RP:A Very Businesslike Exchange

The Skinny: Gorehilt got a hot tip that the times are bad and the pickin's are easy in Cenril, so he shows up and decides to throw his weight around a little. This was, to no one's surprise but his, a bad idea. Jaxson catches Gorehilt in the act of extorting a street vendor, and he was about to clean Gorehilt's clock, except Iintahquohae shows up. She knows Gorehilt, sticks up for him, and convinces Jaxson to let him off easy this time.

Intersection

Gorehilt spits a half chewed mouthful of meat pie on a peddler's shoe. "I wouldn't feed this to a dog if it was starving." Perched atop his saddle, it's easy for Gorehilt to look down on the vendor, a middle aged man in thick glasses and overalls. The half orc tosses down his pie, still steaming, and it splats on the man's chest. "Oh mercy!" The vendor shouts, startled and scalded as hot gravy soaks into his shirt and runs down into his clothes. Unphased, Gorehilt tugs his nightmare's reigns, and the fell creature blows a pair of mocking smoke rings out from its nostrils and into the vendor's anguished face. "Look, you're a good guy, I'm a good guy," Gorehilt spurs Cinderback forward a pace, nearly knocking the vendor's cart over. "Just make it right, will you? I've had a very, very unpleasant experience." The black leather reigns creak in Gorehilt's gauntleted hand. "I'm not even that mad about it, honestly, but my horse is furious." Cinderback snorts another firey blast and actually singes the canopy of the vendor's cart. Shakily, the street peddler steps back a pace and looks around for help.

Jaxson Ravencroft has been locked away within the Alystrian Lounge he owns since the attack upon Cenril happened just four days prior. Days spent recovering from the wounds suffered in battle coupled with the loss of close allies to the undead legion the Ghoul known as Trajek brought forth and the sheer exertion of using powers he is just now coming to understand have left a toll upon the usually stoic man. Usually, he is garbed in only the finest of attire, his closet filled with custom suits sown by Iintahquohae herself were available, but instead he stalks down the road leading from his business in nothing more that a pair of leggings, his old combat boots and a slightly stained t-shirt that smells of liquor and stale cigarettes. Of course, he did grab that custom made weapon holster, as it’s become a must have for the man since he bought it. His features are haggard, his body still wrapped up in bandages that probably need changing, but his gaze still holds a vibrancy that contrasts his nearly dead image. Those eyes peer from beneath unkept locks of dark blonde hair, falling upon the orc rider and his nightmare as they tower over the street peddler who is just trying to make a living. Not even four days, and already some dickhead is causing trouble. A scowl forms upon the warlock’s features, his beard having grown into a wild mess in his drunken, depressed riddled isolation. Hunger had finally reached a point he was forced to leave, Kadiir refusing to fetch him something to get him outside. “Fresh air will be good, no?” Said the jaguar made shopkeeper, the Collective’s chosen babysitter of their newest ally, who would turn assassin should Jax ever betray the Enclave. Otherwise, it is a growing kinship between the pair, and in honest concern for the man, Kadiir refused to allow him to stay couped up. The last remnants of sun felt strange on his skin, though the air was remarkably fresher now that the plague and the undead were essentially dealt with. But it wasn’t long before he finds himself facing someone treating the people of his city like trash, again not even four days after a major attack. There would be no words as the man stalks forth, his form unassuming as he closes the distance as orcish raider and street peddler continue their own back and forth. Jax may seem nothing but a passerby, and for the most part he is. The cigarette he was enjoying is dragged upon once more, before, just mere feet away from that nightmare and its rider, Jax stops and takes the cig from between his lips and says. “I’m not in the mood today…” More to himself than anyone else, before he’d flick that cig towards the face of the orc while blowing a billowing cloud of clove scented smoke out before him. The scent of ozone quickly overwhelms sweet smelling smoke, as erupting from that cloud comes the Ravencroft heir in a blur of motion. From his pocket he had pulled forth a well-crafted set of knuckle dusters, equipped upon each hand now. And with a reckless abandon did he cock back his right hand and send forth a blow that would have missed its mark by a mile, if it were not just a motion to channel the electrical current he had charged up previously. The irony of a cloud hanging around, followed by the smell of ozone and a thunderous crack of power erupting forth are the only warning of the powerful bolt of lighting the warlock unleashes upon the orc and his stead. The blast isn’t deadly, but neither is it held back. Its intent is to throw rider form hellish stead, but with enough force to hopefully kill any would be intentions of fighting in the crib. Doubtful, Jax knows, but as he said, he isn’t in the mood today. But, armed and ready, the chosen vessel of the sea primordial channels the power of the tempest once more, his form crackling with eldritch power that seems to amplify his presence. The crowd gathered around call out. “Its him! The man who fought the undead!” While others say nonsense such as. “The hero of the city!” And likewise grandiose titles Jaxson wishes he never heard. The true heroes were those that died that day, Jax was just a lucky bastard who got to keep on livin’.

Iintahquohae didn't witness the chaos that occurred in Cenril recently, but she heard it while keeping her folks locked up somewhere safe so she could better protect them. Between this and the mess she walked into in Frostmaw, the seamstress can't believe her thoughts, but she's just about done with encountering dangerous things. Woman just wants to sew a quilt together in peace sometimes and not worry about plant monsters and their thralls, plagues, and the Xalious Tree even if she wasn't present to witness whatever happened on that mountain range. She wanders the streets now, assessing damage that she hopefully help repair, considers following a feline if they happen to pass by to pay the Collective a visit. She really needed to talk to one of them about her ear wiggling and tail wagging problem, and the thought causes her oddly colored fox tail to bristle. The seamstress deflates. How in the hell is she supposed to look intimidating like -this-? Raking a hand through grey curls and accidentally scratching a vulpine ear in the process, Inks rounds the corner on Memorial Avenue and stumbles upon a new ruckus. Goddammit. That scent of ozone immediately brings to mind her sire, but she can't smell that particular vampire anywhere. Instead, she catches a glimpse of Jaxson blasting a spell at... Is that Gorehilt? Oh sh- The sound of the lightning bolt interrupts her thoughts, and with vampiric speed coming in to assist she dashes forward, intent on catching the half-orc bridal style (thanks vamprisim once again for the assist) if he does get knocked off of Cinder, while hollering at Jaxson over shouts of praise for the warlock from passersby in some effort to try diffusing the situation. She didn't see what Gorehilt did, but the guy's on her payroll... “What are you doing?!” To Gorehilt, whether he's in her arms or not, gets a glare. “What did you do?!”

Gorehilt is just leaning over to mutter a few more threats when something bounces off his face and lands in his lap. He looks down, blurts an orcish obscenity (something about a person being inappropriately fond of pigs), and hastily swats at the ember. The gesture, though brief, does so much to spoil his intimidation act. His pride stung, Gorehilt tugs the reigns and spins himself around, mount and all. With every ounce of cold furious indignation he can summon, the rider sneers, and every passerby can physically see the half orcs anger working up from his gullet and collecting on the tip of his tongue in some vulgar, hair curling insult. He points his finger at Jax. What happens next probably comes as a surprise to all parties involved. The thunderous blast of Jax's attack roars through the air toward Gorehilt, twists around the rider's arm, and with an anticlimactic *schzzeeeeeep* it slides off him like butter and shoots straight to ground. A few remaining arcs of lightning coil ominously around Gorehilts outstretched hand, eventually disappearing into his ring of lightning resistance. That thing has been such a solid purchase. Gorehilt looks down to his ring, looks up to Jax, looks over to... Inks? A lot is happening at once, and in the chaos his first instinct is to reach for the spear on his back, wrapping his fingers around the handle, even if some sense of caution prevents him from fully drawing it. "He tried to rob me!" The peddler breaks the silence, his turn to point threatening fingers. "That's an exaggeration," Gorehilt blurts. "We were having a very businesslike exchange, and were just about to reach an agreement."

Jaxson was too lost within the current moment to even register the blur of motion that was the elder vampire that is his business partner sudden appearance. The blast was already out, his intent already known, before he could even react to the seamstress just leaping into the fray with careless abandon. Luckily the orc manages to somehow snuff out the lightning as if it were a simple cantrip, an interesting note the warlock mentally shelves for a later date. Iinks arrival seems to drastically alter this affair, as her tone to the orc and in turn the orc’s tone towards her, reveal a bit of a relationship. Seeing as the vampire has a connection to this dark rider, Jax repockets the knuckle dusters, as he readjusts his stance to a bit of a more casual nature. “Rob you?” He finally speaks up, his face contorting into obvious annoyance. “This man’s prices are already too low.” Here, Jax walks over and hands the street peddler his entire purse of coin. The poor merchant nearly faints as he feels the weight. Never taking his eyes off the orc, Jax speaks to Iinks as he says. “If this friend of yours is going to think he can come in here and push these people around, I’ll see to it they don’t find the pieces left.” Still in that mood, the nobleman’s body language alone informs those present he’d rather do just that. “These people have suffered enough, they don’t need some fool coming in here and acting tough against a old street merchant.” He finally looks at Iinks, knowing she knows the point he comes from. “They’ve barely got their lives back, and there is still more to be done, so…” He looks at the orc but says to the elder vampire. “Keep your mutt on a leash.” Before he’d take out another cig and light it up, inhaling a depth drag before blowing it out his nose. Iintahquohae would know this isn’t the typical fashion the man handles things in, possibly allowing her a hint of the troubles he is going through post battle.

Iintahquohae 's eyes leap f rom Gorehilt to Jaxson, clearly confused. Did he just...deflect the lightning that Jax flew? That's a cool trick he must've learned after fighting Kasyr. She looks impressed, then annoyed, then alarmed at what the peddler says. “.He what?” This is one of those things where Inks thinks she can just throw money at the peddler to remedy the situation, and she's about to shove a hand in her jacket pocket to do just that, but the Ravencroft heir has beaten her to the punch. That settled, it seems, she skips over giving Gorehilt a stern talking to since she isn't his mother and instead tries to smooth things over with an introduction. While waving a hand at Gorehilt to simmer down, and the other at Jax to do the same, she tries to step in between them in case fists and spells and spears start flying. “Jaxson, this is Gorehilt. He works for me. Definitely not a mutt. He held his own against Kasyr, he's really clever, great with that spear he's got.” Is she doing a good enough job selling Gorehilt here? He's great. She peers over her shoulder at the half-orc, gives a wry smile. It's been a while. “Gorehilt, this is Jaxson Ravencroft. We're partners,” a grimace follows that word, so she quickly adds, “for business.” Inks has been in a situation similar to this where she was kept out of the loop of what all was going on and made a rash decision before, and she isn't about to let Gorehilt get in trouble for not being informed. A lot has happened that she isn't entirely informed on either, so hopefully Jax can bring both the half-orc and herself up to speed. “I haven't seen you in a bit but...things are changing. No hurtin' folk from Cenril. We're helping them out.” She won't tell Gorehilt to apologize to the peddler., but hopefully he does. In more effort to smooth ruffled feathers, the seamstress casts a glance at both men, gears turning. “Jaxson is a bit more active than I am lately...With everything that's happened, why don't you help us out, Gorehilt?” With pay, naturally. ...Maybe double if Jax is feeling generous. Looking the warlock over, she frowns. “I didn't see what happened, but I heard... You holding up alright?”

Gorehilt looks perfectly nonplussed as he watches Jaxson pay the vendor. If this was supposed to be a humbling gesture, it worked. Defeated, deflated, yet nonetheless defiant, the half orc does his best to keep up a passably dangerous appearance. Gradually releasing his grasp on the spear, he coolly trots his agitated mount a few paces around, giving everyone a little space while making it clear all the while that he has no plans to run. "Hey boss," he greets Iintahquohae at last, "I guess that pie tasted better than I thought it did. It was, uh, my humors. I had bad humors." Now it's his turn to pull out a purse, albeit one much smaller and lighter than mister Ravencroft's. He gives it a sharp tug, snapping the leather thong that held it around his neck, and tossed it to (not at, though the temptation was real) the peddler. "Naw naw, he called it right. I am a mutt." Gorehilt shot Jaxon a crooked smirk that concealed a sly challenge. "What's it to you, anyway? Is that what this is about?" Idly, he picks at one of his protruding tusks with his thumbnail. "If you get to know me, I'm not so bad," he raised a brow at Jax, "for a greenskin, right? Let's be friends." Turning again, he and Cinderback both give Iintahquohae the ol' puppy eyes. "I just know it would please you so."

Jaxson is almost deafened by the primordial’s screams of rage, her demands that her vessel cast aside foolish pacts with elder vampires and that he smite that creature on the spot. Her presence has grown almost unbearable since the battle, where the man was forced to call upon the latent powers that lay dormant within him to win the day. But such powers only bring him closer to her, his destined patron. The eldritch creature of millennia past uses his own self torment against him even more, constantly flashing images of fallen comrades before his eyes, reminding him over and over that he could have saved them all, if he only lets her in. Sleep has eluded him as his mind serves as only an echo chamber of the titan’s torturous screams. She is trying to wear him down since he refuses to bend the knee on his own, luring him with promises of power while simultaneously manipulating his memories to suit her desires. Yes, life has been a bit of a living hell for the Ravencroft heir since that day. But as the sounds around him begin to feel like he is under water, Iintahquohae’s soft tone cuts through to finally reach him, pulling him from those endless depths he was sinking into and back to reality. His eyes even seem to sharpen in their focus as he replies. “I’m fine.” In a not so convincing tone. His cigarette has burned through half of itself already, and he finally flicks the ashes down to take another drag, releasing the smoke as the orc shifts gears so easily and talks about being friends. Even as the orc’s attempt at humor with the “it’s because I’m a greenskin” seems to fall short (He had a half orc war buddy that pulled that line a lot), the nobleman simply takes another drag of that smoke as he looks the alleged talented warrior over. “Apparently goes toe to toe with Kasyr, yet bullies elderly food peddlers?” He spits on the ground, more so from the need than an insult, but timing is a thing, and says. “Guess the kensei is losing some steps.” Kasyr’s reputation as engine of chaos, always somehow both in the thick of it or wholly unaware, doesn’t take away from his skill as a swordsman. Overall Jax is still in a bad mood, and little will settle this at the moment. With a damned sea witch in his head screaming demands, recently losing his old war buddies in a battle, and having not seen or heard from Val in over two weeks, the man just isn’t himself. He settles to trust Iinks tho, finally, the woman’s judgment believed in as he says. “If you vouch for ‘em, that’s all I care about.” He finishes that cig, tosses it down and stamps it out with his foot, then kind of just stands there as once more his head feels like its about to split open as the primordial once more goes on an internal rampage in her quest to break his will. Outwardly, the man’s features just sour as he suffers in silence once again.

Iintahquohae 's shoulders sag. That's...civil? Civil enough. She isn't good at this whole playing mediator thing. Maybe plying both of them with enough alcohol that they get friendly might help, but...that could easily devolve into some sorta brawl. Jax spitting at that exact moment probably doesn't help, but she crosses her fingers that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a slight toward Gorehilt. “I absolutely vouch for him.” The comment about her sire losing some steps has her trying her best not to laugh. Everybody in the Coterie that's still around has lost some steps. Her especially, which has her recently-acquired fox ears twitching in a way that makes her want to cram a paper bag over her head. Not one to pry, even if Jax looks like he's been through hell and back, the seamstress decides she'll just keep an eye on him for the time being. Not that she'd be much help, maybe. She did have one of Gospel's kin that constantly talked to her, so if she knew what clouded the warlock's thoughts, perhaps she could a hand in the future. Whatever the case may be, it looks to her like Gorehilt and Jaxson are on steadier terms now. Hopefully. Her attention rests on the half-orc, then. “Sorry I haven't been around much. I've been hiding out in my shop.” Grieving, but she'll leave that bit out. “Everything going on in Cenril is what finally dragged me out, and Lanlan...” She may be free of the guild, but she'll never be free of Lanlan. That illusionist was a repeat customer she had no intention to lose. “You look like you've been well.”

Gorehilt glances from Iintahquohae to Jaxson, from Jaxson to Iintahquohae, doing his best to gauge the relationship between these two. "Partners" was a notoriously vague term that never, ever placed two people on equal footing. The Ravencroft dude in the combat boots looked pissed and restrained, so that was good on both counts. As for Inks? Well, she definitely looked differently than he remembered. Subconsciously, his own hand moved to scratch his own head, check his own ears. Gorehilt catches himself, clears his throat. "Bullies?" The accusation finally wormed its way through his thick skull, but it's like fifteen seconds later in the conversation, and he already looks kinda lame for even saying it out loud. Could he quip a comeback cool enough to make up for lapsed time? "Yeah, well, we're not, you know," he blows an uneasy sigh and looks skyward. "on the playground yeah Inks I've been good thanks." Whoever dropped the tip that Cenril was free game right now, Gorehilt owed him a double decker knuckle sandwich. Given he was already knee deep in it, and given the political climate, Gorehilt has the smartest idea he's had all day--he doesn't say a single word about graduating the Larket academy or carrying his majesty's commission. "You could say things had a way of working out for me. I'll be in town for a while." This last bit is an improvization, and it makes Cinderback do a double take. "Maybe I can catch up or," he looks at the careworn faces of the passing people, reads the general undertone of chaos that had brought him here in the first place, "make up for an unfortunate introduction to your friend here, huh?"

Jaxson has enough of a moment of clarity to see that this situation is settled, and imagines he’ll be seeing more of the orc from here on out. Given that the food cart he had come for, one of the Collective’s ones, is probably going to shut down soon the man simply says. “We can catch up, as there are a few things I’m unaware of to.” As far as the entire situation, Jax has no real clue as to how the ones that were changed to undead during the plague have managed to come back to life. The city itself seems to still be in a state of shock, even as people try to get out and back to a “normal” life. The “new normal” is going to be an adjustment for all, but Jax intends to try to use this as a way to focus his mind and maybe bury himself in work. Maybe that will help shut that damn primordial up. Maybe he can even sleep. But for now, he just wanted one of those seasoned kabobs, and he’d have to leave now to do so. “Let’s meet up soon, when I’m feelin’ better.” And with that, he’d be off.