Completed [Job Thread] Rumble Under the Stars

[Tarn Alrenson]

24th of Summer, 518 AV The pale moon cast Tarn’s face in an eerie light as he stalked the dark streets of the Castle Commons. The Sun’s Birth rarely patrolled this far outside of their domain, and when they did, it was posturing, displays meant to be seen by their rivals, not real attempts at quelling the rampant thievery and occasional murder in the area. That was why Tarn walked alone. The very thought of trying to convince anybody else to join him on night patrol filled him with dread. Regardless of good intentions, or the relative difficulty of procuring accompaniment, what he was doing was dumb. Dumb enough to get him killed and strung up as a message to his organization if he wasn’t careful. If you couldn’t be careful enough to keep yourself from walking into life-threatening situations, you had to at least try to be careful enough to get out of them. It was funny, in a way. Just a few months ago, what he was doing would have been unthinkable, but now, with a sunburst seared onto his hand, he felt safe doing this? Well, not exactly safe, but it was necessary. Several large Sunberth rats scampered away as Tarn approached, their feet tapping the cobblestones with audible clicks. As he walked, Tarn’s eyes were drawn to the sky. Brilliant stars filled his vision, arrayed in fantastical patterns. The dull warm glow of the Slag Heap was just visible in the distance as well, an omnipresence in Sunberth at night. Despite the ever-looming threat of death from walking these streets alone at this time, it was quite peaceful. While still laden with the scents of the city, the air was just a bit clearer at night, and there were far fewer people. There were others that roamed the more dangerous streets of Sunberth at night, and few of them benign. Most of these people would avoided Tarn, wishing to go about their business in private. Others would examine him briefly before fading back into the night at the sight of the spear he carried. In Sunberth, even those that didn’t make a habit of thievery would take up the trade if they saw an easy target. Tarn tried to walk quietly, but each step he took rang out, announcing his position to anybody within earshot. A small voice in the back of his head begged Tarn to return to the Barracks, and to his warm cot. He shushed the voice. He had joined the Sun’s Birth out of a desire to help the city. If the leaders he served under would not use him effectively toward that goal, Tarn would have to do it in what time he could find, and it just so happened that the longest stretch of time uninterrupted by any of his duties to the Sun’s Birth was nighttime. As he continued, Tarn passed familiar streets and buildings. While he purposefully avoided the vicinity of his old home, he had roamed much of this area as a young boy, conniving with his friends to cause minor mischief. As long as you were careful about who you messed with, there was a world of opportunity for causing trouble in an anarchy like Sunberth. Tarn didn’t look too close at any of the paces he had the fondest memories of. He preferred to leave those memories in his mind in their untarnished state, free from the touch of the corruption he now saw everywhere. A sound reached Tarn’s ears that broke his reverie, snapping him back to the present. It was an alarmed shout, resonating from a street just ahead of him. Tarn took off toward the sound at a dead run, hoping he wasn’t getting into something he would live to regret, but hoping dearer that he would at least live to regret it. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 635 Total: 4879 Job Thread Total 635

[Tarn Alrenson]

Tarn rounded the corner and skidded to a halt, spear held at the ready. He quickly picked out two shapes in the dim light, struggling fiercely. With a labored grunt, the taller of the two figures shoved the other one back, creating just enough space for the figure to swing the cudgel in its hand. The strike connected with and audible crack, and the second figure crumpled to the ground in a heap. The first, larger figure bent down and began to rifle through the pockets of the fallen combatant. “Hey!” Tarn called out, stepping forward. The figure jumped upright in surprise, turning towards Tarn. Tarn continued to advance and the figure came into clearer view. It was a rough-looking man with scraggly facial hair and a heavy looking cudgel in his hand. Tarn felt the man examine him at the same time he performed his own evaluation. The man must have recognized the studded leather armor as the Dragoon uniform that it was, because he snarled, “Back of Sun’s Birth crud! This is my prey!” The man took a threatening step forward. Tarn thought he glimpsed a circular tattoo on the man’s arm. just great, he thought, a Daggerhand. And this particular Daggerhand was quite angry. And armed. Tarn brandished his weapon, bracing his legs and rolling forward onto the balls of his feet, preparing for quick movement. His foe dropped into a predatory crouch, holding the cudgel just above his head. The man was leaving himself open! His entire abdomen was exposed. Tarn lunged forward, extending his spear in a thrust to the man’s stomach. With a grace that belied his haggard frame, the Daggerhand stepped to the side of the thrust, avoiding it completely, and brought the cudgel down, connecting and bouncing off of Tarn’s right shoulder. Pain blossomed in his arm. Tarn scrambled back as the man pressed his advantage. He managed to get his spear point in between him and the Daggerhand before any more blows could land, and the fight was back to a standstill. Tarn eyed his opponent warily, the Daggerhand was back in that deceptively open stance, grinning toothily at Tarn. He decided to let the Daggerhand make the first move this time, he was now very cautious of the man’s lightning fast counter-strikes. With any luck, the man would run forward and spit himself on Tarn’s spear like a charging boar. As if Tarn had luck worth a copper Miza. With a shout, the Daggerhand swung the cudgel to beat aside Tarn’s spear. The force of the bow sent the spear’s long point towards the ground, but Tarn managed to bring the butt-end of the weapon up just in time to block the ensuing strike. The cudgel landed heavily, jarring Tarn’s shoulders in their sockets. Gritting his teeth, Tarn twisted his shoulders and arms, bringing the spearhead whipping around toward the man’s head. The man was too far inside Tarn’s guard however, and the haft of the spear caught the man in the temple about halfway down its length. The Daggerhand snarled, jabbing Tarn in the stomach with the cudgel. All the breath was knocked out of Tarn’s lungs, and he hunched over, gasping for air. The man grabbed Tarn by the shoulders, grinning in triumph, and rotated, slamming Tarn’s back into the nearby alley wall. Tarn’s spear clattered to the ground as he gasped in pain. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 566 Total: 5445 Job Thread Total: 1201

[Tarn Alrenson]

Tarn’s vision swam as he desperately tried to drag air back into his starved lungs. The Daggerhand stood in front of him with a malicious grin, brandishing his cudgel. The man raised his weapon in what would surely be the final blow of the fight, when Tarn gathered some of his wits about him. No! He thought. Tarn pushed off of the alley wall, diving forward at the man’s feet. The cudgel passed over his head, and Tarn almost thought he could hear it whistle through the air. Tarn’s knees struck the hard cobblestones, sending lances of pain through his legs. Tarn scrambled across the ground desperately, reaching out around him until his hands closed around the haft of a familiar weight. His shortspear. Tarn raised the weapon, warding off his opponent while he rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily. The Daggerhand growled in rage at letting his kill get away, spinning to meet Tarn with wild eyes. Tarn took a few quick retreating steps, gasping in air. The man charged, raising his cudgel to once again beat aside Tarn’ s spear. Recognizing the movement, Tarn jabbed forward, aiming to impale his opponent’s thigh. Running legs made for less than ideal targets however, and the spearhead ended up only grazing the man’s leg just below the hip. The wound must have been painful however, as the man howled, losing focus on his attack and simply running into Tarn, bowling both of them over. As they struck the ground, Tarn managed to scramble on top of the Daggerhand, planting a heavy fist into the man’s nose with a sickening crunch. The man screamed in fury, seizing Tarn’s hand as he reached back to punch again, yanking Tarn to the side. The two combatants scrambled for purchase on one another, wrestling on the grimy streets of Sunberth. The Daggerhand managed to grasp a fistful of Tarn’s hair, using it to smash his face into the ground. Overcome with adrenalin and rage, Tarn surged forward. By happenstance, his elbow ended up hooked behind the man’s knee, and he forced the man over and onto his back, Tarn’s shoulder planted in his stomach. The man punched furiously, raining blows down on Tarn’s back and the top of his head. Tarn planted one hand on the ground to the side of the man, using it to rise halfway to his feet before dropping again, putting the momentum behind a devastating punch. The man twisted his head at just the right time however, his fist glanced of the Daggerhand’s skull near his ear before striking the ground, bloodying Tarn’s knuckles. Tarn cried out in pain, just as the man’s relentlessly scrambling feet finally caught purchase on Tarn’s abdomen, and with a kick he threw Tarn off and to the side. Both men scrambled to their feet, but the Daggerhand was faster. As Tarn began to rise, the Daggerhand’s boot forcibly made contact with the crown of his head, leaving Tarn wobbling backwards halfway to his feet. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 500 Total: 5945 Job Thread Total: 1701

[Tarn Alrenson]

The Daggerhand stepped forward and once again grabbed a handful of Tarn’s dirty hair, steadying Tarn’s head for a second before rearing back and punching him in the face with a resounding crack. Tarn stumbled backwards, head spinning and fluttering with incoherent thoughts. His heel caught something on the ground, and he fell to his back, arms splayed out to his sides. Through his muddled brain and the blood roaring in his ears, Tarn heard a sickening peal of mad laughter coming from his opponent. The man stepped forward stooping over Tarn, showing his gap-filled yellowed teeth in a crazy grin. What had he tripped over? The ground was smooth on this street, and he hadn’t seen any debris strewn around. The Daggerhand spat a bloody glob of saliva at Tarn’s face before wiping his face with his sleeve. “You put up a bloody good fight, ‘fer a kid,” the man said. He then delivered a swift kick to Tarn’s ribs, causing him to hiss in pain. “In a couple a’ years, ya’ might have even come close ta winnin!” The man lifted his leg and stomped on Tarn’s chest, planting his heel in Tarn’s solar plexus. Spikes of pain shot through the area. Tarn would have screamed, but there wasn’t enough breath in his lungs to let out the noise. Instead what came out was some sort of pathetic gasping whine. The man crouched down near Tarn’s head, bending over him so Tarn could smell the Daggerhand’s rancid breath, stinking worse than the Slag Heap in the middle of a muggy summer afternoon. “But you know we can’t have you Dragoons wanderin’ around the city like you own it!” He hissed, “Somebody has to put you curs in your place!” With that the man leaned forward, pressing his knee onto Tarn’s throat. “Don’t worry,” the man whispered, “It’s just like fallin’ to sleep.” Tarn’s eyes bulged outward, but he couldn’t summon the strength to resist much more than futilely beating his legs against the ground a few times and squirming weakly. Was this it? Was his struggle—all those years spent working and biting and clinging to life as a child, the pain at the loss of everyone he’d ever cared for—meant to be ended in an instant by a chance encounter in the night? The ever-present rage that sat in his chest beat weakly in time with his heart and his throbbing wounds, like an icy pinprick and a hot poker all at once. Tarn’s steely resolve softened. Maybe there would be peace in death. He could rest, truly rest without fear or anxiety for the first time in years. Perhaps when he was spun out again and reborn, another thread in the great tapestry of time woven from people’s lives, his yolk would be lighter. Maybe in his next life Tarn would be a hero, or a knight, or an adventurous explorer, discovering new lands with a wry grin on his face and a quick-witted retort for every insult. But it seemed fate had other plans for Tarn before his next rebirth. As darkness was beginning to creep in along the edges of his vision, a sharp crack filled the air, and the Daggerhand toppled off him, the pressure on his throat relieved. Tarn laboriously sucked in air, as he had been forced to do far too much already that night. When his vision cleared, Tarn saw a stocky woman dropping a rather large stone and brushing her hands off on her apron. It was the Daggerhand’s original victim. Speaking of the Daggerhand, the man was lying on the ground beside Tarn, blood matting the side of his head. The woman nudged him with her foot, nodding in satisfaction when he was completely unconscious. “Serves a bloke right ‘fer getting in me way!” she said. Tarn sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 650 Total: 6595 Job Thread Total: 2351

[Tarn Alrenson]

So, Tarn’s journey wasn’t over yet. The knowledge came with a healthy portion of relief, and the ecstasy that comes with narrowly avoiding death. That joy was tempered however by the weight of Tarn’s ambitious goals resettling themselves upon his shoulders. He turned his gaze to his savior. She was sturdily built and looked to be in her middle years at least. She possessed an air of stern strength; the kind of person children were wary around when causing their mischief. “Are you alright?” he managed to croak at her through his damaged throat. The heavyset woman looked at him incredulously. “Am I a’right? Yer the one that looks ‘alfway to Dira’s doorstep lad! Pffft!” The woman turned and began to walk off, mumbling under her breath, “am I alright? Ha!” “Wait!” Tarn called, scrambling to get to his feet. He hurt all over. His chest and ribs felt like he’d been run over by a team of oxen, his knees sent lances of pain through his legs whenever he moved them, half his face was caked in his own blood, and his skull felt like a blacksmith’s anvil with all the pounding going on up there. Once standing, Tarn found his spear laying by his feet. He’d tripped over his own weapon! Stooping over and gritting his teeth through the agony, Tarn retrieved the spear. Leaning heavily upon it, like an old man with a cane, Tarn hobbled over to the woman who was picking up a few items from the ground that she must have dropped when the Daggerhand had jumped her. Tarn gulped, wincing when the motion made his throat hurt even more. There would definitely be bruising. “Thank you, for… you know… knocking him out.” Tarn said, not sure how to go about this. The streets of Sunberth were cutthroat, and this woman had proved her mettle to the point that Tarn felt the need for at least a slight measure of caution around her, regardless of any assistance she had offered him. The woman gave Tarn a sidelong glance. “I didn’t knock ‘im about ‘fer you, Dragoon. He tried to rob me! Any gangman fool enough to try that deserves a good lump on the head, and more.” She picked up the last of her things, a belt knife, which she stuck into its appropriate place with the telltale rasp of steel on leather. “In any case, you have my gratitude,” Tarn said. The woman huffed and turned to him. Her face was hard and stern, as was her voice when she said, “I don’t want your gratitude. Daggerhands, Sun’s Births, yer all the same. You soak the streets in blood and ruin fer yer own sakes. The only difference is that you Sun Births say ya do it fer the good of e’rybody else.” The woman straightened her apron and narrowed her eyes at Tarn. “If I had my way, we’d run all of yous outa town, let the people do what we do without hav’n to beholden to nobody.” With that statement she strode off, taking a brief moment to examine the Daggerhand’s fallen cudgel before sticking that in her belt as well before vanishing into the night. Tarn stood there in that dark alley without words to fill the silence, realizing in the recent months he had seen the truth of her words with his own eyes. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 565 Total: 7160 Job Thread Total 2916

[Tarn Alrenson]

Tarn shook himself out of his reverie, realizing standing alone in a dark alley at night was a good way to let someone else come along and finish him off. As he prepared to leave, Tarn noticed a sturdy leather pack lying next to where his assailant had fallen. It must have slipped off the man’s shoulders when he had been knocked out. Tarn was in need of a good pack, so with a wince and a stab of pain in his ribs, he bent down to recover it, slinging it around one of his own shoulders. Leaning heavily upon his spear, Tarn limped out of the alleyway and into the wider street, sticking to the edges. He made a beeline straight for the Sun’s Refuge and the relative safety therein. Tarn tried his best to stand straight and walk smoothly, but he couldn’t help hunching over a little in pain, and he found he could do nothing to calm his laborious breathing. Several of the numerous shady figures that roamed the streets at night approached Tarn, stalking a little closer than they had before he had met the Daggerhand. They must have sensed his weakness. However, most of them turned away when Tarn strode into one of the small spheres of light surrounding the occasional lamps, as the long spearhead on his “walking stick” came into view, along with the blood that still stained one side of it. Even the hardiest of thugs hesitated to embroil themselves with that kind of trouble, and if the target seemed weak, the risk was still too great for most. Tarn let out a sigh of relief as he entered his own gang’s territory, nodding at the other Dragoons on guard duty. One of the younger ones—about Tarn’s age, maybe a little older—called out to him promising a round of drinks in exchange for the story about how he’d gotten the tar beaten out of him. The man didn’t seem completely satisfied when Tarn told him the story wasn’t that good, he’d just come out on the wrong end of a fight after all, but he let it be. Tarn stumbled into the barracks, staggering to the point that anybody watching would have thought he was drunk. He collapsed onto his cot face-first, letting his spear slip from his fingers. He would probably be reprimanded for getting bloodstains on his bedlinens, but right then, he simply didn’t care. All he wanted was peaceful, deep, dreamless sleep… (Backpack of Voiding from Marathon Challenge, link in CS)(415 words, Job Thread Total 3331)

[Kynier]

Grades!

Skill Rewards

• Endurance +3
• Observation +5
• Socialization +1
• Unarmed Combat +1
• Weapon: Short Spear +2
• Wrestling +1

Lores Learned

• Sun Birth: Sends people out on dumb, hazardous patrols
• Sun Birth: Not well viewed by regular citizens
• Self: Leaves memories unscathed from corruption
• Self: There may be peace in death
• Short Spear: Tip keeps opponents at bay
• Short Spear: Stabbing at running legs is difficult

Rewards

• Backpack of Voiding

Penalties

Injuries

• Hand-Will take 11 days to heal. Will have limited use and a weak grip until then.
• Concussion-Tarn will have a sensitivity to light for 14 days leaving him prone to headaches.

Other Notes

A good brief combat scene. Looking forward to reading more of your work! If you have an questions or concerns about your grade please feel free to PM me.