RP:Fire in Cenril's Warehouse District - Saboteurs hit Sawtooth and frame Craven

Background

A new stakeholder enters the morass of petty conflicts which bubbles beneath Cenril's broken exterior.

For whatever reason, the as-yet unknown entity has decided to sow the seeds of chaos among the fertile soil of Cenril's gangs, and their opening gambit was swift and decisive.

[NB: Lars and associates were NPC'd by Ranok, Garth and his boys by Cornelius]

When the going gets hot, things burn

The Cenril Harbour is a busy place, no matter the time of day, but the warehouse district has its busy spots and quiet sections - and Sawtooth had chosen a quiet spot for his storage place. In a fenced-in yard, the old timbers of a large shed creak with every shift in the sea breeze. There is a strong smell of fish, salt, and decay in the air, wafting around and changing texture and taste with each gust through the alleyways. Sawtooth's men hadn't had a good month. With the slaughter of eight of their men at the Funeral Parlour by Craven's ally, 'Nemo', and the unnatural disappearance of various family members to the gang over the previous week, nerves were strung tight. The warehouse was essentially a large, open-planned shed. In the centre of it, three men are seated around a wooden table, its salt-licked surface home to cards and bottles of whisky. The oldest of the three, made obvious by grizzled appearance and lanky grey hair, swears and throws down his cards "Bah! If I could catch you cheating, you bastards, you'd be in for it." A thin man with bony features leans across, pulling in a small pile of coppers with a grin "If you could catch me, Garth, you'd be trying your hand at it, not complaining." The third man, burly and showing signs of tension, spends more time glancing around the warehouse than he does at the cards. Despite the forced casualness of the card game, the men's weapons are close to hand. An assortment of blades lie within hand's reach, and the old-timer Garth has his crossbow sitting on a chair next to him, cocked and pointing away from the table. The thin man smiles "Another round, me old mates?" Candle and lantern-light would show stacks of crates and boxes lying around the warehouse.

A group of four men creeps along the waterfront. They move with intent and purpose. Each of them is clad in a long cloak, hoods pulled up and masks tight to the face. These cloaks bulge with malicious intent. A hard line indicating a sword here, or the curl of a bag filled there. The night was dark and heavy, the muggy air clinging tight to the skin. This night, of nights, was chosen for its perfection. The moon was a bare sliver in the sky when it could be seen. The clouds are heavy and pregnant with the promise of rain. The humidity makes the men travelling suffer, though they are unwavering. Sweat wets the masks, but no more. The group of four seem familiar with one another. Each moves with a knowledge of the other, of a sorts. Like each were aware of how the others moved and kept pace in his own way. Under their hooded cloaks, identification was impossible, but each was of at least average size. Human or elf. Save for who could only be the leader of the small troupe. His eyes glowed with the light occasionally, a passing torch or the moon peeking out, marking him as feline. They spoke no words, communicating when needed by hand gestures. Professionals to a fault. But that was what they were hired for, under a lucrative contract. Smash and grab operations were under professionals such as these, but when so much gold was laid on the table, who could refuse? Along the rooftops where possible the group moves. They do not hurry, the risk of a damp roof tile causing the foot to slip great enough to put caution in their step. Those on the street have no reason to look up, so they manage to get by without detection. Within time, the destination and target is reached. The leader, to be known as Lars by his comrades, calls for the group to halt. Halt they do. A rustle of cloth as the cloaks are removed, folded, and tucked into cracks on the roof. There they would stay for the rest of time, until they rotted. Their service had been fulfilled. The four stood for a scant few seconds, looking at the other. Then, with a few hushed whispered words and a series of gestures, they spread out. Of the four, two were human. One burly, the other female. The leader was feline, and the last was almost certainly elven. They were all clad in black, and carrying a small bulging pack on their backs. Each, too, did carry a sword, the sheaths wrapped in dark cloth to prevent the swords from rattling on anything. A crossbow, as well, with a number of bolts in a quiver and a handful attached to the stock itself. The crossbows bore the marks of the maker, but was once there is now gone. No identifying marks are on the crossbows, the wood rubbed bare to prevent the knowledge from spreading. Positions are taken. The leader remains low on the rooftop, the burly man slinking in closer to the lighted area. He takes caution to place his steps carefully, to avoid the great number of puddles that would splash. The female moves opposite the male. Each take out their crossbows, their faces smudged with what could be soot, hair tied close to their skulls. The last member, the elf, slips into the shadows, to sneak towards the back and around the shed. His pack was the most laden, and he bore no crossbow. Instead, in a oiled sheath, a short bow laid, with a large number of throwing knives tucked into his belt and bandolier. Like clockwork they moved, quietly and using shadow to their benefit. Once in position, the leader pulls out a spy glass, to observe the men at the table. No attack is done yet, the time not quite ready for the unified assault.

Garth wasn't really expecting trouble. They'd offloaded the most valuable goods to a smuggler heading to Rynvale, and the take had helped cover the costs of recruiting new bully-boys for Sawtooth. Word had it that Craven's bunch of soft-hearted ex-militia lads had been recruiting as well, amongst friends, family, and old acquaintances - but they'd not be foolish enough to come out and play until they were sure of their new members. The old smuggler looks at his sons, Alf and Eddy. Alf, the thin card-shark, was a quick bastard and a bastard in truth. Two different mothers for two different sons, the signs of a life well-lived, Garth decided. Eddy was more a chip off his block - sturdy and steady. Both of them members in good standing with Sawtooth. Still, Big Eddy's nerves were getting to him "What in the blazes are you looking at?" Eddy muttered "I don't like this, Da. It's too damn quiet." The man stood up, started pacing around the warehouse, glancing out the windows. By chance, a gap in the clouds appeared, and thin moonlight cast its light and lengthened shadows "And why is there a cat on that roof, if it aint hunting damn rats?" Little Alf narrowed his eyes "What if its that Nemo bloke, Garth? Word came back he's an assassin? What if he's come for us? Blokes from the funeral parlour said he killed most of the eight men we lost that night." Garth spat "Well, arm up lads. If we're standing around like loons in an hour's time, I'll kick your sorry arses into next Sunday." Picking up his crossbow, Garth slips a couple of daggers through his belt, while his sons likewise arm themselves with swords and daggers and move to the centre of the warehouse. "Keep easy, m'boys. We'll be right as rain if you keep your heads" Garth keeps an eye on the rear door, crossbow ready, while Alf and Eddy's eyes glance from windows to the barred double-door gate at the warehouse front.

It had been too easy so far for the band of saboteurs. This latest arming strangely relaxed Lars. He got paranoid when things went too smoothly. Akin blissful feeling of some poisons, massaging the mind as they slowly killed you, he felt. It was time to move. Lars slips off the rooftop in a feline motion, off the back and away from the street. From the alley, a short looping path to the warehouse. The windows were avoided, to eliminate the chance of being spotted from one. Each of the rest were ready to go. The crossbow was readied by Lars. The rest had the standard, run of the mill thing. But he got something special. It was a repeating crossbow, scantly seen. The bolts were thick, and heavy, too. Each one was a wicked barbed thing, long and sharp. Poison ran through each one. At range, they would be useless. In a building, each one could find its mark without difficulty. A fast acting neurotoxin, able to put a man down in fifteen minutes. Too long to use it in a fight. But any man who took one was in for a long, painful death. Professional or not, men like Lars had their cruelties, and he was determined to make any fight he couldn't survive hell for the winners. The two humans were tight along the windowed sides, one on each side of the warehouse. The elf had gotten onto the roof and was beginning to lay out sticks of some sort. His task was different from the rest of the group. Failure of the three on the ground did not mean that the warehouse would not burn. The leader took the backdoor, hugging the wall tightly. He was taunt, ready. To spill blood, to fight. A carved whistle is raised to his lips, and blown. The cry of a seabird, something not uncommon in the city, piercing the air. It would be louder then normal, but birds must surely perch and be irritating at any time of night. A moment of silence. It hangs, pregnant with possibility. Then shatters with the literal sound of glass, the two humans on the sides slamming the butts of their crossbows on the panes and throwing in handfuls of smoke bombs. The smoke was laced with the acids of several types of ferocious peppers. Dangerous to breath. A sort of make-shift tear gas. The assaulters had crudely made gas masks. The men inside would hopefully not be so lucky. Within moments the room would be filled with fiery smoke and the leader would roll into the door to unleash a hail of several of crossbow bolts into the smoke. He couldn't aim for anyone in particular, but he didn't need to. Ten bolts across the expanse and all he needed was a nick to numb the limb it hit. The two humans wait a few more moments for the havoc to set in, and then to the windows again they go, shattering the rest of the glass to allow for their own entrances. None of the group were in the building, but each was preparing to storm it. The elf on the roof was minding his own task, no matter of what happened below.

Garth was many things. Thief, Smuggler, Stand-Over Man, Cut-throat, and veteran of the Preklek invasion. An idiot was not on that list, however. That seabird's cry, so close by, when the night had been silent before, was as good as shouting 'Ambush, you ninnies' for the old ex-soldier. He gestured, and his sons quickly moved to crouch and take cover behind crates as Garth kept an eye on the back door - himself hunkering down to use the crate to steady his shot. Not like the youth of today, who would spend their load on the first sign of excitement, Garth played for the slow but certain payoff that experience brings. His orders quickly change though when smoke starts to rise. Pulling his shirt over his face, Garth hopes his sons follow suit. Alf, quick on the uptake, does likewise, but Big Eddy was never quick at anything, save in losing coppers at a card-table. As the smoke aggravates his eyes and throat the large man coughs and splutters "Da, I can't see, whassgoin'on? Where're the bastards?" The sound of clicks fill the air as bolts spread across the room. Eddy, no longer behind cover as he paws at his eyes, shouts in pain as a bolt pierces flesh and lodges itself in his right arm at an awkward angle, tearing the flesh along his ribcage as it does. Garth focuses on those clicks, standing his ground as he had when the Preklek had assaulted the walls of Cenril. When the clicks stop, he launches the bolt at the place where the sound last came from, then draws sword and dagger "To me, then to the door. We'll cut our way through 'em lads. Quit your whining, Ed, and pick up a goddamn sword!" Moving crouched and low, eyes starting to water despite the shirt, the three men move swiftly towards the back door, using the crates as cover while keeping their weapons in defensive postures.

Lars was quick on the take too. Things were going wrong. The tip had made it sound like an easy push over. A warehouse guarded by mere goons. These folks were faster in reacting then he'd anticipated. But there was a stroke of luck. They were using the obvious door way. Going towards the air. Precious moments are used to wind up the repeater. Too long. Only enough winding for a few more bolts. Not enough for the storm of arrows he unleashed moments before. The man who gave it to him warned against it. Oh well. The two humans knew what to do. Covered as they were with gas masks, they were free to weather the effects of the smoke to little effect. The only downside would be the somewhat reduced peripherals, but that wasn't an issue when your opponents were limited in number and coughing to boot. Into the warehouse the two humans go, their further shattering of the windows having gone unnoted, it seemed. Leather gloves protect the hands and crossbows held in the free one. Both feet touch ground within the same span of seconds, and they just pick a human shaped target in the smoke and let fly with the crossbows. Their crossbows weren't fancy, so one shot was all they got. Hit or not in the smoky fray, both draw weapons and barrel into the back of the small group of men assigned to guard the warehouse. Lars was outside, his fancy crossbow dropped to the ground and his sword out. He would chop at the first bit of flesh that poked its head outside. His own mask was up on his head, out of the way. Smoke would be pouring out, but he was toughing out the wisps that reached him. The idea was to keep the men inside trapped, but not enough that they didn't scrabble for freedom from the hellish, burning smoke. The two humans inside weren't sword masters, but neither were they pushovers. Lars was significantly more skilled then his comrades, though none of the attackers were relying on skill to carry the day. The confusion, the smoke, the sounds, all would be served up to befuddle the guards and keep them off balance.

Garth may not have noticed the additional glass falling, but the slap of feet touching ground was very familiar to him, and he screams "Duck" even as he follows his own advice, bringing his posture as low as possible. His forward momentum carries him through the door, his sword clashing with Lars' own, his dagger swiftly covering any reprise on the assassin's behalf. Even with watery eyes he notices the weapon lying on the ground, its strange design marking it as the bolt launcher which had laid a spread of bolts through the warehouse a moment before. As he engages in close-quarters combat with Lars, a scream is heard from within - Big Eddy's size had once again rendered him a target, even in all the smoke, and the man's skewered body falls in the doorway, just behind Alf's exiting form. A quick order then comes from Garth as he crosses blades with Lars "That weapon on the ground, Alfie - smash the bastard, then get the hell out of here." Alf stops his momentum, turns and lands a heavy sword blow on the device, splintering the stock and denting the clip with the force of the weapon's impact, even as it puts a sizeable nick in the man's sword. A second blow fouls the firing mechanisms. Alf then launches himself at the fence, and pulls himself up and over it with a sailor's skill at climbing "Keep it together, Garth. I'll try and get help." Hissing between another exchange of blows, Garth responds "You damn fool, just get the hell out of here. Ain't no way I'm getting past several assassins. This is your only chance - Now go!" Garth manoeuvres himself away from doorway as he fights, to avoid being blindsided for now. In the fresher air outside, he does not attempt to halt his shirt from slipping off his face in the conflict. One can only assume that the tears in his eyes are from the smoke, and not Eddy's fallen form.

Lars was pissed. That was part of the payment rendered to him for the service he was performing now. Given up front, no less. Up front! As he crosses blades with Garth, Lars snarls in a feral way. No doubt of what species he was, even if his eyes didn't already. Garth would know, likely as he went to his death, that Lars was feline. But hopefully, all that Alfie saw was smoke, horrible sounds (wounding of Eddy) and the glowing eyes. He snarls out a command, "Gripe, kill him!". And indeed, it was. The elf, on the roof, forgotten until now. He dashes over to the edge to observe the duelling pair, but doesn't help Lars. Instead, he knew his task. The fleeing Alfie. The command wasn't to slay Garth, but the witness. Normally, Lars might have let Alfie go. He would live to tell horror stories. Of the smoke, the eyes, the blades in the dark. But Lars was pissed. And that meant he was unprofessional, for a bare moment. Gripe, his name was apparently, didn't question. Just following the orders. The strung bow is slipped out of the oiled sheath and an arrow set to it. The elf carefully aims. For the legs or lower body, not the heart or head. A kill shot was unlikely at range. A shot that slowed down the runner to give him another to finish the job? Much better chance of payoff. The elf wasted no time in letting fly the arrow. Whether Alfie would escape unscathed remains to be seen. Down on the ground, Lars fights Garth. The assassin lacked an offblade, and Garth was a burly human, more of strength of arm. But he was skilled, and fast. His vision was clear, as well. Unless Garth had some tricks up his sleeve, the feline would be able to hold his ground. Perhaps not slay Garth, but that was unnecessary. The burly human would erupt out of the smoke to aid his leader. Two on one would thin the odds for Garth. As for the woman, she would finish off Eddy and then return to the depths of the warehouse for the task that they were enlisted to, unless things outside were dire. A successful escape by Alfie or not, time would be limited and it was better for her to get working then to help in a fight she wasn't needed in.

Alf ran, alright, picking a random, zig-zagging pattern for the short distance it takes him to reach an alleyway, Gripe's arrow slicing a small cut on the youth's outer thigh as he runs. Once in the alleyway, Alf ducks out of sight, shouting "Blood in the Water! The second Warehouse! Blood in the Water!" The call is taken up by street urchins and other people in Sawtooth's hire as Alf then quietly makes his escape through the cluttered warren of alleyways and buildings. It would not take long for the harbour to be in a furore. Meanwhile Garth's eyes were clearing up, and old reflexes serve the warrior well, as he sweeps in a sequence of broad, controlled slices to batter the Feline's blade, dagger parrying and blocking lines of attack as the grey-haired veteran circles around to start a slow fighting retreat towards the front of the warehouse, where the main entrance to the fenced-off yard would give him his one chance to escape.

Lars and the human, who's name is Murphy, close on Garth. Murphy circles to cut off the escape by simple presence. Lars backs off. He and Murphy held the advantage, and Gripe was on the roof still with his bow out. It was a forgone conclusion, but things would play out. Lars wanted blood himself. The bastard that stood before him wrecked the payment rendered to him, and for that, he just wouldn't die. Since 'slow and painful' was out of the equation, time being a factor, he'd settle for 'do it myself'. But he isn't stupid enough to tell Murphy to stay out of it. The two would work in tandem. As Lars was weathering a blow, Murphy would strike. And if Garth would swing around to engage Murphy, Lars would dart in to do damage. Both would try to herd him away from the exit to prevent his escape. Murphy used a more brutal style, with kicks and body checks, the equal reach he'd have with Garth allowing it. Lars relied on speed, his blade more thin and darting. In a hammering match, he would lose, so he parries instead. A dangerous thing in a fight, but he had relief in Murphy, able to catch a second of breath while the other fought. Garth wouldn't be so lucky, two swords coming at him from two different directions at once. Never a fun task even in practice. After the night without sleep, the smoke, the loss of his son and the uncertain fate of the other, the two assassins hoped that Garth didn't have much in him but the grim will to survive.

Garth had more in him than the will to survive. He had a burning rage and a desire to send these bastards the way of the Preklek - straight to hell. It would be tough going, but Garth didn't have much to lose, and years of experience in low-odds close-in fighting. He lets Lars dance away after a controlled exchange opens up a small cut along the old veteran's arm, and when Murphy barges in to body check him after a dagger deflection, Garth steps with him and slightly backwards, Murphy's momentum forcing the large man between Garth and Lars by the warehouse wall. Garth then steps in, sword sweeping a path around and down, aimed to cut diagonally across Murphy even as his dagger slips up and out, thrusting towards the oversized bastard's stomach, angled to target organs or the very base of the lungs. When facing multiple opponents, Garth knew, the trick is to use the chaos of battle to tangle the opponents amongst themselves. He would use that to his advantage, praying that someone would rally to his bastard son's cry of 'Blood in the Water'.

Murphy was never really much of a sword fighter. His style reflected that. He always let his relatively superior size do the work. While not as tall as some men in the region, he wasn't an underweight. It seems that he's paying the price, by taking a dagger in the chest. But such wounds are not an instant kill. Fatal over time it may be, the leather he wore more of a deflection tool then a thing that stops piercing, Murphy has time to die. Some men whimper as they die. And others get angry. Murphy was one of those men. The sword gets dropped and the burly man latches onto Garth with that grim grip that the dying have. Murphy wasn't quite passed the point of no return. A healer could save him still. But he knew that his comrades wouldn't have time to, or the ability. So soon after this little smash operation, any healers in the area would be shaken down. Asked if they saw any people a little cut up, follow the trails. Even the underground, 'no questions asked' healers would get the grilling. To say nothing of the need to hide afterwards. It all boiled down to one thing: he was going to die. So he made the best of it. Those fingers of his would latch onto Garth's throat, squeezing like his life depended on it. In a sense, it both did and didn't, but the strength of the grip remained. Lars didn't get the memo as much as the dying man did. The clarity that some deaths brings makes even the slow witted geniuses at times, and Murphy was no exception. Instead, the leader was using his comrades misfortune to circle around to try to get a strike at Garth's back as the old veteran would have to grapple with Murphy. Gripe keeps lookout. Responses would be fast, perhaps, but there wasn't fire. Not yet. That would have gotten people to move. Moments like these tended to draw out, but there was still ample time to torch everything to the point of no return.

Garth knew he wasn't getting out of that iron grip in time to avoid Lars, but he was damn well going to have company on his way to hell. With swift, sharp movements, that simple dagger retracts and buries itself in Murphy's stomach and organs again, and again, and again, even as Lars finds a suitable position to strike. As Garth's dagger retracts yet another time, ruptured intestines starting to fall from Murphy's rent and ruined flesh, Lars' blade enters through his back in a neat, controlled thrust, barely missing the heart. Murphy's grip starts to weaken with pain and shock, and as Garth's vision starts to darken, the old smuggler rams his dagger in an uppercut through Murphy's throat where it meets the jawline. As he falls back, he whispers "There ya go, Eddy" before Lars takes the opportunity to whip his blade around and shear through the flesh, bone and cartilage of Garth's neck. From a distance, the sound of numerous footsteps and shouting can be heard, the slow but inevitable response to Sawtooth's settled-on alarm cry. The saboteurs would have a few minutes to finish their task while Garth's sightless eyes bore witness to the old man's failure.

Lars checks on Murphy, just to be sure. The man was dead, not even a trickle of life in him. Company to hell indeed. He wastes no time in stripping Murphy of his equipment. It was both expensive, and wasteful to let it go to waste. Not to mention that nothing was to be left behind, on strict orders from the man who hired this little group. He grabs an arm and begins to drag the corpse of Murphy into the warehouse. The fire would handle the body. He yells up to the roof as he does, "Gripe, get those damn sticks on the fuse! Murph's dead! We need to torch and scam." The elf complies. He wore a smile. Seems he wasn't very fond of the dead member of his group. Down he hops with a stick of whatever it was he had laid on top of the roof. It was littered with a number of them. Most of them were now sparking at the top. It'd be a minute or two before they were burning completely merrily. The sticks held a highly flammable compound that burned even through immersion. The warehouse was doomed. Murphy's dead body was parked a few feet into the door. The repeating crossbow, ruined as it was, was kicked into the warehouse too so it would burn as well. Lars was met by the human woman, who held a bundle of something. Her task had been to strip as many crates as she could of their markings that told of Sawtooth's ownership over the contents. And perhaps a few choice goods. Who's going to miss them? They'd have gone into the flames anyways. Mar, the woman, was less pleased by Murphy's demise, but she kept on track. The two had been rather close. But that was the risk one ran when keeping friends in a band that could die on any job. Lars takes the bundle from her, "Alright, let's go. Everyone scramble. You know what to do." The two remaining assassins nodded and the group ran for it. Just as they did, the sticks erupted into a fierce flame. The entire roof is engulfed in mere moments from the thing. Over the course of minutes, the roof would begin to weaken, and then collapse. At that point the rallied men would arrive, but it would be far too late to stop the burning. Bucket brigades, pumps. It was all nothing in the roaring of the inferno. A final touch, a scrawled message mocking Sawtooth with regards from Craven, was left on the fence in Garth's blood. The shadow garbed figures flee into the night, spreading about the city It would be a few days before they checked in with the man they hired, but their service was more than accomplished.