RP:Death of a Crime Boss
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: The chance discovery of a meeting of the power players of the Burnham Boys at the Cenrili port, leads The Razor and his men to launch an ambush which results in a massacre at the scene, and the death of Geoff Burnham, the North Cenril Crime Boss. Kingsley is now poised to tighten his hold on power in the north of the city.
Characters: Grot, Veriun, Kirien
Location: Cenril Harbor
The snow had been falling for several days straight a few weeks ago. Cold enough to stick around. This morning it was a foggy drizzle that was touching lightly against the tin roof of a large, indistinct warehouse in South Cenril. Several horses were tethered inside the gray-stone building, marked plainly as 'Drawd Co.' in large letters. The two massive doors that would swing open to load, unload were closed tightly shut. Old, wooden. Not much was going on, ferry was just setting port and there were few people in the street. One of those quiet Cenrili mornings. Didn't used to be this quiet. This part of town showed wreckage too. Trash strewn about. Somewhere up the block, infant's cry shattered silence into ominous reckoning. It'd been a red sunset last night. Quiet omens. Lurking, depending how you think of it. Tickling the recesses of ones mind, stirring about remnants of past deeds. Simple words exchanged could cause ripples. Blades could cause waves. It's what brought the riders of those horses to that particular indistinct warehouse with rain lightly drizzling on slanted tin roofs. The snow was melting. Cenril was warming a bit. Behind a plain wooden door with copper knob was the kind of décor you would expect of a warehouse this size. Three large offices. The floor was cemented, and there were only a few dusty crates on the huge stock. A few cabinets. Rather empty. What you'd really not expect to see in a warehouse were two body guards posted up outside, eyes like hawks. Stone-chiselled faces, dressed too nice for this city and especially this part of town. Kingsley was waiting patiently for the ferry to dock. Groggy. With a headache from hell and a distinct notion he was a vampire after last night. He didn't know what the hell being a vampire was supposed to feel like. Leg hurt like a bitch, hole in it, dirty bandage. Other than that, mess he looked with wet ruffled hair, he was in pretty good shape. First few steps off the ferry - it's second nature in his line of work, know your surroundings. He knew this part of the docks like a blind man knows the wrinkles of his palm - drew eyes to the lurkers at the warehouse. Well well. Through the light fog he paused behind a cart unloading, horses finicky this early. Well fekkin' well. Looky here. The bulky man on the right he recognized. Geoff Burnham's personal god damn body guard. The frayed hooded cloak he'd taken out to Rynvale with him the prior eve was pulled over his head. He was a vampire. He couldn't die now, right? That's how it worked? And he had to eat babies and all? Shyte if that didn't unsettle him something fierce. But a man like that posted up outside meant Geoff was in there. Brisk pace carried him past the cart, head low, walk determined and ungraceful. The blade that marked him, he'd left at home. Needed sharpening, bad weather for it, or else he'd have stood out like a sore thumb. Could pass as a beggar in that attire, the limp only hinted at it. Leg was burning again, hell. Up the road, past the warehouse he started muttering to himself with gaze drawn to the muddy, sloshy snow strewn path below - "How much fekkin'time does I got? 'Fore the lust takes meh and I start killing babies? Fekkin'hell! IMA VAMPIRE!" Head was about to burst, he earned a look from a passer by. Quite off his god damn rocker.
Veriun was a silent figure in the sky. He wasn't flying, he was sitting on a snowy rooftop down the lane of the dock. But with clear view of the ferry's arrival. He was a shade of the morning. A figure cloaked in white, enveloped in rain mist and snow. He melted into it; the weather, the background. Yet he made no real attempt to hide himself. He looked almost comfortable up there among the snow, with the rain around him like a curtain, cleaning away the white mass slowly. The Ex-Watcher didn't move at all. It was a picture, a picture of the morning sky. He was part of it. Pictures don't move.
Grot cut through alley and street alike, unaware of the Watcher. Didn't much look off toward anyone 'til he was back in his spot. The boys were up. Looking pissed off and hungry like you'd expect men stuck in a city to be. Kingsley limped around the corner straight into the abandoned market that was his part of town, shyte they had horses tethered and everything. Razor's voice was a bit distant this morning, cold. His heart still beat...they don't have beating hearts right? "Wot's this all about?" A busy place it was, they were armed to the teeth the same as Kingsley typically would be. "Wot'r yeh all...doing. Awake. An'not drunk?" A quiet smile spread lips long enough for a tall, lanky younger fellow to chirp in: "Thought you had trouble. We're the search party. Fekking didn't come back like you said, was 'bout to head out Rynvale way and stab a few folk 'til we found you." Felt good to be home. Near home, at least, just a few shops up and on the right. It'd taken a good half an hour to trek back here from the Docks. Time was short. Perhaps. Couldn't rightly tell - he didn't have fangs. He KNEW they had fangs. But they can make them disappear. He isn't one right? Right? "Er, right. Yeh. Thanks an'll dat shyte boys. Er." Nonchalantly he threw in, "Reckon I found the bastard, and reckon there’s more of the ring in thar' and I also fekkin'reckon dat they ain't expecting visitors. Keep yer...er, jes'hold up fer...fifteen'r so. I'll be back. Eat some food yeh? Might be yer last." Kingsley wasn't the nonchalant type. Distant this morning. Vampire. Fekking hell. Babies were too cute to eat! Up the street he went, past the herb shop, up the alley and into his home. Fekking head was pounding harder, his tiny house smelled like wood smoke. Rain must have gotten in the damn chimney again. "I ain't got no...do dey get claws?" He eyed Reaver distinctly with a passing glance while he found a few clean bandages. Pants dropped, alone in his home as here were - and he looked down at himself. Looked past the dark hair to the dried blood of the wound. Was starting to get a smell already. "God fekkin' damn it." He wouldn't die though. He was a vampire! They live forever. New bandage wrapped around leg, over wound. Could see where the stitching had torn and opened it back up, but not for long. Took a good seven minutes, taking his god damn ease. A sudden streak of lightning had him poking attentions toward the only window in the abode, the thunder crashing several seconds later had him wincing. A storm was coming. He had a god damn headache. A once in a lifetime opportunity, and a hankering for some ale. These were the worst kinds of days. Reaver was strapped to his back, solemn action and he opened the door, stepped across the threshold and turned an eye back on his home 'sif it could very well be the last time he saw it. Up the alley, around the corner, few boys were dicing or eating a cup of cold oatmeal from the day before. Hard times. Weather was nice enough to preserve shyte though. "Yeh. S'go." Distant. Off in his own little world of abrupt plans and such. "Wots the plan Razor?" One of the men, a chubby older fellow atop a brown mare asked. "I reckon most warehouses, layout's tah same. Ain't really figurin' much outta tah'ordinary: Rush in, kill tah'feck outta err'thing ain't us.. Yeh. Rid tah'city of dat pestilence once an'fer all. Dey'll be a...dog wit'out tah'...bite'r...yeh. We gon'take the god damn teeth'r tah'whole ring. Er. Tah'brain. Er. Yeh. Jes...les'go." He tried to encourage silence after that. Tried, few men started talking between themselves and others shot occasional questions at Kingsley. For the most part it was a sombre ride. Twenty men atop horse was more than uncommon in Cenril these days, armed the way they were - looked like they were riding off to war. Hell if they weren't.
Veriun watched the bandit leave, following the figure with those eyes of his as far as he could. Then he was out of sight. The avian showed no intention of moving though, not a hint or even inkling towards the idea. The bandit would be back: he could not pass up this chance. And so he sat there in the rain and waited with seemingly endless patience until Kingsley returned with his gang on his tail. A slight smile broke up on the watcher's face. He moved his legs into a right-out position, put his hands on his neck almost leisurely and leaned backwards. With that the cloaked man slid down the tilt of the roof along with a batch of snow and fell off the house. Enveloped in snow as he fell he straightened out, feet towards the ground and cloak fluttering upwards like a broken parasol, wings spread. With deep sound he beat his wings only once just before impact, folding his legs together and up as if sitting on a pillow and then extended them again in time to land on his feet. With a slight pull of the cloak to adjust it's fit he took off. Walking towards what'd soon become a rather bloody epicentre of events.
They took a short cut through Congressional Way. The devastation that started just past the Capitol Building had the men that Kingsley'd grown up with sombre and quiet, reflective even. Quite the oddball bunch they were. Blatant, open with the task at hand. Few had already drawn swords. Coming up on the the corner, the last turn before the docks and that fated warehouse he rose a hand to call for halt. He stopped. They stopped. "Oi. Lookit. We been ta'gether fer'years, mosta'us. We been apart, hell, we bled together an'all dat shyte." A loud noise had him looking up the block at an alley, nawr, just snow falling off a roof - "But dis shyte right here. Is'like a measure'r loyalty, an'brotherhood, an'honor. I know some'r yeh ain't from dis city." Cleared his throat, never much of a speaker: "But yer'showin'meh tah'bonds of mortality I ain't ne'r known. An..." He smirked, "Yer gettin'paid, so lets earn it yeh?" Smart enough to be quiet, but off canter nods from all. He wasn't going to ever die now, but they could. You could bet your ass the bandit would make sure whatever could be done to save as many as possible, would be. "Ain't really in tah'fekkin'sneakin'sort'a'condition. Yer'move up slowly, take out dem'two up at tah'door wit' bows. Tah throat, mind, else we'll have'r'selves an alarm ain't gon'be silenced no time soon." Compliance began, along with dismounting. Kingsley followed suit, wince in motion. The leg was troublesome at best, pierced flesh but spared bone. Several quiet moments go by, a hush in the air and then - two distinctive 'clphew' of waxed bowstrings release. From his vantage the bandit poked his wet head around the corner to eye the corpses of two finally dressed men, one dark skinned, in the convulsions of death on the floor. Subtle twitchs. "Alright yeh buggers." His voice was rising, growing with excitement - the sort of Kingsley you come to expect. "We go in der! We fekkin'kill Anythin'ain't a woman and ain't a gorram kid shiny? WE FEKKIN'WIN. WE LIVE. FEKKIN'GOOOOO!" Course, with his limp he was pretty far behind by the time he'd reached the door - someone had kicked it in. Hell. Just inside he saw four more men dead, none his. Maybe the day was looking up after all. A rumble of thunder outside said otherwise, a down pour had started almost as soon as he'd passed that threshold and limped within. Reaver was in his left hand where a solid bruise resided on his knuckles, "Whar'dey at?" Kingsley called out loudly, the clash of steel was the answer he recieved. The shouts of screams of men caught in battle, the full throttle of death meeting death and the unlucky ones living - on the main floor of the warehouse. He took a moment to survey the scene. Evenly numbered, but he had the element of surprise and immediately his thought resided on one notion: Geoff god damn Burnham. Where was the bugger - couldn't pick him out between the fighting, but he knew he was there. For a change, Grot Kingsley's loud ass voice came in handy: "GEOOOOOOOOF! GEOOOF WHAR'ARE YEH YU FEKKIN'GOD DAMN BUGGER!" Motion out of the corner of his eye and he shifted his blade to the right just in time to parry a man who'd rushed flank side with a battle axe bigger than Kingsley's head - he got cut down from behind, severed the spinal chord at the neck. Few inches off, damn. Vampires have sharpened er...senses right? Nawr, she was a siren! She'd turned him! That's why he didn't feel the pain or headache no more! True, the pain had dissipated with adrenaline to a fair degree. "GEOOFFFFFF!" Again out of the corner of his eye. This time, up near the roof - hadn't noticed the steel walkway before, nor the spiralling stairs that lead up. "I SEE YEH BUGGER! I SEE YEH COWARD!"
Veriun came walking in trough the open warehouse doors. He'd followed them, a bit behind. They'd been far too busy with they're operation to pay attention to what was behind them. And so here he was. Striding into the warehouse at a calm pace, a book on his arm and the other holding a pen with which he wrote. At the moment, he didn't even pay much attention to the fighting around him. After a few paces he stopped and looked up. Tilted his head a tad and looked around. He then locked his eyes on grot for a moment. Not too far away at all. He had this horridly misplaced air around him, as if he didn't take the battle seriously. One could almost expect him to ask 'excuse me, how do you spell exaggerated?'
Grot limped his happy ass to those stairs, wary look thrown behind at the scene in the mostly empty warehouse: Men fighting, dying, didn't look like a winning battle on his end. His men were dropping, theirs too, but this had been....more than just a random happenstance. This had been a meeting. Which meant he had the whole damn ring of them down there, all the lieutenants, highly trained men they were. Putting up a good god damn fight. If at the very least before his men died, he would rid this city of Burnham's iron grip - "I'm comin'fer yeh bastard! Ima keel yu! IMA KILL YU!" Hard to be heard over the din of battle, but the finally dressed young man that was in fact Geoff Burnham was steadily back away from the spiral staircase on the steel walkway above, straight into a damn corner. Kingsley begin the ascension up, limping every agitating step of the way. "FIGHT BUGGAHS!" He was /mad/ with battle, shouting down at the men below - half hanging off the rail. "Fiiiight! Shank'm!" Up and up, up and up, finally met with the top and puffed heavy breaths, and then he noticed it: The rail ended that corner of the building. It was Grot or a fifteen foot fall. Hell. The hell man. Burnham was an intelligent man. This was idiocy. Oh what's that? His hands are shaking? Must've caused quite a damn stir. Maybe it was his vampire powers? Er, could they do mind control too? "Yera'dead man." A dozen feet away, Burnham was speaking quickly but Kingsley couldn't hear a damn word. Geoff was dressed like his origins would denote: A business man, black slacks, well tailored black peacoat and a tie tucked into a gray tunic. Slicked back hair and a yew wood cane thicker than his thumb. The head was a lion's head and mane, looked old too. Nine feet, walking along slowly. The bandit felt by now that it was just him and Geoff, far from true as that was. Men cutting men still raged below, still, even after the several minutes that had passed. "Got'you naw buggah..."
Veriun turned his head to watch the bandit ascend the stairs in approach of his target and enemy with what seemed to be a solemn air of fascination. The cloaked figure with the book was soon noted thought, and what foe-less fighter likes the idea of a mysterious stranger eyeing both the leaders? Most of these bandits and criminals could well be lead to believe the stranger was a mage hired by the enemy. And so he was now a target. A nonchalant target. Veriun started walking towards the stairs grot had just climbed at a controlled pace but would soon find himself on the verge of interception by a somewhat large man with a two handed axe swung over his head in preparation to cleave the suspicious wanderer in two. With a sigh the avian turned his hand with the book up-side down, letting the pages face the floor and then tilted it sideways and lunged his arm out resulting in him shoving the book in the assailants face, reducing visibility to zero. It wasn’t a stunning strike as much as it was dazing in it’s sudden use. Veriun took a step backwards to the side of the man who now swung straight down blindly in assumption the supposed mage he couldn’t see was still there. When the axe met nothing but the floor with a rather loud sound he stepped back to regain vision from the book still held up against his face. Thus he tripped. The traveler had extended a leg behind the bandits, felling him backwards like a log. Such a simple trick. He then grabbed the axe with his with his free hand from the bandits out-stretched grasp, closed the book with a snap and rather lazily smacked the axe in the bandits face just as he took to the floor. Then he continued his stroll towards the staircase
Steel frame was solidly bolted into the cement ceiling above, yet the building was older and so it did rock a bit. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it had a limping bandit feeling precariously spanned twenty feet above a hard floor. Death was certain from such a plunge, but so was his approach. Reaver out-stretched like a guiding torch - arcing just slightly upward-like, and Kingsley taking solemn steps toward a now-cornered Geoff Burnham. Younger than Kingsley, he stood a solid five feet eight inches with a well aligned back and nose just lightly tilted, face naturally unpleasant 'sif constantly smelling something disgusting. Well dressed, adorned in a wealthy gray attire and cane, fedora with hawk's wing jutting behind. Typical for the Burnham lot, always had been. "You think you can just kill me off, and it's just done Kingsley?" Geoff's voice was steadily rising above the heated fight below, "You figure with your massive wealth of knowledge that there won't be repercussions? I have friends in high places, far from here. You're going to be smitten like a pork to roast, burned alive. You rutting fool." Calm. Collected, intelligent. Burnham to a tee. Cane-clutching hand also possessed a failing but lit cigar of high quality, a quarter smoked and steadily losing burn as moments passed. "I reckon two'r three fekkin'things yer bugger, yeh fekkin'slime, yer - yer - yer fekker!" Pissed off bandit responded promptly, but step never ceased slow progression: "Reckon'r gonna die, an'den I reckon'll kill dat fat fool yeh call'a son too. Yeh bring about a plague on meh people, an'yer upset I'm retaliatin? Fekkin'idiot." Crime bosses lips pursed in thought, Geoff taking a moment - and then he smirked. Fekking smirked! Death moments away, and he was cooler than a cat at a jig. "Yeah Kingsley. I brought about that plague. Yeah. I'm also Coreliant in disguise as well, you fekking idiot. Do you possess even a god damn grain of common sense man? Fecking idiot." Cigar rose to thin lips then, Burnham taking a quiet puff and leaning in against the cane. No weapon drawn, a man taking his god damn ease - it only fuelled Kingsley further: "I'ma gut yer'fekkin'guts yu rutter. Fekkin'dead-like, you'll be. Fekkin'rutter!" Ten feet away....the final moments of one of these men's lives was closing in.
Veriun proceeded up the stairs at a quick but relaxed pace. A fast repetitive clanging resounds as his titanium boots hit the metallic steps. He had the book tucked under his arm and his other hand in his pocket beneath the enshrouding cloak, which was flowing somewhat as he rose up the staircase. The was a silent determination about the cloaked man, a business like air about him, even. As he stepped onto the upper 'floor' he slowed down, though, and calmly approached the bandit and his quarry from behind. Making no haste. He wasn't trying to catch up.
S'not like you can just walk up to a man and cut him down or anything. Well. You can but, not like this. The hell was Geoff playing at? "Oi, pissant. Pull out yer fekkin'blade or sommit! Yer'jes gon'die like dat? Ain't no fight? Din yer daddy teach yer better, 'fore I killed'm off for Educard?" A dark plain resided within the human. He was just that after all, human. So much good he did, it was only a vain attempt to make up for bad. "Gerted'm like a piggy too, oink oink yeh? Reckon'll do tah'same tah'yeh. Yeh. Arse turtle like yer...naw draw yer'blade!" Burnham didn't appear unarmed, but that didn't stop Kingsley from approaching none the less. Ten became six, the sound of men roaring and steel meeting flesh, or steel, drowning out the sound of the determined approach of the avian on his flank. "Kingsley, I am a defeated man." A dramatic sigh, jutting of lower lip into a mock pout. "I am defeated! Take my life Kingsley! Take it, for the wrongs I have done to this city!" Grot Kingsley was not an intelligent man. He'd never been, and after thirty some-odd years of fighting and plenty of knocks to the head, he never would be to any obvious extent. Played like a well tuned fiddle, soon as just the tip of Reaver was in range elbow arc'd upward - blade rose above bandit's head, and came down with the forceful intent of slicing the man in two straight down the middle. But there was something you have to remember about the Merchant's of Cenril, even the surviving ones, even the minor merchants, were well versed in blade from a very young age. It was an obvious emblem of nobility in these parts. As such, as Reaver met its climax - just before the plunge - that cane Geoff'd been leaning against? With one quick and graceful twitch of the palm became nearly three feet of steel adjoined to the lion's head of canes top. Geoff Burnham pulled the wool over Kingsley's eyes in the manner of steel meeting with rib cage, slashing across and opening up a wound that was filling with blood quicker than a flood channel would in sudden summer storm. Dust settled atop, made the water slower to sink. It was easy to assume that Kingsley had missed his mark, Reaver violently smacking against the railing - it chipped. Nawr, the man was too busy flailing on to his back in repel to notice his steel had been injured. It was less than a matter of seconds before he was clambering up to his feet, hands deftly seeking - finding - railing, Reaver leaning precariously over the side. But Burnham was already on him - slink, slink slink slink - gushing blood on arms, more on chest, legs. Four more scars, the well dressed man was bleeding HIM like a god damn pig - taking satisfaction from it. The assault had Kingsley clambering backward, scuttling away - his large frame lost in tactless retreat. Geoff stepped past his blade, eyed it a moment then simply - kick - off the side it went, plummeting to the ground below. That moment in time. It was THAT moment in time that Geoff Burnham looked up at noticed the Avian's approach - but you can bet your ass that Grot Kingsley was more taken in that assault then any wound he had inflicted: "Noooooooooooooo! NOT MEH - ow ... FECK OW!!!" Screaming hurt, fecking hell he was hurting all over - vision was blurring, fecking hell he was gonna die! Vampire's aren't supposed to die! "I'll..." The wound over his chest had gone deep, made breathing hurt - "Gut yer...feckin..." Still scuttling away, Burnham paused to view the avian. "Face.."
Veriun kept up his rather slow approach. Clang. His hand still in his pocket, thought those with instinct for danger would likely get an ominous impression from that hand for no apparent reason. Clang. He was close now. Standing tall behind the backwards scuttling Grot. The ex watcher stood still for but a moment. Perhaps utilizing the distraction he'd turned out to be by simply intensifying his otherworldly presence. Then he smiled beneath the hood and spoke. Just a few words. "You're no vampire, Kingsley." He said. Utter gibberish.
Kirien: Blood. Blood, blood, friggin’--death, and blood, it was everywhere in this city and it choked him. Elated him. Kirien’d never been quite right in the head, never quite truly aware of the fact that his excitement was misplaced. He should be worried, or sickened, or disgusted; rather, he wanted to discover the source of this scent. Where in Cenril, this once most beautiful of cities, was the blood painted thickest? Freshest? It was a good thing the fox had well-developed senses other than sight - maybe a bad thing depending on how one looked at it. He only had one eye now, anyway, so it was smarter to rely on different senses. Humans could be stupid, sometimes. The studious Avian, Veriun of course, was not the only suspicious wanderer in these parts this frigid morning, though he would certainly be the first noticed. Kirien only entered the warehouse after discovering the bodies laying outside of it, their blood having attracted him. Freshest blood in the city right now, he was sure of it. His nose didn’t lie. Something was going on here, something big - likely something he shouldn’t get into. But the rogue’s attentions turned to the building looming up beyond the broken gates. Through those gates, and that open doorway, there was chaos, and death. A gang war? He’d heard of such things; wasn’t entirely clear on the details, but he knew enough. Cenril had been having a tough time lately, if the wreckage was anything to say about it. Straightening from his kneeling position before one of the suited corpses, Kirien made his graceful way toward the darkened entrance, white-tipped vulpine ears picking up on the raucous shouts of men and the clash of steel against steel. Definitely a war of some kind. His tail swished side-to-side, an idle motion, and the fox stepped past the threshold. The first thing he noticed, eye drawn up, was the blood dripping from the walkway above, and after moving further into the room his single eye would fall upon Grot’s form. The bastard was apparently trying his best to escape the immediate area of the well-dressed young man stood before him, but such a thing was difficult when he wasn’t on his damn feet. What was he doing? Not that he knew his name, but Kirien damn well remembered the man that’d let him go flying face-first into a wall that one time. “Tch.” Elethial was at his hip, whispering softly, musically, but its owners eyes fell upon Reaver instead. He knew that sword. It belonged to that bastard, didn’t it? Kirien moved to pick it up, testing its weight with one hand; a bit heavier than Elethial, but he’d likely be able to swing it well enough should he have to. For the moment, it appeared he was being ignored by the other men, but more likely than not someone would have a go at the fox sooner or later. He was, after all, a mite smaller than most of these guys - easy pickings, you’d think. Hah. It was bad to assume, though.
Reckon down below things were going well. Burnham's more flashy crew was finding it hard to clash against brute force, Kingsley's men experienced - grizzled, even, most of them. Not to mention bleeding in one spot or another, hell of a fight it'd been. But they were slowly deflecting attacks, almost tactically, pushing Burnham's guard and under bosses into a neat little niche toward the far left corner of the warehouse. An arc held them, the high of battle drove them. Madness and death, Kingsley's favourite quote. Up above, you had a bandit with jaw agape followed by one solemn word that summed up the entirety of his emotion as to what Veriun said: "Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkk!" To an outsider it could be viewed as nearly comical, the expression on his face - but Kingsley was utterly serious, knitting digits into the passing avian's cloak - blood loss released it long before the thing was pulled tight. Black on the fringe of blurry vision, hell, this was the end. Least he could take that bastard out on his way. Burnham took a single - a single - apprehensive step away, and Kingsley's blood hand met with the top rail, bandit was pulled erect by sheer force of will alone. Legs were numb, hair a haggard mess and face pale - but from behind the Avian he struck hand against dagger at hip. A simple design, well balanced and a foot and a half long: Nearly a short sword, but it did the job. Left side against rail, Veriun's body solidly provided a block to Burnham's sight. He hadn't a clue: "And who the hell are you supposed to be mystery man? Knight in shining armour? What the hell are you doing?" Kingsley didn't give the Avian a chance to answer. Not in the slightest. It looked more like a fall forward than anything - hell, it was - but he pushed past Veriun with that blade and it released; not designed for a throwing dagger - but Kingsley hadn't been designed to kill men more skilled then him. A dirty trick to end a nasty fight, blade spun end over end until it met firmly centre-masse into the chest of Geoff Burnham. Mouth and eyes wide with shock - a few uneasy steps away from the other two and within three seconds the former crimeboss of Upper North-Cenril was falling off the edge of the rail as a dead, anti-climatic weight. It was over. Hell. It was finally over. Grot on his stomach, blood seeping down the steel grade and dripping on dry cement below. Cheek was pressed firmly against the steel walkway, breaths coming in haggard gushes. Strength was begging a return, Kingsley - he was praying quietly. Down-facing eye was naturally inclined to watch his boys fight below. A good way to die, watching others die - fekking hell man - but that wasn't all that lurked down there. Was that the scrawny ass from Kelay? WITH HIS BELOVED REAVER?!?? "Eh yu fekker!" Weak voice called, likely swallowed by the fighting men, "LEGGO MAH FEKKIN'BLADE!" Came after two gasps of air.
Veriun smiled a tad wider at the final moments of Geoff Burnham. His eyes tracked the bodies fall until it hit the ground with a dramatic thud. The avian himself took a step forward, dropped the book nonchalantly and bent down to grab onto Kingsley by the collar. As contact was made the man would find his wounds closing, and a minimum of strength return. He wasn't healed. He was still internally damaged. But he wouldn't bleed to death. This happened while he was lifted onto his feet. "you did well, Grot" spoke the avian, sounding just a tad amused. "you've proven to be worthy your mark." He said, all the while following the bandits line of sight, locking his gaze onto Kirien. "today marks the end of Burnham’s gang. And the rise of yours."
It was rather dim, this place; there was a light coming from somewhere but Spirits knew where the hell that was. Kirien was too lazy to bother looking, as distracted as he was with the bloodshed - it didn’t matter anyway, he could see. A fight was far more interesting than a flickering lantern, after all. Lives were more fun to watch flicker and wane than a flame. The fox jumped, however, when something distinctly heavy landed close behind him, a sickening ‘crack’ permeating the dank air as skull struck concrete. He turned, eye alighting upon the form of Geoff Burnham, laying there on his side with a damn big dagger sticking out of his chest. Still well-dressed, even in death. Cigar ash drifted down from above; it’d been dropped at some point or another, he supposed. “Your End was interesting,” he said offhandedly to the body, before shrugging, and stepping away. Lithe movements took the rogue in the direction of the men backed up against the wall toward the other end of the room; sensitive ears twitched at Kingsley’s yell, but Kirien only glanced back at him and grinned, and retained his hold of Reaver. The men were having a little trouble, though it appeared that, overall, they were winning the battle; they were being wounded in the process, Burnham’s remaining men fighting like wild dogs now that their master was laying dead in a pool of blood some feet away. They didn’t want to die, no one did, but people were going to, and it was going to be them. And Kirien lusted for blood. He’d shove one or two of Grot’s company aside, ignoring their protests, and this allowed one man to take his chance and make a run for it, bloody as he was. Kirien wasn’t about to let him escape, of course. Reaver’s ragged edge would come into contact with the side of the man as he ran, the fox just behind him having swung the blade in a vicious arc toward him. That wound…probably wouldn’t heal, even if he did somehow get away, as it was wide and deep, far too deep to heal well. But he wouldn’t, and Kirien made sure of this with another blow; this one, as rough as before, to the back of the man’s head. He fell, and Kirien allowed him to, eyeing the remaining fighters while blood dripped down the side of his face - blood not his own. “I wanted some fun too,” he said with a shrug and a bit of a grin.
Grot pushed away from the Avian slowly, uncalculated, bloody hand residing against rail for support - "B-....Fekker!" God damn it, made him feel all tingley! "Ta'hell'r...yer...a fool!" Eyes were quietly drawn off below, Kirien's way where...well...shyte, "LET TAH'TWIT FINISH'M! LES'BOUNCE! OUT! BUGGERS!" Voice regained enough strength to carry it - his boys started leaving. Hell if they hesitated, or even waited for him. It was easy to assume that unpaid bandits cooped up in a god damn city for a fight they ain't a part of, and barely getting paid for, instead of out in Sage making some coin were not the sort to really carry much resolve. Yeah. They were pissed off at him. But many of the same men who were bleeding, and the men who'd died in the past month and a half had grown up in Cenril. They just needed to remember the god damn code. Making his way back toward the stair one uncertain step at a time, the meekly hunched over man was quite taken with not tripping over his own toes. Enough he wasn't watching Kirien. A few had stayed behind though. Fredlark apprehensively stepping backward toward the stairs Kingsley approached with naught more than a torn sleeve for a wound. A beast of a human, one hell of a fighter for his young age - compared to Kinsley at least - "Kings, Kings, he ain't gonna be able to take them man." He shouted across the warehouse. Outside you could hear more than a dozen horses galloping off north, the boys leaving - what remained of Geoff's men, four or five, were more scared then anything: A great deal of weight could be carried in Kingsley giving that kind of command, that one entity alone was capable of killing them. Kingsley could, maybe, on an extremely good day and with a bit of luck and whiskey - but this was...well...this was Kingsley getting his god damn blade back when he was too weak to fight for it. Let Kirien die, fekk it, descending the stairs - a pause mid-way: "Reckon'll surprise us eh, bugger's got a...fekkin...wot...spark'r sommit, yeah." Veriun earned a glance over his shoulder. A narrowed glance, a glare even, a leave me the fekk alone you creepy fekking magical freak! sort of look. Except much more brutish coming from him.
Veriun simply looked at Grot for a moment. Before he smiled that strange smile again, stretched a hand out, almost demonstratively and grabbed onto the railing. Bended down briefly, picked up the book in his free hand. then took a quick step forth and leapt, flipped himself horizontally and spun over the railing. Proceeding to free-fall down towards the floor like a falling white bat before he hit the ground. But there was no impact. Not even a sound as he landed. He just did, and then straightened up rather slowly. Sweeping a gaze around the room, assessing the situation. Three fronts. And three choices. Which would it be?
Kirien made way for the retreat of the men who appeared to be part of Kingsley’s group - or at least, were working for him. The same couldn’t be said for the remaining Burnham guys. Of the remaining men, the one that shouted to his leader, was the one the fox first levelled with a disgruntled stare, even as he advanced upon the men backed against the wall. Too scared to attempt escape like their comrade, they were; looking at that eye of Kirien’s, it was perhaps no wonder. He’d grown, he’d filled out, but he was still smaller than them, not made of muscle - and yet, that eye. What should be the white of it was pure black, amber wreathed in shadow and that slitted pupil affixed intently on their faces. “Assumptions, assumptions; they’re all the same,” muttered the rogue -- gibberish? Perhaps, it wasn’t beyond him -- while he raised Reaver once more. Down came the blade into the shoulder of the first man, the movement fast enough that he wasn’t even able to twitch out of the way. Should they find the courage to run like their fallen comrade, they’d end up the same as he did; bloodstains on the floor, food for the crows. Kirien would feed many crows today, he decided, as Reaver was again swung--CLANG. One of the men parried the blow, and his friend attacked; blood that was most definitely Kirien’s hit the floor but the fox himself did not, regaining his footing and whirling out of the way of a second swipe. Reaver arced through the air, rent it apart - the flesh of a man followed and Kirien’s face became coated in more of that bitter, viscous liquid. One down, and another fell soon after him following a stab to the heart. Duck, side-step, spin about-- and bring Reaver down to smash the skull of a third. His movements were graceful, easy, the smaller male weaving this way and that and escaping the majority of their shaky attacks. By the time the final man was pressed against the wall, Kingsley’s precious sword pinning him just above the ground by what was left of his neck and spine, Kirien was half-drenched in blood, though had received only a few injuries himself. He wrenched Reaver free, stepping to one side as the corpse collapsed away from the wall - the man’s head rolled off, spine so broken that it shattered on contact with the concrete. Kirien nudged it, then flit his gaze across the red-stained floor, raising his head slowly until his eyes met those of the others nearby. Fredlark, he eyed first, and spoke to. “I think I took them quite well, all things considered.” Veriun was offered a curious tilt of the head, as the fox wandered closer to the three, before his eye slid to meet Kingsley’s. He was given no words, but Kirien held Reaver out to him after a second, the weapon still dripping with blood. And he grinned.
Grot snatched that blade out of Kirien's hand after watching the spectacle. Looked it over - looked it over real slow like. "Ruttin' hell. S'fekkin'chipped! RUINED! MAH'BABY GOT RUINED! YER'RUINED MAH BLADE!" The approach of men on horseback, a good thirty seconds away - and travelling fast - ended that conversation real god damn quick. Fred and Kingsley exchanged quiet glances, and both left - in a rush. Kingsley a hobbling mess of semi-healed wounds and Lark quite the tired, but uninjured man of the hour it seems - leaving Avian and Fox behind, alone, and with at least twelve riders in fast approach.
Veriun donned his cloak with a light pull of his arms and leisurely headed for the door. Unbothered by the approaching riders. As he stepped out trough the warehouse gate he hoisted the book into his left hand and opened it, returning his attention to it's pages while he pulled out the pen once again resuming his writing in the book as if nothing happened. Or perhaps because it happened. Never the less, he only gave Kingsley and his comrades escape a sideways glance. That was all.
Kirien gave a derisive snort, frowning at the nick in the weapon. It’d probably been there before he’d even picked it up, he was sure - chipped in the fall, perhaps? It was certainly quite a height to fall from that walkway. Kirien eyed it, then the stairway, then Grot and Lark’s backs as the two made their hasty exit to the tune of approaching hoof beats. While it would be interesting to hang around and perhaps have a little fun with whomever was due to arrive, the fox decided to put his safety above such games, and swiftly followed the others out the warehouse, light foot steps carrying him across the road and off down a narrow alleyway. He’d leave naught behind but blood and corpses - food for the crows, just as he’d wanted.
Veriun saw the fox leave as well as he himself proceeded to walk away down the street with his attention in the book. Writing undisturbed despite the approaching sound of hoofs. Soon, the riders could be seen within range of shouts, yet they seemed to not notice him. They merely rode past. The slightest hint of a smile on the Avian’s lips. This city was no true challenge..