RP:The Razor Robs The Crow
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: The Razor and his crew make a raid into south Cenril turf, stealing crates of food from the Crow’s warehouse holding facility, just before it was due to be transported out of the city to the rogue prince’s home island of Aisec.
Characters: Grot, Fibs, Mahri, NPC North Cenrili gang.
Location: Cenril; The Harbor.
Grot couldn't help but think half an hour ago he'd been sleeping away a night of carousing with the locals. All about the slums they slept, a total of twenty eight. Few around town. Few lurking guards. Kingsley was inside his home, tying the laces on boots that reached to the knee. Fluid motion, two long curving daggers met against belt - a leather strap secured those. A quick check of the throwing knives hidden about his body and finally, his baby. The weapon that had aptly earned him his nickname. The four foot long, rectangular blade was strapped to his back and a face gaunt with determination met against the door. Because Grot Kingsley had just tripped on his way out - "God damn sonna'bitch feckin'hell!" He shouted, a few of the dogs around the block began barking. It was damn quiet. Finally digits met against copper handle, the man looking ready to go off and fight a god damn war - which really wasn't any different than he usually looked. Except this morning, with the sun just barely peeking above the horizon, his gait was determined. Eyes were stuck in shadows, skittering across the empty market at the smallest stir of wind. Tension. Could feel it in his body, steadily building for the past week. All the secret thoughts, plans, ideas he had and finally - he'd plucked one, was acting on it. The hive was soon to be stirred. Just outside the alley he paused at market's edge, peering across the worn wooden structures and metal lean-to's his people had put up. Too god damn quiet man.
Fibs was hastily scampering towards the familiar narrow alley, running just as fast as his stout legs could carry him. His cloak billowed behind him as he drew nearer to the Razor's abode. He threw a headlong glance over his left shoulder, looking for someone in hiw wake, and he ran smack into Grot. Not that the concussion of the blow was of great magnitude, being as small as he was, but it certainly gave the little man a start. His breath was frantic, and judging by the color of his face he'd been running across town for a while. "'Ah-a-ey, Kingsley!" exclaimed Fibs between two hurried breaths. He looked behind him again. "Ga'damn Burnham boys, tried to split me open," he describes in a rush. Soon, a rather colossal form would be seen running -or rather, loping- towards them in the distance. The man rose to nearly seven feet in height, and was proportioned accordingly, with hands large enough to crush two mens' skulls simultaneously. As he drew closer, his features coming into focus, one might recognize him as the former tavern security in the famous Kelay haunt. Although Fibs watched his approach, he didn't seem to be troubled by it. "This 'ere's Edmund, damn near saved m'life. Hadn't been wet b'hin'th'ears 'til now, though, so 'e might be gettin' sick." The behemothian bouncer now arrived at the alley, his own breath more exhausted than the hobbit's. The expression he wore was of obvious abhorrence, that of a man who witnessed a murder for the first time.
Grot knew something was amock, like an itch under his nose - "Er wot tah'hell is...Unk." The noise was inaudible, monotonous at that. A 'oh. did a wind just breeze against my leg?' but alas, soon as the short hobbit spoke those words - before Edmund'd come into it all, Kingsley'd already taken a step in front of the four foot tall creature and unsheathed Reaver. The rather large weapon he all but toted around with an arrogant pride, of which he was most profficient at. Fibs had seen his face pissed, happy, tired - but not like this. This was a dark anger. Shadowed dawn only accentuated the look, especially when the former bouncer's loud foot falls began reaching the bandit's ears. Fibs lack of apprehension over the matter, however, kept Edmund's head in place. "Er. Oi. Whiter'n a ghost dis'feck is." Quiet words, calm, and then Reaver was resting against atop his shoulder. Both sides were sharpened, a god damn dumb thing to do but Kingsley had a broad form and - well, there was space. Looked like quite the intimidating pose, seeing as he was looking /up/ at someone for a change. "Yer'savin'm for why, fool? Wot's yer feckin'line'ere?" Looked ready to kill the god damn man, but he still spoke quietly. Burnham boys in pursuit, a god damn likelihood these days.
Fibs eyed the bandit and his namesake razor with a healthy glint of fear in his gaze. Might've been better to have intercepted Grot while he was still in his hovel, but then again, could've been much worse. Edmund had since keeled over, inadvertantly revealing his practically nonexistent neck to Kingsley. He wasn't a bright fellow, to say the least. Sweat beaded down his brow profusely, running down a begrimed cheek and collecting on his chin. "Uhh," escapes his mouth stupidly. He looked at Fibs, hoping the little man could elaborate on the whole happening, being weak and drained as he was. The hobbit quickly spoke up, maybe speaking a bit too fast for the Razor's liking, as he often did: "I 'ad 'im about fer some adventure, yeh? Too cooped up in that rottin' pub in Kelay, I tole'm. We was just passin' through the market'n WHAM, Burnham boy knocked me on my arse." The onomonapoetic sound was rather loud, and startled the big Edmund. "Eddieboy was quick to grab'm, but the little feck pulled out a blade." Fibs motioned towards his own dagger, tucked invisibly away beneath his shroud. "I 'adda bleed'm. Eddieboy 'ere got a bit sick, 'n a patrol came about." A quick glance out down the thoroughfare. "Damn near ran 'round the whole town 'fore we got here. If anything it might keep th'hounds off of us fer a bit."
Grot used his free hand to scratch the side of his head. "Er, wot? Oi~ Oh. Oi. Yeh. Feck. Yeah. Bastards they feckin'r...'ll likely be on yeh...er, well'n good and fine innit? God damn Burnahms ruttin er'thing up like't ner'been afore. Eh." Anger swelled, eyes on Edmund quietly for a good three seconds. "Er. Lookit. Shyte. Eh. Sec." Kingsley disappeared into around the other side of a cart. A sleeping beggar was there, or so it appeared - naw. It was Fredlark, on third shift. Tension meant guards. Can't feckin' help anyone if you're dead, "Lark. Lookit. Rouse the boys. Nawr, Northeast'uns. Leave tah'rest alone. Lurking, er, like Doc Valentin told us." Doc Valentin. The legendary outlaw, a fable when KINGSLEY had been a boy. Now an elderly man counting the days until death knocked, had a rocking chair and everything. Sick with the plague. Smart man. A legend. "Yeh. Lookit." Lark popped his head around the cart, on his knees - looked odd, but just as quick he fell back on his ass. "See? Tah'big'n. Eh. Give'm blanket an'watch'm. He tries anything, yeh feckin'split'm in two yeah?" Voice was loud enough to carry, and the bandit returned - "Edmund. Yer staying here til we get back. Mr. Fibs. Eh. I gots work for yeh. Come'n then." He didn't wait for a yay or nay, not now, not with the sun threatening to feck his whole plan over in under an hour. He began a wide gaited approach to the very arched-entrance into the market Fibs had just come from without waiting for the damn Hobbit to catch up.
Fibs could not help but hesitate, should following the Razor mean returning to the setting of the entire altercation. Shyte, like he could wait behind. Didn't need to, if what his sharp ears heard of Kingsley's orders meant anything. The man had pawns and pieces all over the damn city. Edmund roused a bit, clutching at his rapidly nauseating stomach, and staggered towards the unseemly looking man. Not a moment after he reached him did he start spraying the ground with his guts. Heaves and coughs of bile and partially digested food were loud enough to echo after Grot and Fibs as they made their way straight into the bowels of their adversaries, the latter slightly apprehensive about what 'job' was to be done. He didn't fancy killing -it didn't really phase him, especially not like it did the huge man who was vomitting his equally huge stomach back there- but he mostly despised the implications and consequences it brought more often than not. Like a child being dragged to the home of a pranked victim's house to apologise, he tailed the bandit. His eyes were ever watchful, flicking to the shadows here and around the corners there, one hand kept coiled tightly around his crude dagger beneath the folds of his cloak. "Eh, Kingsley, wot y'reckon we're gon'do?" he posed worriedly. Nonetheless, his bare feet pitter-pattered behind, approaching what his instincts told him would be a most unpleasant encounter.
Grot consolidated his quick pace with a thick accent, coming in between huffs of breath. "I'm hungry. We're gon'go get us some ruttin food." Oh how simple that sounded, eh? He rounded a corner, heading south down Congressional Way. "Oi." Muttered aloud with a shaking head, hell, he still had Reaver out. At his side now, loose, free you could say. Looked a man ready to kill, kept prying feet off his back - and Fibs. Just past the Capitol building, that's when you started to see the damage - just about every building was collapsed, devasted. The streets were dead-quiet. No one lived here. There was no where to LIVE here. The streets had been cleared enough to allow travel, rubble and pebbles strewn about in most places but - "Dem lizard fecks. Blew'r up. Whole god damn street. Purple Knights sommit stopped'm 'fore dey got tah'capitol building but...eh, man, thousands died from wot tah'Doc was tellin'me." Feckin' hell man, stronger scent of the sea was distracting him from what he really wanted to say. The sound of horses ahead had Razor suddenly dodging into one of those desolate buildings. A two story home that looked ready to cave in, hell, it was just a shell - but he found a corner real quick and pulled Mr. Fibs off the street. As in, picked him up off his feet and set him down inside of the rubble. Four horses. Riders moving real slow-like. A nice pleasant walk, yeh? Didn't dare to whisper. Too god damn quiet for it. Just waited for them to pass with eyes glued to the door frame.
Fibs kept pace with the Razor, two or three of his strides necessary to make up the ground of one of his. He'd heard about the Preklek invasion, but never thought to attribute the desolation to their hand. Doc Valentin was a familiar name to the Cenrilli born-and-raised halfling, but he didn't chirp up even still to the mention of his name. Grot needn't have even said an ushering word to Fibs, who was more or less beside the man within the decrepit building before Grot could look back to see him. He watched the riders pass with a pained expression on his visage; so much for being just another face about town. He'd have to be more cunning with his craft and interactions in the city and abound. Damn good thing those horsemen passed, thought Fibs before they had actually done so. Wouldn't even grant himself a sigh of relief -it was obvious he had a vision of his capture and torturous death that would entail. It was ironic, really, that he would place himself at Grot's side -or rather, behind him- when he needed protection, for it was very similar circumstances that Fibs took advantage of the bandit. He waited with bated breath, contemplating the thought of food and the methods of procuring it all the while. Seemed odd, really, too simple an endeavor for the day. Then again, what wasn't misleadingly simple with Kingsley since Fibs arrived?
The riders passed by in idle conversation, "Er. They say a kid did it?" Sounded like an educated man, or boy. A younger one at least. A lithe one. A thick-figured man spoke up, more rolls of fat than anything ~ "Hobbit fool. Face was too old to be a kid. Hell it isn't that bad yet, kids are killing. God damn it if it is, if I'll be sticking around." Agreement sounded between the quartet of riders, here here, before as if to usher refusal they began to trot up the path ~ Kingsley let out a breath he didn't know had been held, "Got'damn stirring tah'hive fer'meh eh Mr. Fibs?" Whispered the brute with a humorous tone, chuckling through the nose. Reaver scraped along the tiled floors of the abandoned, wrecked building for a moment before perking up - its tip was the first thing to leave through the door frame. Kingsley was right behind, and with a quick look cast up the street toward where the riders had left off he began a quicker strut toward the harbor. Pretty soon he'd made it into South Cenril, weapon sheathed - no need to attract attention - and gait measured. S'not as if everyone and their god damn mother didn't at least know the name Kingsley or Razor, but The Crow hadn't made any move against him. Soon into the port side of town, warehouses began lining the streets. Workshops abandoned, people too afraid, hungry, and poor to manufacture anything really - except the smithies. Passing travelers always dropped by Merchant Street to purchase the fine wares of Cenril, an craftsmen was just lighting an oil lamp and preparing to resume work on a mandolin. Yes. This part of the city had health. But many of the workshops were closed, warehouses empty and raided by The Carrion and his lot - but Kingsley'd been doing some lurking. Between buildings the man weaved, checking streets before darting across - until he came to a warehouse blandly numbered '13' and paused across the way. Just up the block you could see the ferry that took travelers to and fro Rynvale. Always going, always busy. Oh yes. This was a nervy. "Foods'n der." He said, clinging to the wall of an adjacent building. The alley, the sun's position, kept them properly shadowed but he still gestured with Reaver off across the street, "See, tah'wagon'r woteva teh feck yeh call it. Ain't got no canvas but eh. Half hour's time, feckin' be packed two-high wit'crates'r rations dat tah'Crow fecker stole. Greedy bastard." For such a greedy bastard himself, Kingsley certainly detested greedy bastards. "We're gon'feckin'steal it. Shiny?" Voice was low, the six and a half foot tall man crouch was lower. It made Reaver a bit inconvenient to wield, too damn absorbed in the weapon to let it touch the dirty ground - really did treasure that damn thing - "And den." he continued, "We take't back tah'feckin'pad, Mother Fressers'gotta got damn cellar. But tah'wagon, er, we drop dat out Burnham way. Ain't no one suspect nuttin' on us. Ders'plenty of midgets an'tall fecks'like us aroun'tah city, yeah."
Fibs wove through the streets and alleyways right behind the bandit, and did well to mimic his every effort to conceal his passage. Like two rats in the pantry, they were. At the first indication of their target, Fibs seemed to be a bit surprised. His eyes went from the bare wagon to Grot and that fearsome brand he held so carefully. Back to the wagon. The hobbit merely nodded, a silent gesture of understanding, and sent his gaze around the periphery of the warehouse and their targetted vehicle. Kingsley seemed simple, but he could scheme a job better than most. "Eh, Kingsley?" whispered Fibs meekly. "I ain't ne'er driven no horses. Be damned if'n I can keep -that- on th'road." Now Fibs' eyes returned to Grot, the plain look behind them hoping to be reassured by the bandit, hoping he would steer.
Grot looked back a bit, Fibs wasn't too far off - "Er. Yeh. Sure thing." Kingsley hadn't really gotten that far in the planning bit, more so woke up this morning and decided - oh hey, sure, why not. The intent behind this job was a bit deeper, but the bandit wasn't too prone on blathering about his feelings and all. So. Rather than explain, he began counting minutes in his head. Ten minutes go by, the large wooden double doors swing open - lo and behold, within the unassuming warehouse was a good sixteen, seventeen men. Most workers, most armed. All sea dogs. The bottom feeders they were, this early in the morn feet dragged in the motions of their work. "See?" God damn thing wasn't full to the brim, but there was food in there to spare. "Tah'bish across tah'way....Areena or sommit, Governess, or woteva they call it, been sending food since tah'damn war..Dissis why tah'city'r starving." Kingsley came on his ass, still leaning against the cold stone of the building and retrieved a satchel from his back. Reaver was laid across his legs - god damn it, it dulls easily - and he began rummaging within. "Here." Hushed words, quiet-quiet now. "Relic of tah'god damn war." Two orbs, dull green, half the size of Fibs' fist. "Yer'pull dis'feckin'metal bit'n throw it. Makes a loud noise or sommit, fool didn't know exactly wot. It'll distract'm though. Eh. When dat god damn wagon feckin' fills up'r woteva, throw it inside yeh? Big ole bang-noise it'll make or sommit." Little did he know, those god damn things exploded. "Dat lizardman used'm. Can still get tah'swords at a local hawk shop. Lightning or sommit eh, ain't pay no mind to..." Smelled the air, words cut short - smithy fires were starting, "Dat sorta shyte yeah? 'ere." Offered him Fibs one of the balls, clutched the other. Oh yes. Just waiting their god damn time it seemed, occasionally Kingsley would poke his head around - god damn it, sun was perking up. A broad daylight raid, in a god damn city, was never a good idea. Ever. Under any circumstances. This was just feckin'brilliant.
Fibs was good at waiting. He stayed crouched, leaving him on his bended knee about equal in height with the Razor while he was sitting on his arse. The strange, hobbit-fist sized metal contraption reminded him of something. An old tinker he used to commission for work, damn things could razzle an entire army. Fibs graciously accepted it, holding it close with his thumb positioned between the pin and the projectile part. Hopefully these ones weren't the firey blast-type, that would compromise the contents of the wagon for sure. He watched anxiously as the brigands started to load up the cart, and slowly drew his small toothpick of a dagger from its hidden purchase. He wasn't accustomed to working in the sun himself, but he was fairly confident in his speed and ability to function with expedience. The little knave kept his eye on Grot now, waiting for the precise time to spring on their marks. His heart was damn near about to rupture his fragile little chest; battle was never his strong suit, and even if he meant to slip in and out he always flustered beforehand.
Tick tock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Feckin' thing is broken, Kingsley made a random gesture with the orb-clutching hand toward the air in front of his face - tock. There. Tick. Tock. Tick. "God damn bastards working so slow." He wasn't accustomed to waiting, or not used to it. Lurking wasn't exactly his style. More of a crossbow blazing-esque kind of action, suited him better. Course, he couldn't really fire a bow for shart compared to most of his men. "Er. Dar. Eh. Lookit. It's pointin'tah wrong way. Er." The wagon was facing the ferry. Facing the sea, they'd have to go up a block and turn. Regardless, the horses were just starting to be hitched up. "Der. Yeh. It's time. Look. We jes'normal feckin'folk here. Jes'walk up. All calm-like." Satchel returned to waist, strap went back around neck - Reaver was sadled up on his back again. But the straps were untied, and he could wield the thing one handed as light as it was. The dull green orb was still clutched in a hand. "Pull dis thing're, and smoke and all dat. Yeah." His own heart was beating rapidly, adrenaline pre-emptive. Just a couple of gents trekking up the road to the ferry. Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary. Twenty feet away, a casual stride, an obnoxiously obvious feckin' whistle of innocence slinging between the bandit's teeth. Fifteen feet away, the workers busy with daily duties, hitching the horses. The timing couldn't have been better. Really. The city was starting to wake up, what WAS open this part of town now lively and bustling - smithy hammers, smoke in chimneys, the sound of a tuning fork coming from a window three buildings up the block at their back. Fibs' might hear the clink of pin removal, Kingsley still whistled. Ten feet. Whistle died down. So did the breeze. Breath stiffled. Five feet, they approached the backside of the wagon street-side. Zero feet. Standing right next to an obvious pirate, a lackey shirking his duties - taking his damn time, and already smelling of ale at this hour of the day. The bandit paused. Right next to the god damn man, at the front of the wagon, he pauses. A loud, faux-yawn, arms stretching widely out - and when either arm reached the apex of stretch, Kingsley burst into a quiet, fluid motion. Free hand lurched behind his head, and on the exhale of said fake yawn - blood was squirting out from the top of where the pirate's head had once resided. Decapitated. Across the street, a smith was hammering away at a blade on an anvil. His mouth was gaping wide, hammer fell from his hand - banged him in his own foot, which had him hopping, and cursing - he was scared. Kingsley was in his own little world. Flowers and rainbows, cutting off peoples heads. A typical day in the life of a bandit, really. But after that fluid motion had completed - yawn and decapitation included, give or take three seconds had passed - he burst into motion. Loud bastard he was, shouting: "NOW GO GO GO GO GO!" with that thick accent. He leapt into the driver's two-man bench, taking the reigns in one hand - Reaver set across his legs, AGAIN, hilt-facing Fibs' side at least - and the other? It still clutched that green ball. Which was tossed into the warehouse. Kingsley's rough arm holding reigns got those horses moving feckin' fast, the men in the warehouse less shocked than enraged and already charging at him. Three. Two. One - there was no flash. No god damn smoke. Just a concussive blast, and explosion turned warehouse crates into splintery shrapnel. Many backs were riddled with burning wood, metal, stone - many were dead, had lost a limb, the way they crowded inside. The noise scared the living hell out of Grot, unprepared, the horses began to whinny, race even faster down the bustling street: "MOVE! MOVE YEH BUGGERS! MOVE!" Two feet of Reaver's blade jutted out the driver side of the wagon, the way it laid across his lap - clink, clink. Not decapitated, two innocent bystanders, more so cut from three inches below the shoulder. Took off the top half of the two men, workers, arms fell seperately - head and shoulders independent. "Oh shyte! Fibs! Shyte! On our tail!" They were just coming up the way, two blocks closer to the dock, the ferry. Horses were ruining his god damn plan!~ Calming a bit at his use of force on the reign, but six men atop horse were galloping at them faster than hell. Swords drawn, pissed off and shouting curses. Shyte.
Fibs was a bit better at remaining inconspicuous than the bandit, and unremarkably promenaded towards the cart, hitched up now as it were. His dagger was held invisible at his side so as to conceal it with his torso, and as the first strike was made -macabre clean slice as it was- Fibs grabbed the first ruffian at hand. He was small, but not too small to be unable to grab him about the neck. The pirate flailed and let out a gurgled deathcry as the hobbit's little blade slipped into the soft flesh on the small of his back. In and out real quick, between the ribs and through the kidneys, and the man was down, squirming in a mire of his own blood. Just as his cohorts realised the ambush at hand, they were upended by a devestating concussion, the sound of which made Fibs startle after leaping over the side of the wagon. He situated himself not a moment too soon, and was thrown onto his back as the horses rocketted off down the way. Grot seemed to be unconcerned with reigning in the charges, and Fibs struggled to right himself. Missed the whole unintentional casualties while he was disoriented on his back. "On our tail!" shouted the bandit, and Fibs looked back. Sure enough, the pursuers were gaining, rhythmic drumming of hoofbeats bringing them closer. He looked down at the satchel, considering it the perfect resolution for their escape. He quickly fingered the contraption, holding it briefly before releasing it from his grip. The space atwixt the wagon and the entourage of riders was slim, but the hobbit cast it down onto the cobbled way with such force that it immediately combust upon impact. Equine entrails spilled out, riders having been tossed from their seats and tumbling, breaking necks and being assailed my a maelstorm of shrapnel. One rider seemed to survive the blast and fall with only minor injuries, although without a horse he was left unable to give chase, and from his shell-shocked position he could only take stock of the carnage. Horses lay strewn about, tongues hanging out of their mouths in a last expression of repose, albeit pained and sinister. A few of the remaining brigands could be seen spilling out of the warehouse but, having witnessed the carnage and immediacy of it, thought better than to try and accost the two knaves. The wagon careened wildly down the way, set off al the more by the second explosion, and it would be a dangerous and quite implausible maneuver to try and change streets. Fibs had swivelled towards the front, looking incredulously at the turn they had to perform. He gripped the sides of the cart, dreading the possibility of being tossed out of it.
By now, after those two loud explosions, people had enough sense to clear the way. Reaver was still dripping blood regardless, Kingsley barely even noticed the two who'd been mowed down. At that speed, with a blade that sharp, barely even felt it. The speeding wagon, more a big flatbed cart than anything was basically out of control at this point, swerving madly left and right, back wheels sliding at loss of traction. The horses where spooked, the harbor and sea? Five blocks away. "WOAH GOD DAMN IT WOAH YEH FECKIN' BASTARDS! STOP! FECKERS! STOP!" Feckin' hell, Kingsley sounded a bit afraid - Mr. Untoucheable himself. He couldn't swim, "WOOOOOOOAH NOW!" Four blocks, they started to whizz by some of Crow's boys rushing up the path - no one had any idea what the hell was going on, but they jumped out of the way without hesitation. "WOAH!" Three blocks, Kingsley pulling as hard as he could on the leather straps that were attached to the hitched beasts, bridle's jerking madly into the back of their mouths. "Woah woah! WOAH! STOP! GOD DAMN IT STOP! STOP! FECKIN'STOP!" Two blocks, finally they started to come around. Could barely hear his own words over horse hoofs against cobblestone, plus wheels at this speed - made for a rickety ride. "Woah now, bring'r down feckers!" One block, wild gallop was becoming more controlled, just as they were passing past that final building - a wagon started to pass across the throughway: "SHYTE! Look out! Look out! Damn it! LOOK TAH'FECK OUT!" An old man transporting wares, immidiately shock took his white-haired features and he brought his cart to a halt - but not before Kingsley gave a sharp tug on the left reign, bringing them curving - the cart all but sliding - around a corner at last. Above the roar of wooden wheels against stone, which somehow didn't break (likely the reinforcing steel ring around the outside) one might barely be able to hear a - "Ooooooooh shyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyte!" before the cart righted itself, and they began rushing up a narrow path leading toward an old, abandoned and all but-crumbled castle a dozen blocks away.
Mahri still lurked in Cenril and was enjoying the quiet of early morning. That gentle swish of surf against shore, shifting the damp sand, the warm rays of rising sun on the horizon turning everything pink, purple and orange. It was peaceful. It was....boring. Staring out at the ocean with an expression of mixed boredom and frustration, the lycan was about to return to the Whaler for breakfast when an explosion almost literally rocked her world. Snapped out of her otherwise dull state of being, Mahri casually turns her head towards the sound. The alert glitter of silvery eyes belies the relaxed figure as she turns on her heel and makes her way with feigned casualness towards the harbor. She doesn't really have to go very far when, like a blurr, wagon and driver careen past. It's enough to give her a scent. That bloody fecking rude arrogant bastard she should have chained rather than tied was holding the reigns. The stench of smoke, blood and death followed in the wake of the vehicle. A moment's hesitation, the pondering of offering aid and then she's off, trailing the racing wagon and passangers at a steady lope. She'll catch up sooner or later and an eager grin played about her lips, tugging the facial scar upwards in a macabre mirror of her mouth.
Fibs was turning deathly pale as he clutched onto the careening cart for dear life. The horses failed to yield to Grot's calls until the last moment, and skeetering around the run, the hobbit's side of the wagon was upended. His small body wasn't near enough to bring the wheel back to the ground, but after levelling out the reins it eventually came back to earth. Damn close to being catapaulted out, he was. His eyes looked to and fro, front and back, scanning for obstacles or pursuants. He flustered with a new weapon, his cane tube, and produced a handful of steel needles. He clumsily jammed one in the mouth of the blowgun, holding it level and at the ready in case the need happened to arise. Fibs hated any mode of transportation other than his two bare and earthbound feet; ships and horses be damned. His stomach was wrestling with him, distressed at the inertia. "Dammit!" he shouted up towards the front at Kingsley. "How far we got yet?" Kind of rhetorical, really. What could he do at this point but hang on for the ride? Literally.
Grot started to slow them down more, the further away they got. After a time the horses were at a trot, but Kingsley was more unsettled than when they'd been careening wildly down the way. Still heading toward the castle, suddenly they'd dart right down a street - up this street, right on that - making a maze of a pattern back toward North-East Cenril. The ropes holding the crates at bay were frayed, barley holding at this point - the bandit was paranoid out of his god damn wit that any second, fools were gonna charge 'round a damn corner and poke holes in him with god damn spears. But for the most part, they looked relatively inconspicuous. Just a man and a cloaked...child-like person taking a cart through town. Left. Right up this street, down that. "Eh. You alright Mr. Fibs?" Came at last, a husky drawl to match his quick, short breaths. A bit of blood stained his shirt where Reaver was resting in his lap, right at the lower torso - those two innocent by stander's deaths had come with a bit of instant karma for the bandit. Action causes equal reaction, simple physics. Blade moved one way, shifted another. Nothing too serious, but a nice wound. "Worth the damn trouble at that." Was muttered aloud, eyes darting westward up the way - Congressional Way was a block or two up, the Capitol Building less then three north from that. They were back stepping.
Fibs was anything but comfortable, being situated but recovering in the cart. Food crates were sliding back and forth, with him atop them. His eyes now focus on the wake of the wagon in an endeavor to pick out pursuers if Grot's erratic direction didn't already throw them off. Fibs' little heart was drumming away behind his breast. Their escape was already the harbinger of so much devastation, but this deep into it, the halfling wouldn't allow for any compromise. The blowgun was lifted to his lips, and his idle arm was crooked so as to offer a stable perch for his aim. Fibs was accurate with that weapon, though he'd never shot from a speeding vehicle before. Mahri was observed in the distance, eagerly trying to close in on the wagon. They'd slowed down by now, and her lope would surely gain ground on them. Like a hornet the dart left the confines of the bored cane, barely visible in front of the breath that propelled it. It shot through the air faster than an arrow would be fired from a bow, but misjudged and not compensated for the bumps and jerks of the wagon, it dropped a little lower and less precise than he intended. Instead of stinging out towards Mahri's neck, it was much lower, possibly finding purchase in one of her thighs. No matter, it would hopefully still throw her off their trail.
The wagon was slowing, judging by the hoof prints she was following. Slowing to a jog it's not too long before she catches sight of the back of the wagon. Now it's time for caution. Of which she actually posessed very little. For the time being, the tracker keeps to what shadows she can. Aided in her attempt at blending is the midnight clothing and dark hair. Really, the only thing that might stand out is her skin, as pale as it is. Keeping her breathing calm, shallow she continues to follow the ruts and hoofprints. She must have been careless..which didn't happen all too often when it counted. The sting of a dart in her thigh brings about a hissed breath and a slap of her hand to the jutting projectile. Jerking it from muscle, her pace is considerably slower but as long as there is something to follow, the bandit's will find her upon them soon enough. There's also the scent spores left behind. Pausing, the lycan takes a few deep calming breaths giving flesh time to heal. Such a minor wound won't take long.
Grot came up on Beloy Street at last. Took god damn half an hour, the way people were moving about. "Er. Mr. Fibs?" The hobbit hadn't answered, a look thrown behind found him prone and sucking on a hard stick. Lovely. He got stuck with the gay hobbit. "Er. Mr. Fibs, you can practice that later. We're here." Surely, even facing opposite of the direction they were traveling Fibs would note the stone arch that lead into the market. A symbol from better days, but Fredlark had done his damn job - done it well, the boys were posted up just past old lady Fresser's house, a good twenty of them, looking so obviously inconspicuous to passer by and slum populace alike that none really bothered them much. Except the kids, who pestered them for candy or - food - or some coin every so often. Soon, his part of the city at least, was going to have something to eat. Trot slowed to a walk, tired horses eager for it. The bandit was too, in all actuality. God damn lurching had his stomach all jumbled as it were, "Woah now - woah." Came after the cart had pulled up in front of Fresser's shop, the old lady seen on occassion from a window working inside. Without a word Kingsley stepped out, blood-soaked bottom of his shirt sticking to his skin due to coagulation. A moment was taken to set the stained cleaver back into the sheath on his back, and he walked in with nary a knock. The door shut behind, quiet voices heard within. The sun was high now. Beating down on the city, finally a cloudless day. Still a bit cold though.
They stopped. Finally. From a distance Mahri watched Grot and the cloacked figure--a child?--get out of the wagon. Words are lost to her though since she's relying on keen eyesight rather than hearing to observe. Since it's apparent someone knew they were being followed, Mahri decides against simply strolling into the market and instead fades back to find a convenient alley. Here, clothes are shucked and eyes closed. More deep breaths and by will alone her body contorts and shifts. The process is, as some may know, not painless what with bones and organs rearranging themselves to form the body of a large wolf. Actually, she's probably only slightly larger than a wolf and may resemble an oversized dog in the best of circumstances if it weren't for the light-gray eyes that open, framed by blue-black fur. Where her body had scars, flecks of white fur marred the monochromatic coat. Some oddly chain-like and criss-crossing her torso and back. A jagged line slices over the bridge of her muzzle and streaks across a canine cheek. Padding out of hiding, one last look behind is made to be sure her clothing are well hidden, the wolf trots into the Market. Ears perked forward, the animal lets her tongue loll out in a manner that might convey harmlessness and a wag of her tail affirms the tameness she is trying to project. Domesticated. Harmless..except for the too intelligent eyes that seem to take in everything and, if she happens to have an inordinant interest in the wagon and it's load...well, that could because of the food scents wafting off.
Grot was inside for several minutes. Exited shirtless, with satchel and sheathe in one hand, Reaver in the other. His gut had a gray poultice smeared across where the wound was, Kingsley's face was a bit red - embarissment or pain, didn't matter - but for the most part, he looked tired. Sensed the tension, practically wafting off his boys too, "OI. OI~ Wot yeh lookin' at'tah lil one fer? He jes'kept yer belly full fer'a'week. Err'one elses too." The inner circle of his men at least, the ones whom had grown up with him here in this very neighborhood, would appreciate the sentiment. The people would have food. They understood. They had the same code, really, though many of them weren't disinclined to kill a woman who pulled out a knife. "I arranged'tah move tah'stuff into tha'cellar yeh? Be careful down der, ole lady Fresser gots...dunno wot, she jes'said iffin we break anythin' dat tah'she's gonna tan mah'damn hide. Move it." That point in time, that exact point, was when he noticed the dog moving up on his shyte. He adored animals, dogs especially. "Awr, lookit dat Mr. Fibs." He said on approach of the hobbit's left side. His head barely perked over the crates, his men swarming over it - telling jokes, talking, being loud and obnoxious as you might imagine grown men would - and attacking the ropes. "Itsa'lil doggy. Ruff ruff, bugger." Blade was set in driver's long bench, satchel on the footrest below and Kingsley came down on his knee. A wince greeted Mahri, pained as it were. That poultice was just to keep infection away, didn't dull the pain none. "Yeracute lil'n aren't yeh? Hungry? Come're boy. Come're'n I'll eh...pet yeh. Yeah." See? He wasn't an asshole or anything. Just a racist, sexist - and don't forget biggot - prick eighty percent of the time.
Fibs was oblivious to the misgivings and stares any of Grot's men proffered him. Didn't right care; he knew they wouldn't dare raise a hand against him, being in as close company with the Razor as he was. Well, if they did, he certainly didn't believe it. He pushed himself off his perch on the cart so as to allow the muscle to empty its contents, blatantly ignoring the lot and avoiding their gazes. He watched Kingsley, who averted his attention from starving orphans and spoke ill of every body and thing under the sun, watched him stoop low and pamper the canine. "Eh, Kingsley, look out. Mutt might have a 'fectious bite, yeh? Mangy w'fleas in the -very- least." He was despondent, at best, towards the tail wagger. He didn't make any motion to either stroke or kick the dog, but rather kept his eye on the horizon towards the harbor. "Th'was some'n followin' us a ways back there, I saw. Stuck a dart'n em somewhere, but didn't see'm go down." Looking right over the dog and body in quesiton, he kept a focused eye on the market. The usual bustling traffick was present, along with a few investigative patrols. Alot of action for mid-morning.
Grot looks up at Fibs, his voice had gone ridiculously soft and near feminine. "Oh Mr. Fibs! He's jes'so adorable! An'tah white innis fur is jes'so striking yeah? I reckon wit'dis food we kin adopt'm. Poor bugger jes'needs a bath and a warm home. Yer'wanna come home wit'meh tonight....I think I'll call yeh...feckin...er, Whitey. Yeh! Whitey!" Fingers slick behind the ear, scratching away. The sweet spot. Kingsley was as good with dogs as he was with the bitches, truth to the gods right there ~ animals in general. Though masculinity was returning, he moved over to the stairs leading up to Fresser's door and sat on the top one, wood creaking under the strain. "Careful boys. Eh. Feckin' drop onna'those an'I'll gut yeh. Lots oats in der'no needa'feckin'waste'm." Assuming Mahri followed, the petting would resume - regardless he shot a toothy grin Fib's way: "Er, ain't got no fleas yeh? Good condition fera'feckin stray man. Mr. Whitey. I always wantered mah'own mutt."
Fibs spit to the ground in apparent disgust at the man and dog's revelry. "Yeh, reg'lar ol' love fest." He shook his head as the dog bared its teeth at him. White teeth, in fact. Odd for a full grown mutt to have pearly whites like that, but hell if Fibs made any connection. "Y'askin' me if I got fleas, Kingsley?" he posed with a sarcastic haughtiness. "If'n yer bringin' that mutt inta the house, I'll sleep onna streets. Don't wanna catch 'nother bout o'that ringworm shyte." Fibs scratched at his neck subconsciously at the thought. "'less it catch some rabbits, it ain't no friend o'mine." This is said with complete seriousness, and after but a brief glance back towards the market, he relents his precautionary outlook. Must've brought them down, or at least dissuaded them from further chase.
Mahri follows Grot, but not for the petting though she did lean a bit into the scratching. Who knew that spot could itch so much? Claws click on whatever surface she manages to be walking on, street or house. She will, of course, keep close to Grot like a loyal mutt might.
Grot watches the last crate be hauled into the cellar out behind the house, heard the door smack shut - "Oi. Freddy boy. Go all cloak an' daggers smoke n'mirrors and shyte, dumb dis shyte cart off in Burnham turf. Outside'is warehouse iffin yeh can manage." Came before a retort to Fibs, whom while he was speaking was earning a pensive smile - "Lookit tah'fur Mr. Fibs! Ain't got nah ring-worm nuthin'tah feck goin'down. Softer den leather, fersure." A quick nod, accentuated another wince - "And yer'sleepin'n mah home, and so is he. Damn it. Ain't no feckin'arguin'tah be had. Sound? Yeh?" Intimidating, oh he was trying that bit. The neck was next to get the star treatment, damn he loved dogs. Loyal buggers they were. "I needa'damn nap." Cart was already being hauled off by Fredlark and another lackey of his motley crew, both cloaked, equipped with daggers and smoking a thin, small cigar. Lacking the mirror, the brutes took his word to heart ~ "Nawr me and Whitey are goin'back to tah'house an' I swear iffin I dun see yeh thar, I'll whip yer lil'arse mah'boy." Another quick nod, and he was heading up the street a few houses, up an alley, and into his rather secretive abode. So much damn work to do tonight.
The look the 'dog' passes to the hobit might be self-satisfied smugness, and sooner or later Mahri'll have to disabuse Grot from the assumption she is a he. As it is, the beast plays her part rather well, bumping her shoulder playfully into the bandit's leg before bounding ahead a few feet then darting back with a bark. Wheeling about, she'll sniff at everything and anything before returning to the man's side again.
Fibs grimaced at the thought of breaking the very fruitful bond he'd forged -mostly with lies- with the Razor. He relents to his intimidatory tactics, though he had a snyde comment or two to say on it. "Yeh, makea nice leather, I bet," he muttered, surely comprehensible to the canine's acute ears. But alas, the halfling followed Grot, like he so often does, and were he a dog he would surely have his tail tucked between his legs. "Gots s'people t'meet outta town, Kingsley," he told him en route to the hovel. "Can't be stickin' round much lon'er'n a drink'r two." Fibs would enter the respite of the shanty, share a drink -this time from his own bottle- and be off. Dog or no dog, he had business to attend to, and wasn't alluding to any more details of the kind. Little did the knave and his affiliate know that the hound would bring them far worse trouble than mange and parasites. Fibs' cruel foot would always be eager for an excuse to kick it into a corner, and that much was clear, if Mahri wasn't careful to avoid giving him justification for it.
Mahri waits until Grot is asleep, judging by the even breathing and occasional snore, before opening her eyes. The hobit was gone and damned if she wasn't going to end up hurting the halfling before long. Something about him... snorting past the thought, the wolf posing as a dog gets up, stretching as though just waking up and shuffles her canine way to the door. Nosing it open, Mahri slips outside and keeps up the pretense of being a tame sort of pet until she's well away from the hovel and back at the market where the alley is found along with her clothes. It's a quick enough metamorphasis back into a woman to don the garments. Oh the news she has for Red..even if it means she'll have to return later and play-act domestication with that fecking arse Grot.