A Fistful of Rent (Private)

[Rynvard]

Rynvard, come here. Do you remember the story I told you about the slave who rose to be a crimelord?

Rynvard moved his muscles to counter the shopkeeper's offer of blood, but his words froze in his throat when the doctor said, "Fine." He almost turned around in shock, almost dropped the entire charade and pleaded with the man. If he had, his entire air of importance - the thing he'd been building on since the moment he laid quite a bit more than that trinket was worth on the table - would've flown entirely out the window, and he'd have as much chance of making it out of here alive and with the medicine plant as a fish does on top of the ice surrounded by Icewatch Kelvic. His heart beat wildly in his chest. His fur tunic was beginning to feel warm for the first time since he was a lad, and his father had caught him trying to sneak into Morwen's palace to get a glimpse of the Goddess' beauty. His breath was ragged with fear, so he consciously inhaled and exhaled with determined slowness.

Haha! The point, son? The point's simple enough. Greed will always devour the soul and transform it into the very thing it despises. No man is a match for greed, not even a Vantha. That is why we pray to our Goddess Morwen, for her forgiveness and her blessing.

Every fiber of his mental capacity was working to control his breathing. How was he going to hold himself together now? How long could he last? Five minutes? No, even less. Much, much less. He had to get out. It's now or never, ya moron.

Grinning slightly, trying to convey more confidence than he felt, he held his right hand up in peace and let it slowly drop to his side. There, it clumsily undid the knots binding his money sack to his belt. Once the bag was free, his hand was supposed to catch it. No such luck. The bag dropped, but, luck would have it, the pouch landed on Ryn's foot. He kicked it up with the grace of a turtle, caught it with a swing of his hand, and tossed it nonchalantly on the table.

If you're going to leave, and Morwen only knows why, I want you to remember this: don't be afraid to part with your money, if it might save your life. Come back to me, my son. To your family.

He turned on a heel and strode briskly towards the exit. "There's more money there than you'll know what to do with, elder."

He stopped by the pot the doctor had put down not long before, eyeing it for a second, as if thinking. Which, of course, he was not. No time to think. Only time to see if the bolt will come. If he was wrong in his estimation of the elder, and the bolt does come, the elder only has one shot. He'd have to listen for it. Crossbows weren't silent in the least when they fired, but they weren't slow, either. And if he was right, and the elder's greed was strong, then he'd walk out of here safe and sound; at least, until the elder realized Ryn wasn't going to fulfill his promise.

"I'll be takin' the plant, too. You'll get double the amount in the bag for it, come tomorrow at midday."

After snatching the blasted plant swiftly, Ryn the possibly dead Vantha grasped the cold handle of the door and pushed, preparing to meet either the setting sun or running blood.

[Mastermind]

"Ain't no lives on me hands, boy, 'cept the ones I took wit dis here crosser," spat the old man, as if he was offended my Maric's statement. While his eyes had been on Rynvard the entire time, there was an obvious shift in attention, the "doctor" having egressed through the door, it was clear that the old man's murderous attention was fully on the Vantha now. A flicker of doubt flashed through his eyes after the kick-up of the coin purse. Almost as if he thought that maybe the man before him was much much more than initially estimated. The doubt was gone when the money was laid before him. Whether it was overshadowed by greed, or something else, was not quite clear. He smiled, crooked yellow teeth showing behind stretched, chapped lips. "I could spen' this a' Braga's in two nights if I had the inklin'." His eyes turned to suspicion at the mention of further payment. "Na likely me thinks. Why wooja come back 'tall?" He was about to say more when Rynvard snatched the plant and opened the door. There was a loud crack. The sound of a crossbow firing. Then there was pain, alot of it, in Rynvard's hand, and blood. It was followed by a shattering sound as the plant's pot burst apart, spilling dirt and herb to the ground to mix with blood. This was followed by yelling, mostly curses, from inside the shop, and the sound of someone rushing to follow. Through tears and pain Rynvard could see the old man running at him, a wicked looking axe in his hand. The shopkeep was visible through the open door to Maric as well, and he had the look of imminent killing on his face.

[Mastermind]

Are You There? This thread has been inactive for twelve days. If you wish to continue, please do so. If you need more time, PM me, I'm very understanding about RL issues. If nobody has responded in one week, whether with another post or a PM, I will relegate this to my holdover list for one month. If there is still no response, I retain the right to abandon it entirely.

[Rynvard]

OOCCouldn't get a hold of Maric. Should we assume his character ran away?

A thousand curses pounded their nails into Ryn's head at once, their roaring torrent equally as painful as the bolt that had pierced the back of his hand. Okay, maybe not as painful, but darn near close. The victorious of the two pains racked Ryn's body. Blood flowed from the wound, but not as quickly as Ryn was expecting. So says the last coherent thought of this Vantha.

Forgetting the whole reason he'd risked his life in the first place, he turned tail and ran toward the door - or he would have, if his first step hadn't turned into the most pathetic looking stumble the shopkeep had probably ever laid his murderous little eyes on. As Ryn struggled to maintain his balance with weakened legs and a searing pain spreading rapidly from his hand to his arm, and soon on to his small body, his flight or fight instinct made a quick assessment. Flight? Failed. Options?

Fight.

A desperate resolve planted Ryn's foot squarely on the ground. His other pivoted mid-step and landed shoulder width apart, shoulders now facing the hatchet-wielding old man. Relaxing his unhurt hand, he went into a stance meant to reduce the available target to his opponent, meaning to parry a wild, angry chop from his enemy. Rynvard was desperate, and if his opponent was still calm enough to keep a cool head, there'd be no coming out of this alive.

[Mastermind]

OOCWe shall. Maric disappeared into the traffic of the Alleyway. The shopkeep approached with speed. The axe in his hand was a little larger than a hatchet, with a wickedly jagged edge, and an inch long spike protruding from the top. He had apparently not been expecting the Vantha to turn and fight, but instead to run. As such, he was not prepared to stop on a Miza. Instead of stopping, the grizzled old man chose instead to lower his shoulder and barrel straight forward at Rynvard's abdomen. The axe was kept low and back, its spike oriented perilously in Rynvard's direction. It would take but a second for the shopkeep to thrust it forward into the Vantha.

[Rynvard]

Old man's got some power!

The shopkeep's shoulder hit devastated the small man. Ryn half-coughed, half-wheezed out the air he had in his lungs after his opponent barreled into his midsection. The force of the blow itself knocked Ryn into the ground, his head smashing hard against the floorboards. A ringing sound nearly deafened the Vantha. Bile started erupting from his damaged stomach. Blackness quickly encroached Ryn's field of vision as he fell, but the sharp jolt of the wonderful sitcom "Head, meet floor!" shook away the coming of sweet unconsciousness.

Managing to hold back the bile for just long enough, Ryn aimed a kick at the shopkeep's knees. His instinctive intent was to bring his opponent down to his level. The desperate kick was probably far too easy to read and even easier to dodge. Not that Ryn was thinking about that right now; he wasn't thinking about much really. The distinctive taste of copper, the ringing in his ears, and the damned bloody crossbow bolt in his hand made it a feat of superhuman endurance just to stay awake.

I will find you.

I'm waiting.