RP:A lucky break
Part of the A Dream of Tyranny Arc
Hanging Corpse Tavern
Desparrow carefully made his way down from the room he had rented, not able to put full strength on either foot so each step carried with it an agony expressed on his face. His right arm had been put back into place but it was still fractured, an odd bump in the forearm giving knowledge of that. The right foot had been burned to the nerves in some spots, with more burns having risen up the leg while the most grievous wound was on his back where a sword had almost sliced his spine in half. A quick thinking dodge had managed to save his life, though the wound was still knitting itself together, the blade having left scores on the vertebrae themselves. The lycanthrope’s magical signature was low as well; he had enough to escape if he needed it but he didn’t know if he could hold succeed. Not in this state at least.
Leshhak was terribly, terribly lost. He had only just arrived in this strange, strange land after his master kicked him out of the castle, branded as a criminal. He rubbed the fresh scar over his left eye, which was covered by a makeshift eye patch made of potato sack. HE then looked around with his one green eye to take in his surroundings. In his explorations, he stumbled upon this establishment. But it seemed the half-elf draconian might find a friend or two here... if he minded his manners. He walked over to a table, his blue dragon's tail dragging behind him on the ground. As he sat, the said tail wrapped around his feet as he looked at the menu. Leshhak rubbed his eyepatch again. He'd have to replace that soon. The burlap was making his face itch.
Wilfrid noticed the elven man stumbling down from his room, but he paid him no mind. He hadn’t spent much time out of Larket in a while. Someone sat a few rows next to him as he downed his drink, taking in the unfamiliar and bitter taste. His left hand twitched nervously. Wilfrid would always get fidgety if he spent too much time without burning something. He wondered what, or who, was next.
Xzavior was a bit pleased that he was back in familiar, familiar enough, territory. He had been gone for a lot longer then he had hoped to have been. He couldn't complain though. Time spent with Sabrina was always great. Though the constant nagging at the back of his mind reminding him of all that he had been obligated to kept pestering him until he had to come back. He knew that he had already missed one event. Not too sure how Desparrow was going to react to that. Making his way into the Hanging Corpse Tavern for a quick drink, but when he had entered he noticed two three things right away; Des was seriously hurt, there were two new faces, and one of those faces looked anxious. He was going to deal with the first one of the list. Sliding past the tables he went right up to Desparrow offering him some support. "Gods Des, what happened to you? I leave you alone for five minutes and find you bloodied up again." With a small shake of his head he chuckled, "Though I don't think I should really be surprised."
Ranok walks up to the tavern. The little 'fun times' between the kensai and the lycan were not unknown. In fact, he'd gotten a few letter about it. People wanted easy money, and there wasn't much easier then snitching. Normally, the smith wouldn't sully his hands with this sort of thing. But, a job unfinished was just that. He'd taken the time to assemble some things he might find useful, having gathered a few tidbits here and there over the past week or so. And off to Vailkrin he goes. There was no flashy jumps this time. Time was, for once, in ample supply. If not by most standards, certainly to him. Still, he could move quickly without the flash or the obvious entrance when he needed to. The door was eyed a moment, hands taking the time to touch the things on his belt. His sword, liquid black, the various bits and bobs, and Mirabelle, of course. The final touch, a cigarette lit with his index finger. Without further ado, that same hand pushes the door open. A moment to scan the room, gray eyes expertly peeling apart the situation. Muscle elf, big snake, beat up dog. Got it. Three electric blue lights flare to light, bobbing over Ranok's right hand shoulder. Left hand spreads, a soft glow between the fingers. Right hand draws the deadly piece of art that was Mirabelle. A heavily custom projectile weapon that a beefed up crossbow, often neatly folded at the mall of his back. The weapon was loosely pointed at Desparrow. It didn't take a genius to guess what kind of bolts she was loaded with, "Right, then. Step away from the dumbass wolf and we can get this over with. Desparrow, please resist so I can kill you. Otherwise, you're coming with me."
Desparrow watched the two new faces with vague interest until Xzavior came into the tavern. A mixture of emotion was on his features but the greatest was relief, “Friend, I need your help.” It was obvious he was beaten up, even as his flesh was pulling itself together, improving his condition with each passing moment. “Got in a bit of a spar, I got beaten.” That was when Ranok walked in and he a tinge of fear ran like electricity through his body. Even so he faced his pursuer with absolute confidence no matter how in bad of a shape he appeared. “Xzavior distract him for me please! Don’t let him strike me!” In that moment Desparrow conjured the last bit of magic he could in order to rip open a portal but even as he did he could feel that doing so would endanger his very life. He was drawing on the reserves necessary to support his continued existence. In small amounts the energy concentrated in his hand, pulling from his heart causing it to begin to race as it started to weaken. This was more than dangerous. “You won’t have me today!” It would be only another moment, pulling more magic from other parts of his body, specifically his legs which as they paled to their near dead state he collapsed entirely to his knees.
Leshhak before he could even order anything, things were happening! One green eye peered over the menu at the happenings. Someone called Desparrow was being arrested? But the person pointing the weapon said 'resist and die' basically... so a grudge, then. And the man called Desparrow tried to escape through a portal and collapsed in front of it. Leshhak raised an eyebrow and silently wondered if he had stumbled upon a wrong place, wrong time kind of situation.
Wilfrid jumped when he heard the authoritative man shout. He turned around, in the middle of another drink. In front of him was a… human? Possibly. But those ears looked like they would belong on one of his brothers. His immediate thought was that the man was here to kill someone, and a spark lit up his hand. Seeing that the man’s target was another desperate individual, Wilfrid quickly doused the flame. He ordered another drink, thinking he would need it. Common sense told him to stay out of it. He was going to set something on fire eventually, though, and it was better for it to be sooner than later.
Xzavior turned to the newcomer then back to Desparrow with a serious look, "And there's a hit on you! Man you've been busy!" he moved forwards a bit and smiled a bit, "Sorry pal but I have to deny you a payday. Can't really say I wouldn't mind hitting the dumbass myself but hey, I like him." He raised a hand slightly and a mist formed, then fell from his hand. 'Funny,' he thought, 'first day back starts with conflict.' Everyone else other than the crossbow wielding vigilante was forgotten. He had to admit though, the crossbow did look like it packed a serious punch. Silver affecting him or not. "Lower your weapon for the night and have a drink. Rather not have my first day back from vacation be one of conflict."
Ranok almost looks pleased. A slight hint of a cruel smile curls the corner of his lip. "Resist then." There was no time wasted here. Mirabelle was lowered, aimed, and fired. Accuracy, at this range, was not much of an issue. The thing looked strange, to be sure. A sturdy looking body of polished metal, with bulbous protrusions at the front. Some string or wire were wrapped around, pulling back in a sharp V where the bolts sat. It operated on a series of principals on transferred forces. This particular model was designed to exert enough force to punch through dragonscale. The weapon clicks and the air whisles s three bolts fly right at Desparrow. They weren't silver, in actuality, but steel cored with silver. At a command, they'd break, distributing powered silver though the body. No kindness was paid to Xzavior, either, as Ranok's right hand flashes. Captured sunlight was focused into a quick beam right at his face. The effect would not be unlike staring directly into a strobe. Painful, distracting. He'd even feel the heat, as if the sun itself were overhead. Not that this forsaken land ever saw it. Even as his hands operated independently, the man's feet moved, taking a quick sidestep to the left and bending slightly, to dodge and quickly fired retaliation and to recenter his balance. Both targets, however, are kept firmly in sight.
Desparrow didn’t care what Ranok had up his sleeve, having memories of Mirabelle and what sort of things he could do with it. Before he fired his hand was up and appeared incorporeal and with a single motion his hand had vanished between the layers of the physical reality, tearing open a hazy rift between him and Ranok. Luckily for Des those projectiles went straight through the portal on one side, while Des dragged himself through unharmed. As he moved through he called out, “Remember where we first met my friend? Find me there!” and in that moment he was gone, the cloth of reality mending itself almost as quickly ending with the rift snapping shut. Wherever he landed he was not in good condition, in fact he was more than likely nearly dead due to the exertion on his own body. Ranok would be put to the chase again if he wanted to find out where this warlock went.
Leshhak blinked slowly as the scene unfolded. So... no fight? Eh, whatever. He lay the menu back down on the table and sighed. "I guess I'm to find somewhere else to eat," he said, heading for the door.
Wilfrid almost blinded by the sudden burst of light in this otherwise dim environment, decided he had enough to drink. He stood up, and wondered what to do next. Maybe he should just go home. If this happened every day around here, he wouldn't get any sleep. ‘Still…’ Wilfrid thought, ‘It would be interesting to see what happens next.’
Xzavior first reacted to the arrows, whipping his hand out, summoning a sword to slash at them. But seeing as Desparrow was already making his way out, the rip pulling his attention for a second, whether he acknowledged the message or not he didn't show it. When Ranok pointed his hand at him, Xzavior expected to be blocking some sort of fiery projectile. So as a countermeasure he lifted ice covered arms to block it but only found that it was light being shined at him. Well at least he didn't have to worry about scorch marks. Maybe. As soon as Desparrow through though he looked over at Ranok, weapon still in hand and a brow raised, "He's gone. So I'd drop it, for now at least. The offer of a drink still stands you know."
Ranok was no fool. Desparrow relied on the same tricks. A few things he'd grabbed were rather important to tonight's little exercise. Raising Mirabelle to an upright position, the man pull out a sphere from his pocket. A squeeze of a size and it blossoms open, revealing a rather intricate crystalline array. They hummed at a steady, never ceasing pace. At this, Ranok produces a shark-like grin. Cruelty abound lurked within the expression. The lights that had erupted were flared so bright it hurt to look at them. Electric blue, and looking all the world like a demented will-o-the-wisp. The bob in some pattern, and the air hums strangely. It almost sounded like words, but they were indistinct. Whatever it meant, though, made Ranok's smile all the bigger. His attention returns to the rest of the room, "I'm done here. You." The sphere goes closed and into a pocket, and the now vacated hand is pointed at Xzavior, "are lucky that I decided to hold back. The man is a mass murderer, responsible for hundreds of deaths. His accomplice has kidnapped children as well. Cenril still smells of smoke and blood. If you decide to attempt to protect him again, you will not be spared again." Each word was matter of fact, delivered with cold certainty. It was no threat, but a declaration. Without further ado, Mirabelle is to be collapsed, Ranok whirls on his heel, duster aflare, and he'd leave the tavern, gaining what he'd come here for.
Wilfrid stood for a moment, dazed and confused, and decided to retire to the room he had rented at the tavern. He had more important things to do.
Xzavior looked to the side when the light flared. And when it died down he looked back at the man. His dedication to commit what he promised was met with an even look. Xzavior really didn't need to tell him that he already knew about what went on in Cenril. Or the fact that he would have been apart of it himself if he had been here. Or the fact that the situation was merely coincidental. Mumbling to himself he said, "Well then don't catch me in the same place as him." Spare him. Right. Because he couldn't hold his own. As Ranok left he rolled his eyes at the dramatic exit and moved to the bar. No matter what happens he was going to have that drink.
At the Cove-----
Desparrow had fallen through his portal seveal feet to land painfully on his back into the cold sand and water which covered most of his lower half. He couldn’t feel his legs, the magic that kept them alive and working having been removed to cast a spell, something he had never done before and looking at them the realization of mortality was overwhelming. The flesh was gray and would begin to decompose given time should it be left unchecked. He needed more magic, and he needed it urgently. The magic in the rest of his body he could feel slowly trickling into his other limbs but it was a very slow process and he wouldn’t naturally have full control again for an undetermined amount of time. At the same time he was still suffering from his other injuries, the fractured arm, burned leg, nerve damage, and even slight but healing hemorrhaging in his brain. There he lay, gasping for air in his critical condition hoping someone would come to aid him.
Xzavior , true to his unspoken word, was back to the place of their first meeting as soon as Ranok was out of sight and mind. He made his way over quickly enough, ignoring the destruction and death from the town behind him. When he saw Desparrow lying on the beach he scowled and shook his head. "Are you alright Des? Well. In a sense are you going to live." This was going to be a fun little meeting. He was sure of that.
Mcracken -- or “Mac” as he’d lately been dubbed by some drunken sailors at the local tavern – is at first an indeterminate, hulking shape somewhere far out to sea.. Soon though, he would appear to be a rather awkwardly-limbed man limping out of the ocean into the beach, as if he’d merely taken a swim. At that point, he was far enough along the beach not to offend any delicate sensibilities by his nudity – or rouse any concern as to the strangeness of his skin and frame. Once dressed, he would appear to be just another raggedy beggar, eking out a slim existence by beach-combing and hunting for his meals among the flotsam and jetsam of the shore. His gait was so slow that by the time he neared Desparrow’s tragically prone form, another land-walker had happened along. The Seaborn, cowled in rags, his bearded face oddly young for one who moved so gingerly, peered at the two from a slight remove, his one green eye fixed on the wounded one, the other – a milky pearl, with no iris, perhaps blind? – probably staring at nothing. His voice is a deep rumble, his words strangely archaic, “Dost thou need assistance, Fallen One?” It was like a low creak of wet ropes, “Or has thy companion the skill to heal…” he pauses, peers at Desparrow even harder, “Thy broken brain, thy shattered bone?” Almost as though he can somehow see inside the lycan.
Desparrow knew what he needed and to an extent Xzavior would be able to help. “I gave you magic some time ago, and I know it has grown. I need you to channel some into my legs. If I don’t get that done, then I’m going to literally lose them. I’ll live, but right now I’m just in a shaky condition.” He sighed then, using his upper body strength to pull himself slowly out of the water. Around then is when ‘Mac’ had managed to wander into the cave and at first he didn’t know what to make of the creature, and it was even stranger when he spoke. The words he understood however, knowing clearly that the creature at least intended to help. “I need healing. I need to be stronger.” He sighed, his heart weakening, each physical exertion endangering his body more. In the end he collapsed where he was and had to remain still, managing to give short answers to questions but other than that he had to stay still.
Xzavior frowned and offered the lycan a hand as the seaborn made his way over. "I have good enough skill to heal, but he is definitely going to be feeling this in the morning." So far it didn't look like the newcomer was any threat. Though he kept an eye on him all the same. When Des would grab his hand. Or if he couldn't, Xzavior grab the hand, he started moving the magic down through his hand and to Des. Luckily he had more than enough time to focus on this magic. His vacation was more then just relaxing you know. "Take enough to get on your feet. I don't need to be in the same position as you are now. I still got a cabin to return to."
Mcracken honestly could not have cared less whether this land-walker lived or died; Desparrow was not of his people, barely even of his world.. What had drawn the ancient sea-creature from his basking in the deeps was sheer opportunity to study the physiology of land-walkers and, with the arrival of Xzavior, the way they interacted in such situations as this. But while he cared nothing for the lycan’s fate, neither did he wish him harm, so Desparrow’s request was replied to with a sharp nod that caused an unhappy crab to tumble from the dark tangle of the man’s shaggy hair. As the thing scuttled away. Mac kneeled beside the lycan, his joints loudly complaining with a series of sharp creaks and pops. Though it was magic the man-beast needed, and Mac had that a-plenty, he’d been asked for none directly so instead focused on taming the unruly flow of rusty, iron-laden blood through Desparrow’s broken vessels. Mac pursed his lips as if to whistle, but no sound audible to even a lycan’s sharp hearing emerged from them. Really, though, the sound he made was his mode of “seeing’ through skin and muscle, even bone, to where the damaged vessels lay, and the dangerous clots they made in places where clots out not be. A slight change of apparently soundless tune, and the clots broke open, shattering back into liquid, which the Seaborn directed along its proper courses until the torn parts of the delicate tubes that carried the blood had at least knitted together enough to bear its pressure. Desparrow might then feel his heart beat more strongly, his weakness ebb like an unwelcome tide.
Desparrow would take only as much magic energy as he needed, forcing it into the flesh of his legs and over the period that he was being healed by ‘Mac’ the fleshy color would return, along with feeling. It was during this period that he felt strange, knowing was something was going on internally but at the same time it was relieving. The pain in his head faded away, those beating hooves across his brain trailing off while the blood flow also ceased before completely repairing. In moments his head felt normal, actually better than it had in a while since he was usually exerting his will to use magic which always left its small marks on his mind. When the strength had flowed back into him he was able to move his legs and speak, move about without trouble, “I appreciate the efforts friends.” He then looked towards the seaborn creature, “Can you repair my physical damage?” he was referring to his burned leg, the nerve damage and missing flesh while his arm still remained fractured and the large gash on his back that had nearly destroyed his spine.
Xzavior had already taken into account the other injuries he had bar the nerve damage, so when Des asked for further assistance he looked up at the seaborn with a raised brow, then back down to the lycan. "I can work on most any of those injuries you have, but I can't really restore flesh and those are going to be some pretty big stitches." And without a word about it he had already reached down to his fractured arm. And without hesitation, pulled it back into position. Without a real splint or anything at the moment, he went with second best as he created a cast out of ice. It served as a sort of triple purpose. As something to keep the swelling down, dull the pain, and keep the bone in place.
Mcracken had nodded ‘yes’ to Desparrow’s question regarding whether the Old One ‘could’ heal the bone – which after all, was porous and self-repairing, not so different to coral, really – but then stood there doing and saying exactly nothing for what might have been an uncomfortable amount of time. At length, it dawned on Mac that the lycan was asking “would” he heal the bones.. Mac had to think about that some more… He might have pondered it until Desparrow's limbs set crookedly all their own, were it not for the timely action of Xzavior, which made the whole issue basically moot. As for the torn flesh, now it occurred to Mac that he could still feasibly learn something here, it was a short matter of pulling a few errant sea-lice from his bears and mangy mop of white-streaked hair. These he pressed to the wounds, once he’s not too gently pulled the broken flaps of skin together. The lice, a pernicious breed to which Mac owed no loyalty at all, would soon die, bereft of the salty dampness of his hair but their painful bite would keep the skin whole until it healed. How Desparrow may go about removing the vicious little biting heads after that .. well, that would be Desparrow’s business. The Seaborn’s gaze wandered back to the ocean then – he’d clearly lost all interest in the present goings-on and promptly moved off without a word of parting, directly toward.. and then into.. the sea.
Desparrow was not prepared for his pupil to take action like he did, agony painting his face when his arm was gripped and then set back into place. When it was back in place though he was struck by relief once more, at least until it was encased by ice. Sure it would work though it was still cold as hell. “Really?” That was stated only moments before the flesh on his back was pinned together by some sort of weird sea creature that he could only compare to a leech. It wasn’t comfortable but hopefully it would work. His regeneration would certainly finish the job and he would be fine. “I appreciate your help, sincerely.”
Morgrim sits up from behind an outcropping of rocks some distance down the beach, He slurs to himself "last time I take Broulguf up on a drinking challenge" Slowly he looks around taking in the scene of the naga and elf further down the beach. Rising he begins to walk slowly in their direction, giants tended to be misunderstood at the best of times and he was taking no chances now. Morgrim approaches at a cautious but also curious pace toward the pair on the beach. He considered waving to get their attention but reconsidered as the pair looked to be in a bad way and he wouldn't want to take a stray shot if He could avoid it.
Desparrow got to his feet feeling far better than when he was here previously. A giant was coming this way and for certain it was something he hadn’t seen in Cenril before but hey there was a first for everything. Strange things happened around here all the time and so he bothered to walk towards him. “Hello there!”
A band of ruffians emerges from the south with ill intentions.
Morgrim says " Greetings elf, I had thought you dead for a moment there. Are you alright?" eyeing the elf up and down as He speaks.
Desparrow looked up at the giant that had approached him, azure hues looking the man up and down. At the same time he looked off to the south, in the direction of a roving gang which had bothered to come up this way. Several men, probably seven or eight equipped with clubs, daggers, even pieces of wood with barbed wire wrapped around them. They had piecemeal armor salvaged from the dead. “Looks like we got unexpected company.”
Morgrim Looks to the south at the brigands making their way along the beach seemingly at random. He looks back at the elf " Are you fit for a fight little one? i'm not sure i could take them alone and ensure your safety if it came to it."
Desparrow nodded slowly, “I am more fit than I was to fight. They don’t stand a chance my obscenely tall friend.” With that he began to transform into his werewolf state. Moments would pass, muscle and bone rearranging while he grew fur and mass to the point that he wasn’t too much shorter than the giant himself. Faced with two beings of greater size the ruffians were more hesitant but given their numbers they continued towards them with intent to kill and loot.
Morgrim Watches the transformation process with a grimace but nods at the Wulf-Elf before him ready now for the action to come, but if age and any experience taught him anything it was that one did not stand before a Wulfmann and his prey.
Desparrow in this state although a being of exceptional willpower was overcome by the beast and all his urges. The lycan got on all fours and charged for the group. To see the beast coming at them was cause for hesitation, and that was perhaps the last fatal mistake they made on this night as it would be the one that’d cost them their lives. He smashed through their group, his size shoving aside many to the ground while suffering grazing wounds from whatever weapons were at hand while one man in particular was grasped in his jaws and carried with him. When he stopped and turned the bandit in his mouth was flailed about before being dropped and his armor and flesh pried from the body by his claws. Teeth sunk into the throat before it was ripped out, though the head came with it due to an unlucky mishap for the other man and Des being a bit off in aim.
Morgrim Seeing his chance and having been given the opportunity by the rampaging lycan he gripped one of the men who had fallen and tossed him into the ocean as carelessly as one might discard a bottle into a small river
Desparrow turned to face the now fear stricken attackers with a renewed hunger in his eyes. He dashed forward to take another into his arms, sustaining a dagger pierce right behind his shoulder however with the constant motion managed to dislodge it. Blood oozed from the fresh wound however it was the only one the man he had in his claws would manage to inflict before having flesh ripped from the body, armor giving under his strength like it was nothing. Another man whom had bothered to get too close suffered a bone-snapping backhand from which he did not get back up from.
Morgrim Striding forward effortlessly towards the final stunned and obviously terrified member of the brigands who had moments earlier thought to take some easy coin from unwary travelers stopping mere feet from the man. placing a massive hand on the mans shoulder and squatting down he looks deeply into the the broken mans eyes and whispers "Run."
Desparrow watched the giant approach the remaining survivor and decided to let him live. Dropping his weapon the thug made quick on his chance to escape. Following this Des began to revert into an elf and in moments stood just as that. A moment later he had removed the pants from one of the similarly statured deceased and slipped them on, “Thanks for the help. This city is just ridiculously dangerous.”
Morgrim chuckles and then clears his throat the sound making a noise like stones being ground against one another finally speaking " it was no trouble at all elf, or would i call you wulf-elf the customs of you small folk sometimes confuses me."
Desparrow offered a low bow, raising his hues up to the man’s face when he was standing straight again, “You can call me Des. To whom do I owe the pleasure of this company?” He was in an awkward manner asking for the giant’s name. Sure this guy could probably crush him, but the lycan was friendly to most people when meeting them, and not the murderous fiend he not so secretly was.
Morgrim look down at the elf he glances once at the sea before replying " My name is Morgrim, and one who bears the wulf blood acting so... polite its... strange. You may speak and act freely around me Eld-Wulf Des."
Desparrow didn’t find it strange. “I am just being me. I fear though, that although we have just met I should be going. I owe you Morgrim. It has been a pleasure meeting you and I shall be seeing you around. Be sure of it.” With that he offered another bow before turning away and beginning to wander off.
Morgrim calls after Des " Walk with the wind and may the elements see you well when we meet next."