how it was a woman had found him acceptable enough to breed with, since he usually stank of paint most of the time.

Maybe I found the one woman in Sunberth without a working nose.

He chuckled at the thought and poured himself some water from the counter. The store was closed and Sunberth rollicked beyond the closed door, leaving him at peace with his work, and his thoughts, and the shred of success he'd secured for himself. He paid his bills (and his protection) every week, and his family had moved from a one-room apartment to a cottage on the edge of town. His son was apprenticing to him and one day soon, he hoped, Willum would take over and he could...

"Oh, whom'I kidding?" He mumbled to himself as he sat on a fresh and ready barrel of Scarlet No.3, ready to go for an order tomorrow. "What the hells else would I do with-"

The pounding at the door stopped his thoughts, his words, and some of his senses. He looked over and saw a pair of shadows through the curtains. One squat, solid, swaying, the other... taller. Leaner. Head grotesque and swollen until he realized it was a broad-brimmed hat, not-

More knocking. Louder. Longer. They weren't going away and damnit, why did he keep a candle burning in the front when he was working at the back?!

Devane swallowed and calmed himself. I'm paid up, and if they're smart, they know it, he tried to reassure himself, but he knew damn well that many a man who faithfully paid whoever every week ended up knifed and robbed. That's when the gang swept in and "made an example" of those fools that dared interfere with merchants who'd paid them for protection.

Yeah, but it didn't mean much to the corpses...

For a moment he thought he'd just stay quiet. Not even move, or breathe. Eventually they'd go away, or they'd try to break in... gods, then there'd be trouble, but odds were-

"We know yer in there, ol' man!" The voice was like claws on stone, flinty and unyielding. "Don' wanna rob yer, an' that's the truth. Jus' got some questions for ya."

Stay quiet. They'll go away. Don't-

"Gonna count to five, old man. Then you lose a door and anything else I see in there gets smashed to shit, too. One... two... three-"

"All... All right! I'm coming!"

He slid the bolt free and opened up, letting in the cool night air, the only respite from the Summer heat the city seemed to get. But instead of sweet relief, Devane instead got the sight of naked, latent violence staring at him. One a good half-foot taller than him, weathered face and nasty scar twisting up one side of it at odds with the curious youth his voice and manner seemed to suggest. All in black, save for his white shirt, and behind him a rotund youth about the same age, odd tattoo over an eye across his nose.

"How... What, ah... what-"

"Thanks fer invitin' us in, old man."

Konrad pushed past and Three Eyes followed, closing the door behind him without taking his scowl off Devane. The philterer backpedaled and swallowed deep, wondering if he had any weapons close to hand save the dagger he kept at his desk. But no, it was too far, and Black Hat was already circling him with slow, measured steps... gazing around the store...

"This is, ah... fill-tear-in', ain't it? S'what you people call it?"

The smell was right, that much he was sure about. But he'd never been inside the store. Strange, how you can walk past a place a thousand times and never know what it is, or what it does. But then Konrad was there, studying the jars and pots and barrels, myriad of unusual and familiar smells assaulting him. He snorted softly as he notices the boxes of eggs, some with soft, tiny feathers still attached. He picked one up and turned it over in his hand.

"You use eggs? Mix t'em with the... whatever?"

"The pigment, yes, look, son, you should know, I'm paid up with the right people."

"Oh? And who're they?"

Konrad had to admit, it was funny hearing the old man stumble. He didn't even have to see it happen. He could close his eyes and see him shifting on his feet, licking his lips, marshaling fresh words for a new assault. Good. Let him sweat a little. But the old boy wasn't a pushover, too long in the tooth for that.

"The Daggerhands. Grimwald's boys, stay in the brothel down the way. Every week, I hand over my purse, and they promised me no trouble, in Robern's name."

"Trying to scare us off, old man?" Three Eyes cut on, grotesque abortion of a tattoo marring his face making him look like some stunted gargoyle in the lamplight. "Not very nice of you, is it? And 'ere we jus' want questions answered."

"Then why don't you ask them?"

That made Konrad turn and face him. Oh, there was some steel in that bent old spine yet, apparently. Devane bit his lip and looked up into a face that could make a daemon shudder. Konrad liked courage; he respected it, as long as it didn't cost him too much. Right now, it wasn't.

"I asked 'bout the eggs. Y'answered that one jus' fine. Got another one for ya. You ready?" He reached into his coat and pulled out a handkerchief nearly covered in fresh, wet paint. Speckles of brick and plaster peppered it, proof it was soaked up from a wall. Devane couldn't help but study and smell, take it right from Konrad's unresistant hand. "So... I 'member, when ah was a kid, comin' by this place and smellin' the paint. Smelled it earlier tonight, at a painting that kinda annoyed an... associate a'mine. Startin' to get a picture in yore head?"

Devane nodded slowly. He was as Berthian as anyone else: he listened to the gossip, contributed to it, circulated it, just another cog in the great and incomprehensible Sunberth rumor machine.

"This is about the pictures on the walls? About someone named 'Warrick'?"

"There ya go. Knew you'd be useful. So, this paint, this is what was used. I seen this shade not two bells ago, fresh on the wall. I seen it on a half-dozen others, same hand, same writing. So it is the same paint, ah think. Probably from the same store."

With a flick of flesh, Konrad had Devane's own wrist grasped in his hand. He squeezed, harder than was nice, until the old man's arm tremble and he was looking up into eyes devoid of anything resembling pity.

It was chicken, now. Would Devane call his bluff? Try to spout that same shite about being "protected"? Well, if he did-

"Warrick is one of Robern's people. Pays his dues as well, and much more'n you, I reckon," he lied as fluently as he could, making up words on the fly and relying on his ugly face pressed this close to Devane to make his point. "So he don't like it when some arsehole is goin' around, plasterin' that filth over the walls and the stores, draggin' him down and Robern himself by association, you get mah' meanin'?"

"I-I don't-"

"An' you imagine how much that protection'll be worth when he finds out the man selling that fuckin' paint to that fuckin' arsehole... is you. You imaginin', old man? I am. I'm imaginin' if he does find out, you'll be seeing us again..."

Three Eyes slid close, like a wraith sent by Dira, words hissed low and lethal in Devane's ear. "An' we won't be talkin', friend. Not at all..."

"Tell us who y'sold this paint to," Konrad said, reclaiming his stained handkerchief and not backing away an inch from the pale and trembling old philterer. "Goin' on the number a' paintin's an' pictures, woulda' been a lot, so you'd remember. Tell us who, and we'll work out the rest..."

Devane swallowed hard and screwed his eyes shut. He knew what would happen once he started talking. If he gave them what they wanted, people would die. But when he opened them again, Konrad hadn't looked away, and Three Eyes had some sharp and insistent poking in his sides.

"Oh... Okay... There was this kid..."

[Konrad Venger]

Looking back, he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. Probably because up until then, he'd been pretty clever.

They were two against who-knew-how-many. They were in unfamiliar territory, far from their usual back-alleys and haunts. The old philterer has sputtered and blurted out about a young man who said he was from the south side of town, buying a jar every other day for almost half a season. He'd come in with his hands stained as much as his clothes, and Devane hadn't been idle or deaf to the rumors.

"I... I never would have... sold them, if-if I knew-"

"Ah believe you," Konrad had said, voice a poor facsimile of giving a shit, but hells, he was in a hurry. Instead he just kneaded the old man's shoulder and plowed on. "You tell us where we kun'find 'im...?"

Actually, Devane could. And that's the point in the story where Konrad groaned and shook his head at his dumbass younger self.

Three Eyes and him could have ran back to Warrick, led him and his boys right to the grog shop Devane had named, then they could have sodding watched, if they'd wanted. Warrick would have handed over the fifty gold coins and that would have been that.

But no. You had to be a hard man, didn't you? Walkin' into the jaws of death like a regular godsdamned street daemon...

"So how'd we know which one it is?"

Konrad had been expecting that one, however. He passed the little bottle of booze back to its owner and Three Eyes took a slug for himself. Little liquid courage never hurt, especially when you're a young man... apparently. But they'd had time to think about it on the walk down to Slaver's Row, digesting all Devane had told them.

"Well, we know he's got them freckles an' that red hair... scar on his cheek-"

"Like yers?"

"Probably nod'as bad."

"An' he's probably covered n'paint."

"Well... not covered, but dirty with it."

"Okay... okay.."

He caught the note of concern in Three Eyes' voice; saw it when he looked down and found the younger merk chewing his nails and casting a long, pregnant stare at the tavern down the street. Konrad suppressed the urge to roll his eyes or cuss him out: you didn't go into a strange place without back-up, that was practically a petching rule. Besides, Three Eyes was coming in there, because-

"Hey, boy, if'n you don't want your thirty coins and wanna run on home instead..."

The one-two punch of greed and ego was enough to screw up Three Eyes' face in defiance, jutting his chin out like he was prone to do (no matter how many times someone obliged him by punching it).

"Long as I get paid, I'm with ya. Just... dunno what's in there."

"Yeah..."

Konrad couldn't add much onto the back of that, so he didn't. The tavern was ahead of them, crude sign above it proclaiming the joint to be the "Bear And Pony". Yep, exactly where Devane said it would be. Shadows loped and caroused inside, a packed house like any successful Sunberth drinking pit.

Could be one man. Could be the whole petching bar backing him up.

That should have been a sign. Hells, it would have been a sign to a deaf, dumb and blind moron, but Konrad had come this far and that simple act of going the distance made him want to go the rest of it. Him and Three Eyes. Well... mainly him, really. That's how people would remember it.

He stroked the hilt of his kopis and promised it a neck, very soon.

"Les'go."

Looking back, he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. Daring and bold, sure, but that was already evident. There was a difference, however, between being brave and just being plain stupid, and Baltus knew when the second Daggerhand walked in, that was just what he'd been.

"Did you see-"

"Yeah, I did. Cool it."

The first man through the door, the whole damn pub saw him come in. Tall, black from head to toe, that ridiculous hat... and then they got a look at his face. Looked like a pitbull had been gnawing on his cheek for way too long and he carried himself like a man forever on the edge of butchering everyone around him.

He cast his eyes around the bar, far too casual, so casual it was petching obvious, and Baltus saw all the pieces fall together when they rested on him-

-flickered down to his paint-covered sleeves-

-and sat down for a drink.

Might as well have given me the finger and challenged me to a fight.

"What're we gonna do?"

Gods, the fear was already thick in Remy's voice, just from the sight of some guy with a hat and a scar. He had a nasty-looking sword on his hip, sure, but so did every ganger in the 'berth. Baltus was hardly impressed.

"What I said: cool it. He's alone, for now. But just in case he isn't... Jhargo? Sit at the bar. Yeah, few seats up. Keep an eye on us through the mirror."

The hulking Drykas (well, ex-Drykas) got to his feet and obeyed without a word. Though that wasn't unusual, since he'd had his tongue cut out once the slavers got hold of him. Remy was family, his cross to bear, but Jhargo? He was muscle, pure and simple, well-paid and given enough leash to make himself feel like a free man.

Baltus was good at balancing the two. Greed and need, whatever the latter might be. He was barely in his twenty-fifth year and already he could see the angles, play them well enough.

Hence Warrick. Now that was a smart angle...

"Ah. There we go."

Jhargo had settled into his seat and ordered a brew by the time the second man walked in. Short, stocky, an almost contrived partner for the tall, rangy figure who came in first. Baltus resisted the urge to chuckle into his cup as the tattooed figure - gods, is that meant to be a fucking eye? - nonchalantly sat next to Black Hat... after giving the same look around the room.

"They're coming over-"

"Yeah, I can see that, just calm the fuck down, will you?"

Baltus just watched as they walked over. Looked Black Hat flat in the face as he worked his way through the drunks and the hookers and the tables, until he looked up from under the brim and they locked eyes.

The painter smiled. Tugged at his sleeves. Didn't even bother to hide it... and Konrad smiled.

"Lookin' to guy me a petching drink, mate?" Baltus said, lounging back so far in his seat that his chair scraped across the floor. "Saw you and yer friend giving me The Eye. Gotta admit, I'm flattered, but-"

"Come with regards from Warrick," Konrad said, not petching around in that shithole any longer than he had to. He saw the kid, the paint, the smirk, but he also saw the guy seated next to him. Scared. Slight. Armed but not wanting to use it. The other guy, the big one, had left, and that gave Three Eyes and him a window to get this done quick. "Shouldn'ta' put up those paintin's, funny man. He didn't like the joke."

He smirked as he drew his kopis. Loved the feel of that weight in his hand, the way it sang softly through the smoky air. Artist's little ratboy friend swallowed hard at the sight of it, and Konrad drank it in.

"So now we're-"

"RAAAAAAAH!"

A roar barely human, barely restrained, exploded behind his ear and shattered everything resembling concentration that he had. Women shrieked as something huge blotted out the light behind him and Konrad's head whipped around-

-just in time to see Three Eyes go down hard, heavy clay mug of beer smashed against his head, brew mixing with blood as it rained down onto the floor.

The big guy. He was at the bar. Godsdamnit, he'd missed it-

He tried to raise his sword and a hand like a ham-hock wrapped around his wrist, stopping it dead-

-and the last thing he was aware of was a forehead the size and weight of an anvil roaring towards his face, pain like Syna exploding under his skin, and laughter - mocking, victorious laughter - as darkness swallowed him whole.

[Konrad Venger]

"Fuck me, that is one hard damned head you've got, boy..."

Konrad supposed he should "thank" his father for that. Old bastard knocked him around plenty before he was even old enough to play with himself; he knew how to take a punch at a hideously young age.

Bollocks...

Even thinking hurt. The darkness lasted but a moment, a weightless, senseless place where he was only just aware that he was falling without actually feeling it-

-but he did feel the impact when he landed on the table, then the hands crawling all over him, pinning him there. He blinked and each scrape of his eyelids felt like hell, the grimy light stung and then the first clear face was just the cherry on the cake.

"Walked into the wrong tavern, m'friend. Jhargo? Get him up."

The shaved Jamoura behind them did as he was told, barely even grunting as he hoisted Konrad up on his feet, one meaty arm wrapped around his torso. His kopis was long-gone; now he only had the knife in his boot... and no way to get it.

Soon as the room stops spinning, I'll deal with that.

Their corner of the tavern cleared out fast. The bartender groused and suddenly the cool and smirking Artist was shouting, yelling, eyes wide and tone vicious. Konrad squinted and saw that man for what he was in that moment. Maybe it was his brain being a little scrambled; helped his perception a little bit.

A man who liked power. Liked controlling people, playing people, toying with them even without gold on the line. He drew a curved blade from his belt and stood, Ratboy joining him. Konrad blinked at the knife. It was like his kopis, but smaller, curve more pronounced.

He kind of liked it. Or would have, if it wasn't pointing at him.

"Think I'mma take my time with you, boy. I mean, the paintings were one thing, but now I got one of Warrick's little monkeys, right here? Oh, I can't pas that one up."

Keep talking, Konrad thought, taking a frantic, silent inventory as the Ape held him steady, breathing heavy like a rabid horse just behind his ear. Three Eyes was twitching at his side, head a bloody mess, probably not even conscious. No help there.

"I've still got some paint left. Not enough for a whole, heh... fresco, as it were, but..." Artist's eyes roved across Konrad's body like he was judging how slack a whore might be with her breeches off. Again that handsome face split into a grin that was anything but. "... I think I can get plenty more outta you. Just for texture, y'know?"

Baltus thought he'd have to adjust his breeches soon; his hardness was starting to get awkward. Ugly fuck that he was, Black Hat was just another helpless peon now, and he was gleefully playing over how he'd strip him naked and go to work on his flesh. Ah, the finest canvas. A proper crescendo to his symphony.

But then the bastard's head hung low and he thought the fun was already over. What a disappointment! His smile turned into a snarl and he opened his mouth to-

With a snarl Konrad snapped his head back as hard as he could mange, back of his skull connecting with Jhargo's face like a blunt, hairy club. The Drykas roared in pain and reeled back, Konrad already wriggling, only needing a moment-

"Fucker!"

Well, Three Eyes wasn't quite completely out of it. He'd been biding his time as well, of a sorts, and lunged forward from the ground to wrap his arms around Jhargo's legs, the big man toppling over-

-just as Konrad kicked out and pushed as hard against the table edge as he could, sending it flying towards and into the legs of Baltus and Remy, knocking them back into their seats-

"Ahhhhhh shyke!"

Drykas and humans fell back with a thump that knocked over bottles on the bar, a tangled mess of swinging limbs and beer and booze. Arm free for a moment, Konrad jerked to his side and down, pawing at his boot-

"RRRAAAAAHHH!"

"Ah, shaddup-!"

-pulling the dagger from his boot and nearly dislocating his arm as he jerked it behind him and up-

-burying it deep in the crotch of the Drykas that had cushioned his fall. The roar became a shriek, rising higher and higher as he twisted, popping and crushing things, blood and other nameless fluids pouring over his hands and he rolled away from the mess, leaving Three Eyes to deal with the gelded giant-

"Fuckin' little shit-"

Feet pounding the boards, Artist and Ratboy righting themselves and surging over the tables. He had moments, if he was lucky, to lunge across the floor and grab his kopis-

-just as Artist kicked out at his hand and sent it clamoring across the ground, kukri slashing down-

-and burying into the boards as Konrad rolled away, scooting back on his arse as Artist pulled it free, grabbing Ratboy by the lapel and nearly throwing him towards him.

"Do something useful and fucking kill him, you twat!"

[Konrad Venger]

Ratboy pulled a straight little blade and screwed up what courage he had, advancing fast on the prone Konrad. The scarred brawler managed to get up on one knee, taking in the scene:

Three Eyes and the newly-made eunuch Drykas punching, kicking and gouging at each other, his partner pulling free a blade with one hand while the other sunk its thumb deep into the man's eye.

Artist holding back, face red and raging, watching-

Ratboy, sliding forward and striking out with no finesse, just that unskilled, half-desperate desire to stick his blade into Konrad and get it over with.

Not good enough, cunt.

Head as clear as it was going to get, Konrad twisted to the side and the knife sailed past his gut instead of impaling it, bringing Ratboy close enough for-

-his fist to swing around and crack against his skull, knocking him against the bar-

-covered in bottles, Konrad grabbing the nearest one-

-swaying away as Rayboy lashed out almost blindly, yelp of injured fear squealing from his lips-

More wasted booze and pottery flew through the air as Konrad backhanded the half-full bottle against the man's skull, sending him reeling back with shards of it sticking out of his bloody face, leaving the neck of the bottle still in his hand-

With a snarl befitting anything but a human, he surged forward and before Ratboy could even shake and blink away his blindness, jabbed it deep into his throat. Stunned eyes popped open, trying to scream, trying to beg his friend for help, but instead all that came out was blood and bile and Konrad grabbed him by the hair and tossed him to the side.

"Fucking... fucking.... fuck you!"

Everything was falling apart in front of Baltus' eyes. A half-chime ago he was master of all he surveyed, captain of his destiny, relishing the joys ahead as he took Black Hat apart, strip by strip. Now he looked down and saw Three Eyes plunging his dagger into Jhargo's chest over and over again, the big man gripping his throat even as he died, tears and blood streaming down Three Eyes' face as he yelled and cursed and-

Remy, at his feet, pawing weakly at his leg as a crimson pool spread out beneath his head like a stinking halo. The cousins locked eyes and Baltus just.. didn't know what to do. He wanted to help, wanted to run, wanted to berate the fucking idiot for not even knowing how to stick a knife in a man, but then Remy's eyes went cold, dead marbles in a still face, and-

There was the scrape of metal on wood. He looked up and it was Konrad's turn to smirk. His nose was a squashed and broken mess. He was breathing heavy and splattered with blood... but he had his kopis back in his hand, and he was advancing.

"Shoulda' killed me the second I hit the table, boy. But now-"

He lunged in mid-sentence, curved blade chopping through the air as he burst forward, aiming for Baltus' left side. Out of instinct the Artist did as he thought he would: jerk his kukri to block him, blades clanging out in the grimy air of the tavern-

-giving Konrad the opening he wanted to kick out at the boy's shin, just below his knee. Baltus yelped and staggered back, swinging wildly with his kukri like it was a miniature sword, already trying to hobble for the door-

No you fucking don't!

He wasn't letting him get away, wasn't letting up. Didn't suffer and bleed and come an inch away from becoming this head-bloated fuck's masterpiece to let him scurry away now. He slashed again and Baltus backpedaled fast, just trying to get away-

-and Konrad grabbed a bar stool with his free hand as he advanced, raising it the same time as he did his sword-

-and hurling the wooden chair with a bellow of hatred, watching it tip and turn over in the air-

-and smack into Artist square in the chest, knocking him back to the ground, shaking his head, kukri coming up-

The kopis sang. The song was short, and interrupted by flesh and cloth and then there was a hand sailing lazily through the air, trailing blood and still clutching that kukri.

Baltus looked down at the stump where his hand had been, feeling bile rise in his throat, other hand up, as if the sight of it could ward off the blood-splattered monster. Words started to spill from his lips with the bile and he choked it down, burning his throat, licking dry lips, salvaging, plotting, scheming-

"W-Wait-wait-wait! Don't y-you wanna know why?! W-Why Warrick, why-"

"Couldn't fuckin' care less-"

"NOPLEASE-!"

Konrad brought the kopis down like the wrath of the gods and split him open from breast to gut. A bloody maw opened up in a moment, stringy yellow fat quivering inside, blood gushing to cover everything and the Artist looked down in horror, tried to scream as it came down again-

-and again-

-and again-

"K... Konrad?!"

There was a voice. Yes. A voice. Behind him. Konrad blinked and looked up from the meat. That's all it was. Some scraps of clothes. Some skin still just smeared scarlet and not painted with it. Above it all a face frozen forever in agony stared blindly at the ceiling. Artist. The gold. The job.

The job with-

He turned to find Three Eyes standing there, face a mess and eyes shocked at what he'd done. In one hand he held his own dagger, in the other Konrad's. He handed it back and Venger tucked it back in his boot out of instinct, blinking away the bloodlust and the fury...

"'e's... 'e's dead, mate."

The bar was silent. A dozen faces warped with horror stared at the scene. The three bodies, hewn like pigs at a butchers, blood and guts festooning tables and the walls and the bar and... gods, even the ceiling. Standing in it all, the scarred man who reached down... put his hat back on his head.

And spoke.

"What was that?"

"His head."

Konrad said, and his voice made Three Eyes try to remember a prayer he knew when he was a boy. Probably the only one he ever knew. It was low and quiet and... calm. There was more blood on the man than cloth and skin, but he ignored it all... and grabbed Artist by the hair, jerking it up-

"A hundred mizas fer his head. That's whut Warrick sed. So..."

-and pulling back his kopis, high and to the side, feeling the fresh wetness drool and slide down his sleeve.

"That's whut we're gonna give'im-"

The kopis was a fine blade, but not quite heavy enough. It took three hard, meaty tchwacks! through flesh and muscle and bone before the Artist's spine was shattered and Konrad ripped it clear. A fresh fountain drained onto the ground and he turned one last time, Three Eyes already making for the door after rifling Jhargo and Remy's pockets. Of course.

Konrad leered at the bar. Not a hand raised in protest. Even some beers being drunk. A Sunberth crowd. Death and pain and desecration of a corpse... really? Was that all? He raised the head and Baltus' eyes rolled up into his skull, whites all that anyone could see.

"Ain't funny now, is'e? Huh?"

That's how he left them, and that's how he remembered. Just a throaty chuckle that tugged at his scarred lips, echoing behind him as he walked across the soaking boards. Three Eyes holding the door open, head swinging at his side, in his hand, gripped by the hair.

"Fuckin' night, huh?"

"Aye," Konrad said, eyes fixed forward on the purse at the end of his walk. "Fuckin' night."

[Hwyn]

You've gotten a grade from the marvelous grading rapscallion, I know, I'm great! feel free to remind me whenever!!

XP Award!

Name:Konrad XP Award:

• Intelligence 2
• Tracking 2
• Interrogation 2
• Intimidation 3
• Observation 4
• Brawling 2
• Weapon: Khopesh 1
• Kukri 1

Lore:

• Brawling: Glass Bottles, Effective for Clubbing and Stabbing
• Tracking: Smell of paint.
• Intelligence: Scent is an important sense.

Notes: I'd almost say your ability to be so bad is impressive if you weren't so scary, Anyways Great thread, fun to read!