RP:A Run-In in the Alley
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: Vaerate gets mugged while investigating Cenril for criminal activity while Duke and some of his crew watch from the rooftops.
Characters: Vaerate, Vaduuk, various npcs
Location: Cenril; Alley
Vaerate :: Having encountered little in the way of criminal threats on his less-than-leisurely stroll through Cenril's high-street, the armoured elf suddenly veers directly for a shady looking ally, in direct search of one of the army of thugs that had Thurn so up in arms. These people openly oppressed each other, indeed, but most seemed all to wary of Vaerate, a swordman's gait solidified by the presence of the long sheath at his hip, and made all the more intimidating for the sturdy coat-of-plates, cloak of woven mithril chain links and polished round shield on his back. He could almost be mistaken for a lawbringer, except that he seems oblivious, or uncaring, as to the open looting, brawling and thievery to his left and right. And so, having yet to encounter any rogues who would give one of the Cenrili knights pause for thought, the Black Branch ducks into a dark alleyway, a gloved hand hovering near the handle of his longsword and ear perked in anticipation of attack, yet his steps remain convincingly purposeful, and expression deceitfully distracted.
Vaduuk is perched above the theatre, situated to watch the plate-clad man that's wandering through Cenril's streets. It's been bragged about, that raid of the lawman's camp, and more than one ear has listened with more than passing interest. His is one of them. He's not alone out there, however, three of his men situated at various spots, all of them above rooflines. None of his lot move on the armored man, they're simply out on reconnaissance, to see what this man is up to. Is he one of the lawman's lackeys? A neutral party? Or another person seeking to clean Cenril's streets? Though they're a careful bunch, there are others that aren't, ruffian remnants of another band with a dead leader. Cowards, the lot of them, coming out of the woodworks, it seems, like roaches. Bats, chains, knives, daggers, all of them are armed with something. "Give us yer gold!" one of them, likely the leader of the group, shouts. "Iffin ye don' be lis'nin, we's gonna hurt ya bad." Wicked grins and snickers alight from the thugs, all of them thinking their numbers, eight strong, are enough to take on someone so well geared. Duke doesn't like the looks of it, but he doesn't move. Even if it is a bunch of the Burnhams. Damned brutes always loved their violence.
Vaerate is spinning on the heel of his boot before a pointed ear has even completed its twitch, fingers darting to wrap tightly around the longsword's handle as his frame comes to an abrupt stop, feet shifting themselves into a firm defensive posture. A bark-hued brow lifts to kiss an equally brown hairline as the elf's neck cranes to examine the advancing posse, lips eventually pulling into a disappointed frown. To the leader attentions turn, and open palms lift and arc to indicate the advancing circle of thugs as Vaerate's head cocks into an expression of a befuddlement, "is this it?"
Vaduuk doesn't have the hearing of elves and is not an undead vampire, so he doesn't hear what's being said down in that alley. He's too far away for that. But from the looks of it, whatever's been said has the leader of the mob riled up. "That it?!" he shouts, those words easily discerned by the spying Duke. "That it?! Y'ain't 'nough t' take us! Git 'im, boys!" They bellow their war cries, those foolhardy men, a chain lashing out like a while while another is wrapped like brass knuckles, bats swinging in untrained hands as two daggers come stabbing out. They use their numbers, yes, but not with precision, not with any advantageous maneuvers. It's all haphazard, and they almost trip over each other trying to give the elf a good whalloping.
Vaerate almost rolls his eyes at the clique, but unfortunately has the problem of an impeding, if disorganized, assault to deal with. He rushes ducks into a forward rush with an equal ferocity to the rabble of vagabonds, an empty hand closing into a tight fist. His intended target, the closest of the men, is so surprised by this as to almost stop dead in his tracks, and would probably have chosen to do so when the oncoming fist is suddenly engulfed in a lick of flame. The thug hits the floor clutching his burning face, the clatter of his dropped bat resounding throughout the ally as Vaerate turns to face the rest of the group, the wildly swinging chain cloak serving to entangle and hinder the knives that came from behind, uncoordinated chain swipes falling short of the elven swiftness. The flame enchantment grows with the enchanter's movements, an outward lash of orange flame whipping forward with Vaerate's frame, driving the surprised attackers back into a huddle, or sending those unlucky enough to be caught in the flames' kiss hastily patting their burning clothes or fleeing wildly away from the scene. The ring of metal and metal signals the draw of the longsword, a lazy grin creasing the lips of the elf as he brandishes it forward, ready to receive the brunt of any further attack from those that remain.
Vaduuk watches with a lofted brow. The armored man is a headstrong one, it seems, to rush into eight men. Headstrong, arrogant, or good. One of the three. From the looks of the scene unfolding, he's going with one of the latter two, or a mix thereof. The man with the burning face, he shows just how much of a wuss he really is, tucking tail and running away from the fight. That leaves seven. The dagger-wielder rushes back in, infuriated that a cloak thwarted his attempt at backstabbing, and that's what earns him a similar fate as the first to flee. His clothes set ablaze, he starts to scream, but he doesn't have the benefit of running. No, he falls to shock, dropping to his knees then his side as the flames engulf him. Six. "Y'bloody bastard!" the leader shouts, coming to join his men as he brings to bare his own weapon. Seems he had stashed a crossbow somewhere, and it's now leveled at Vaerate's chest. "Y'feckin' dirty bastard!" The trigger is pulled, the string twangs, and again there's a rush for the armored elf. Punches and swings with that bat fly everywhere, even hitting their own comrades as they try to beat the man. That has the Duke grinning, and when he looks up one of his men is laughing. Down he drops from the roof of the theatre, disappearing into the crowd even as the fight continues. Now just where is he going? And where are those other men going, dropping off from their own roofs?
Vaerate eyes level on the point of the crossbow, though all thought of evasion is swiftly abandoned in these close confines. Instead the focus is on internal factors, namely the employment of a concentrate of akasha into the already enchanted chest piece that hugs his torso. The elf cringes fleetingly as he feels the plates harden beneath the cloth exterior, tightening his grip on the sword's handle and preparing for the forceful blow that was about to come. He stumbles backwards when it does, feeling the bolt as a full-force fist to the abdomen, the enchanted cloth ripping cleanly to dent the plate beneath, but the swordsman is not deterred from moving straight into another forward rush of the oncoming assailants. Splinters of wood pierce the air as one is sliced in two by Vaerate's lithe blade movements, yelps and curses rising as the sword carves through limb and life alike. At the end of the bloody though brief ravage of the disorganized mob Vaerate spares the leader a good skewering by using him as a physical leverage; into an agile leap the swordsman flings himself, one leather boot coming to rest against the man's shoulder before the elf is catapulted into the opposite wall of the alleyway to begin a continuing pattern of perch and push, quickly making his way to the towering rooftops either side of the collective for a swift escape.
Vaduuk frowns as he shows up to an almost empty alleyway, looking up as each of his companions show up behind him. He looks over his shoulder at one, the man nodding and rushing forward to look at the dead body. It's obvious what killed him, but it doesn't hurt to check. "Gotta be th'fire," he's told by the inspecting man, and the half-orc nods to himself. He has to wonder just why that elf had been here. Looking back towards the main streets of Cenril, he puzzles it over in his mind. He'll just have to find the man and question him sometime, he supposes.