RP:An Unlikely Hero
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: Finn and members of his crew run into Grot while in transit through one of the markets in the bandit’s east Beloy row. Tense communication ensues, during which Grot supplies the runner with false information regarding the recent attack on the harbor.Grot is in the process of distributing the goods he stole from the harbor to his starving people. The entire scene is witnessed by the masked vigilante known to most in the rows only as ‘the ghost’
Characters: Grot, Finn, Mahri, Domastine
Location: Cenril; Beloy Street.
Grot :: Just past the wide arch stonework that lead into the western end of the market, Grot tread lightly - suspiciously eying any unfamiliar face for a moment. It didn't look too obvious at all, actually. Kingsley wasn't a genius or anything, but the prior morn this small market setting had been mostly deserted. The huts, shacks and wooden lean-to's that once thrived found empty, desolate wind stirred debris here or there - but now it was lively. HIS people had some god damn grub, the way he looked at it. Hadn't seen it this bustling in, shyte, four years. The last time he stopped in 'fore his stop off at a Larket prison. See, last night 'fore he'd stalked off to go about...venturing into the night, doing things you might expect a man of his nature to be doing, he told his boys how to set it up. The nine crates of food were secured in Old Lady Fresser's cellar, damn right- but couldn't distribute it without getting busted, the way he looked at it. So. Few of those lean to's now had muscular, tall brutes with sacks. Selling it. Inconspicuously-like. This small row, everyone know everyone - everyone knew who they didn't know, and hell, Kingsley already figured heat would be coming. The idiot card convenient and played, hell he WAS really - but this would keep them off. Nothing suspicious. Eager, starving folk lined the streets. Some not even from this damn neighborhood, and there was no god damn coin being exchanged - "Bastards'r hungry eh Biggy?" Shot a look down at the dog, worry creasing his forehead. Didn't look right on his face. His nose scrunched up, a light cough and - bam, spat on the dirty ground below. "Ain't right yeh?" Was he talking to a dog? He sure was, "Dese peoples'r sufferin'n starvin'an wotnot. Tain't proper none, feckin'hell if it ain't. An'dying, turning to feckin'stone at that. Bastard Burnham...eh." Spat again for good measure, those who recognized the Razor by face gave a hearty welcome, a wave here, phase of greeting there. He wound up at Fresser's very porch, took a seat in her damn rocking chair like he owned the damn place. Winced while he sat, but watched the scene before him with a humble sense of joy.
Mahri spent her time going from spot to spot to sniff before occasionally racing back to Grot in doggy fashion. She'd had lots of practice at this lately, and she'd been keen enough to pick up a few things from Jack. Eventually, she finds herself settling near Grot. It almost seemed, as she canted her head towards the man, that she understood every word coming out of his mouth. Surprise, surprise, she did. Not that he knows it. Staring at the down-trodden and starving, a low whine sounds in her throat in sympathy. She's been where they are and will probably end up there again someday. It was odd, the way he spoke of these people and the way they treated him. It was went against what she knew of the man. Stretching out next to the rocker, Mahri rests her chin again on her paws and lowers her canine lids half-way.
Finn felt the fine hairs on the nape of his neck shift in awareness as he moved through the market place, Cal and two other of his men walking just far enough on his flanks and behind to generate the illusion that he was walking alone. If it had been up to the runner he’d have avoided passing through the Razor’s row at all, but the coastal byways, especially the North Cenrili trails that led from the beaches and coves north to his drop zone just outside the northern city gates, dipped inland slightly and into what had been for months of his movement back and forth, a desolate and largely abandoned marketplace. Gold flecked gaze swept the buzz of people, the lines forming before seemingly functional stalls and his antennae quivered. “The hell?..” he murmured to himself, fingers shifting to lift the collar of his coat-seeming against the wind, and tug down dark knit cap over his tell tale locks. Bull shyte. There was no way in hell these impoverished, be-ragged citizens had gold to pay for goods..and last he’d heard, there wasn’t product to be had up north anyways. Everything about the scene stank of set up, and a subtle movement of his fingers had Cal moving in closer, though in an ambling, disinterested manner. He couldn’t hit the open road of the coastal market soon enough.
Grot drifted his eyes across the market, recognizing and sounding many of the names for the people in his head. Garret Brin, Old man Weatknocker, the furniture maker. Many beggars, orphans, working men and rogue-types alike. "Awr, dun whine ma'girl." Eyes never left the constant trailing, tiny smile present, "Nah'need fer'it. Nuf'food fera'month'r so. Yeh. Fer mah people at least. Nuttin'sa'good as oats yeh? Yeh want some? Come on Biggy." And he was out of his - er, Fresser's worn out rocking chair and bounding across the open plaza. Slow-like, but with determined strides. A man on his left called out 'Razor!' and he dipped his eyes left real quick - walking straight into Cal. Kingsley was in too light a damn mood, to cough up an attitude over it. Hell, "Er. Watch't yeh? Bugger." That was him NOT having an attitude about it, but he paused to get a good look at the man. And his....company.
Mahri raises her head when Grot talks, tail thumping like she thought it probably should on the porch floor. The moment he gets up, of course she's at his heel. Mahri almost felt bad for the guy. Almost. Whomever he pumps into gets himself a snarled growl from the 'dog', teeth bared and lip curled in warning. Grot better feel fecking protected and damned lucky.
Domastine would have considering his scouting trip to be a bust. The north eastern castle ruins were seemingly abandoned, though there had been evidence of recent activity. Thick lines were drawn in the dusty floor, almost a sickening gray layer of snow upon the once pristine woodn and furniture. At least a dozen men had been present, judging from the numerous footprints. All the same, nothing remained for the faceless spectre than to continue on. Using the abandoned guard post for its height, he nimbly traveled along the flat roofs of buildings along the edge of Coastal Street. He would have continued on until reaching the docks, had it not been for the sudden cry of a familiar moniker. The Razor was present on the island. Olive eyes behind a sheer white cover darted towards the source of the call. With lengthy strides and bounding leaps along rooftops, the spectre reached a new quarry.
Cal had been moving into position on that bump, and it had been hella instinct for the man to reach for the dagger in his waist-especially when that too familiar name had been bellowed. He need little more than grunt, however, chocolate dark eyes making cool, direct contact with the bandit’s own as a shrug was offered idly. “Sorry mate..” and the man making a move to head on. Red, unfortunately, had turned to look back at the sound of the interaction, and whisky gaze would flash directly into the Razor’s face, eyes narrowing slightly, fists shoved casually into pockets as he meandered to a halt. Well hell. There was nothing for it but to balls it out. “Early for a party..innit?..” he said easily. “An’ before you ask, the damn flowers are on the way..Got somebody runnin’ south right now.” Eyes fell to the black wolf on his heels, and narrowed again slightly, as contact was made with silvery pools..a shimmy of.. recognition? For the creature. No. “Nice pooch..” It made him miss the boys.
Grot was half-throwing a punch, sort of - hands had balled at least, forearm starting to raise. He knew the motions of a man reaching for his grip of metal well enough, 'til he apologized. Reasonable man Kingsley was, stopped as he /were/ he just nodded. "Yer'fine yeh." That was it, eye contact made, Cal was a conversationalist after his own heart there: Quick short sentences didn't take much thinking. But alas, that firm look spilled into anger at first to the voice - and then, true, calmed a bit by what they entailed. "Er." Harsh and rough, "Yeh. Din'really reckon yeh wer'gon'real come through on dat. After'll....tah'cuttin'I did. Good tah'know tah'damn world still gots dat honor fer tah'less fortunate at least, yer mistakes aside." Didn't admit any fault on the matter, you might notice. But before Finn could really jive in there, before possible arguement could arise he slipped out of a business mind set - into an arrogant kneel, seeing as Cal could likely slip forward and slit his damn throat in this position. Showed balls, but he was kneeling beside Biggy - Mahri - and sliding a hand along her coat, "Yeah though. Eh. Ferckin' found'r yesterday like. Cutest lil'thin'err innit? Biggy'ser name. Yeh." Shot a cold look Finn's way, sharing no love for the smuggler. Didn't break eye contact a hair, "Wot yer'doin'n mah'corner of tah'city Red? Yer...eh, well. Yer not welcome." Blunt, roughly spoken but - lacking a threat.
Mahri almost lost her cool upon hearing Red's voice. Then to meet his eyes? Oh boy. Not such a good thing. A flash of near panick might have been seen along with an intelligence not usually acquainted with an animal before she turns her head, ears perked as though she heard something. Like most strays she imagines would, the wolf gives a light chuff before bounding off and losing herself in the crowd. Chances are, she won't be seen for some time. At least, not by Red or Grot or even Cal. Nameless on the other hand, might notice a shadow darker than others and of a peculiar shape slink back around to keep an eye on..things.
Domastine watched them from a distant rooftop. The canine was spared a look, though not much of one as there were many stray dogs in Cenril. Mahri's abrupt leaving was on par with the mongrels when they caught whiff of something of interest to them. While her shadowed transformation might have been seen out of the corner of his vision, it had not been noticed enough by masked figure to give the sight any merit. No, his interest was in the little gathering over yonder. Unable to hear their conversation from this still great distance, he looked around for anything of use. A rooftop access atop an adjacent building proved promising. Drawing a breath, the spectre took a step back in preparation before sprinting and lounging. He sailed deftly across the chasm beneath him, cape billowing. In regards to the positioning of the group, perhaps Cal or Finn might see a sudden large white... thing... fly from one building to another. Tucking into a roll as he landed but standing as quickly enough, he descended through the abandoned store to reach the ground floor.
Finn’s gaze remained on the bandit, and he’d clamp down on the desire to lift a skeptical brow when the man made so bold as to kneel and make himself vulnerable. A quick glance was offered Cal, a warning that proved unnecessary. The underboss was already drifting away from the little scene- nobody wanted sudden movements mistaken for what they were not- his own hands similarly plunged into pockets and safely away from the temptation of steel. He fell in behind the runner’s shoulder, and the other two hands who were with them, and as yet, it seemed unrecognized, took up watchful leans nearby. Finn would not be skewered without the one doing it paying a steep price. The reaction of the black bitch to his eye contact made the runner frown, the ghost of true recognition marking his expression. Scars..spots in the dark fur in familiar places sealed the deal. Well now. The hell was the rider up to? She was gone though, and the biting commentary of the bandit stinging enough to deserve retort. “Said I’d deliver..I’ll deliver. Deals a deal..” You bastard shyte. That bit was left unsaid. “Passin’ through..” he’d drawl. A pause. Like hell he was going to tell the Razor he had a den just north of the city gates. It was his safety zone, fall back when all else failed. “Had to make a run inland. Been avoidin’ the ports. Helluva mess down south..” His chin nudged north and eastwards towards the bluff. Came in on the east flank..headin’ back to the coves.” It was as much as the bandit would get. “Man can’t walk Cenril without hearin’ about it now?” There was the whisper of a challenge in whisky gaze.
Grot watched Biggy dart off, partially disappointed by the departing shewolf. But he smirked. It was his turn to nearly raise a skeptical brow, "Nawr nawr. Er'jes got tah - TAH HELL?!" From over Finn's head a white something or another was spotted, flying around - Kingsley blinked, hell, four or five times. He raised, ran a hand over his eyes, "Er. Biggun' yeh see that?" Shot a look at Cal, nodded back off toward the roof. "Goin' feckin'crazy I may be." A few steps back brought him to Lady Fresser's wooden porch again, Red's trailing man really not too far from it in passing - "Figurin'...none'tah less, er, well. Der ain't much a man do in Cenril ain't heard by me. Like tah'ports yesterday yeh. Wierdest thing, yeh, some bastard anna'kid like, stole somethin'r sommit. S'what the rumor is." Content smile, nervy bastard, "Eh. Heard tah'Burnham Boys'r the ones that did it. Stealin'from tah'sea dogs down south, eh, dumb gits they are. Er. Anyone asks yeh 'bout it, er yer boys, yeh be sure and tell'm yeh? Always best to keep tah'facts straight after all." Gaze transfered over the market, beggar recieving a scoop or two of oats into a sack of satchel or - blanket, hell, whatever they had handy. "Heard it was ah, provisions or sommit."
Cal : A fluttering in perifieral vision caught the attention of the underboss, and cocoa gaze lifted skyward. "The hell?.." the soft curse was enough to encourage quick glance his way from the runner, a question in his eyes. Cal shook his head in denial slowly. "S'nothin'.." But a wary eye remained trained on the surrounding rooftops.
Domastine :For being abandoned, portions of the store were quite well preserved while others were rotted to the core. Heavy iron locks were placed over shambles of what were once proud oaken doors. No lock picking was necessary, but a swift kick was required. A boot rocketed forward, kicking the lock clean through fragile wood. There was no time for subtlety. Without a clear line of sight to the men outside, he could not guarantee how much time he had before they would move on. Outside the repeated crash of a heavy metal lock cascading down worn stares would be heard faintly outside. Either a giant was dancing down a flight of stairs or someone was attempting to ransack an abandoned building. The door was opened and burst of dust billowed upward, seeking out the cool draft of air that would carry it out to the roof and beyond. His hand wafted through the haze of dust, grey specks clinging to his white clothing, adding further spectral appearance to his hauntingly white visage as he reached the smeared surface of a window to look outside.
Finn turned on his heel, a casual glance up and out, the direction of Cal’s line of sight. It was making him twitchy, being a sitting mark in Kingsley’s turf. He didn’t put it past the bastard to pull something.. Cal would have the roofline covered. Time to get out of this death trap. “Yeah..yeah.. I’ll be sure to pass it on.” Like hell. The hell did he care about Cenril and its row scrums. He wasn’t particularly fond of the South Cenril lot though..had made running inland more complicated than it needed to be. Thus, the need for this damned encounter in the first place. `clankety clank..thunk.` Eyes shifted from where they rested on the bandit with borderline disinterest, narrowing, and sharpening in focus as they swept the perimeter for the source of the sound. The same building where Cal had thought he’d seen..whatever he thought he’d seen. And there..in a window. What the.. The expletive that spilled from his lips would more than likely attract the attention of all with him toward that looming ghostly spectre in the window. Cold biting words directed at Kingsley. “A feckin ghost Kingsley?.. that the best you’ve got mate? If that’s not one of yours..reckon you need some pest control in your row mate..” And then the runner was signaling his boys in. “Like I said..passin’ through..an I reckon we’ll keep right on movin’..” And with that, he was striding forward again, weaving through the market place, bent on getting out of the god damned row as soon as his feet could take him.