RP:War in the Streets
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: Tensions in the Cenrili underworld come to a boil. Having received word that one of his own men had been stabbed by a member of the Burnham crew, The Razor assembles a group of his men to execute an ambush on members of his rival’s organization. Planned ambush becomes an open and large scale street fight signaling the shift from lurking tensions to open street warfare in North Cenril.
Characters: Grot, Veriun.
Location: Cenril, Outside the Inn.
Colder than hell tonight. Hell if he hadn't thought it was cold earlier. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Seconds counted in his head, the number of seconds it had been since three Burnham associates had walked into the Inn. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen: seconds since they had unsheathed their blades. They, in this case, being the seven individuals crowding against two stone pillars that had a small gate and fence surrounding. The gate lead up to the Inn. Whatever the hell those boys went in there for, Kingsley's boys knew what they were doing outside: Freezing their gorram arses off. And in the middle of street he stood. Bandit. Brute. Grot Kingsley. Trademark blade held lightly with an arched elbow, sharpened blade's edge just an inch or two from his neck - had the bugger resting up on it, casual as could be. Least he'd had the brains to have the flat side on the tip of shoulder this time. Once was a god damn'nough for that. "Don't reckon it'll be much longer." Came a hushed voice from one side of the gate, the seven men were crouched down - and of varying color, shape and size. All human though, all armed, and all dressed in warm clothes. "Shut tah'fekk up yeh? You'll ruin tah'element of surprise." Equally quiet, though coming from a man like him - and of his stature - it was loud enough. "Surprise for what Razor?" The door creaked open, the three exited with the main man in front. Sharply dressed, smoking on a thinly rolled cigarette and adorned in pale blue fedora and dark gray worn out suit. "You figuring you could just waltz through our streets with your merry gang of bingkon chi-men and we wouldn't notice? Huh. You're as dumb as they say Kingsley. You figure. You fekking FIGURE we'd not notice your presence? Thought those Larket guards'taken you for god damn good too." Took a drag off his smoke, with a real mean look. A lieutanant in the Boys. Cast his lot with Geoff from the start. Hell, Grot used to run jobs for this fool back in the day. "Lookit here Besli." Kingsley chirped in, voice a loud and dominant thing laced with scorn - "Yer'gon'fekkin'die here tah'night yeh? Jes'thot I'd pass tah'message along." God damn if they weren't armed, the three on the approach to the Inn. Besli and his two cronies. Up the block the shout announced their presences - twelve or so armed men with torches, running right at the crouching lot behind the gates. Kingsley shot them a quick glance, surprise evident in his eyes: "GET'M BOYS! WE DININ'IN HELL TAH'NIGHT YEH???" And with that, the threshold of gate was crossed with a blade four feet in length, one in width and sharper than the bandit's god damn tongue. Chaos had erupted. Seven met twelve, experienced bandits met with footpads and cooks, ex-guards and the like. Grot had few advantages. Well trained men was one of them. Chaos. Chaos had fekkin'erupted in the streets of Cenril. Shouts filled the air, men dying, caught in the fiery pit of the brawl. They were dropping, slowly. Kingsley's men. Besli's men. But through it all, The Razor sought to cut down three men at once on the porch of an Inn.
Veriun stepped out of the inn he'd been vacating this night, going for a late night stroll perhaps? Anyone's guess. As the cloaked avian exited through the door he met the scene of a battle, however. He stopped just outside the door as if phased by something. Turns out it wasn't the battle. No, he turned and closed the open door before he turned back and let his gaze sweep over each of the combatants. Showing neither surprise nor fear at this ruckus and potential danger to his own person. In fact: he simply crossed his arms across his chest land leaned up against the wall beside the door with the presence of a man watching a theatre play.
Grot was too caught up in the fray to even notice Veriun had stepped out the door and was leaning against the frame just four feet behind Besli. On the street men screamed and died, steel clashing against steel, four on seven now. Kingsley had lost a grip, so had they. But Kingsley? Hell. Kingsley was a god damn dancer when he had that blade in his hand. Suddenly clutz bandit became graceful killer. Besli knew this. Soon as Grot had started that running haul toward the trio, lit cig was thrown aside into a mud puddle. They drew their weapons, the sickly sound of steel leaving sheathes - his guard were lightly armored, leather chain-mesh. Nothing Kingsley couldn't handle but hell if he wanted to get caught at the wrong angle. Would break his damn hand, he knew it. They didn't. Besli? Armed with a god damn automatic crossbow. A clip of four very small bolts, or rather, four chambers. Simple design, except the pullstring that redrew itself within two seconds. The work of some high end artificer likely. In the other hand the well-to-do bastard had a short sword. The damn thing had a GOLD trim. That blade alone could feed a god damn family for two weeks. It likely would too, if he made it out alive. Reaver, his cherished blade, rose above his head - you can bet your ass that crossbow was the first thing to go. Cut in half like a damn child's toy, hell Kingsley was fast when he wanted to be - but that earned him a god damn bolt to the thigh and slash on his right arm. He rebounded, rather, curved and rolled quickly to the left - smacked right into the wall of the inn, nearly trashed a window. Reaver switched off to his left hand, right reaching for his thigh. Hell. They were already on him, honorless bastards - on him like rice on rice, it took every might of skill he had - every last god damn bit not to be cut down right there. He could not attack back. Nay. All he could do was deflect, step away - deflect step away, made it around one of the support beam for the porch - Besli lost his sword in a slash, lodged in there and Kingsley's blade....sharper than hell it was....see, one of them made a mistake along the way and the bandit wasn't keen on letting it go. A distinctive, sickening 'schlink' and suddenly one man was missing his god damn leg from the knee down, cut at a precise angle. Dropped like a fly in heat, and brief respite came in steps back toward the gate - four, three, two feet away from the outdoor threshold he paused. Cut up qutie a bit, looking a bit pissed - how many seconds had just gone by? Ten? Fifteen? Hell if he could think straight.
Veriun stood still even as the battle closed in on him. The watcher even looked rather comfortable, all that was missing was a glass in his hand for the picture to be complete. As Grot slammed into the wall the avian turned his head to observe the rather impressive display of the bandits skill with his overgrown razor on a handle. He let of a small 'hmh' at the show too. Just as he did, a drunk man opened the door and was about to step out. At that moment veriun raised a hand in a stopping gesture. Knocked on the wall he leaned on with the back of his hand to gain the man's attention, pointed over at the bloody battle on the street, then flicked the hand backwards and whipped his thumb out and thus pointed inwards towards the inn's interior. The drunken man nodded and went back inside, closing the door which resulted in a small smile on the cloaked mans face.
Besli and his boy didn't wait long. On the street, the warring gangs were on solo work: Three of Grot's, three of Burnhams. Lighter sound of steel, can bet your arse there were witnesses now too. Women, children, men with crude daggers or chairs, butcher knives - whatever the hell they had in these times held, waiting for it to get worse. They had a rough idea what the hell was going on. Not many of the common folk liked Geoff Burnham or his crew, Kingsley however was earning admiration - food, medicine. People were still freezing to death though. God damn it. No time for that, Besli was moving up after the couple of seconds it took to unlodge that blade from wooden beam. His boy on his side. The path leading up to the Inn was a stone walkway with grass and flora surrounding. Covered in snow, most mashed up from travel. Wounds stung, eyes stung from sweat dripping down them. He had a hobble, a damn near limp. A gash on his arm, a thin cut on his cheek - if it had been just a few inches deeper he'd be dead right now. None of that stopped the bandit. None of it. He didn't wait for them to run at him, he met them in the middle. Bloodied Reaver met against short sword and small battle axe - he managed to get sandwiched between the two, deflecting one then another, one then another, trying to make a move. It was like watching a dance - until Besli's croney moved just a foot too far in toward Kingsley. Besli was moving at that very same moment. Bandit fell forward on his free hand, injured leg extended /fully/ behind to meet with the cronie's chin - sent his feet off the ground and flying back up on the porch a good two feet away and with a precision, with a god damn exact calculation his large torso twisted to cash in on the main prize: Besli mistaking the move for a fall. The killing blow was coming in, time slowed - Kingsley more or less six inches off the ground, still curving so his back would meet it and Reaver would slice across the chest of the nicely dressed man. Into his arm. Blade didn't sever, nay, obliterated rib cage and front half of lungs, damn near took off Besli's arm - half the bone had been cleanly cut through - and then he landed. Just like that. One little move, one tiny lure, and it was done. He landed on his back hard, on a loose stone that was going to surely bruise his back - and had the damn wind knocked out of him. Besli? Hell. That fool didn't have no wind to draw up on, fell forward on his side. Instant death. Three on three beyond the gate had become three bandits against one, judging by his chubby stature, line cook who had seen better days. You ever seen a fat man run away? Hell. You sure have now. Kingsley panted for air - "O...OI! OI!" The occasional ripple of moans, but much fewer than he expected. "A...NYONE STILL THAR? WOT?" On his back, looking at the white clouds above - a few flakes of snow were starting to fall. I'll be damned.
Veriun smiled a tiny tad wider at the bandits dramatic victory. Why he'd smile for such a thing was as much of an enigma as he was. Weather you had a guess or not, he was soon off the wall, having pushed himself off and now walked towards the 'fallen' man at a leisurely pace. As if taking a stroll through the park, passing by bodies of the combatants. He even stepped over Basli as (or the pieces of him) if the body didn't exist. Soon he'd reached the head of the bandits thought and he held out a platinum gauntleted hand for him to grab and be helped up. "three of your men still live, kingsley. It's your victory." He said in a matter-of-fact voice. Almost like the commentator of some sort of spectacle. minus the enthusiastic indulgence in the subject he comments on, of course.
Grot didn't rightly trust a man he didn't know. Not when there was a gorram crossbow bolt sticking out of his thigh. Really, considering the other three he didn't get too hurt. But hell. A hand couldn't hurt. Black leather gloves met against platinum gauntlets, and much to Kingsley's surprise - he was pulled up like he was damn near lighter than a feather. "Lanky..." Still huffing a bit, puffing, "Lil...fekkin'...buggah wit dat'strength wot? Ain't yer tah'..." He winced then, painfully trying to pull the head of the bolt out. No avail. "Fekkin'...hell." Reaver was cast about like a third limb, pointing, Veriun forgotten for a moment: "Gather up tah'wounded...and....tah'fekkin'dead. Yer'gott'r wagon 'round the block. Go! Hurry! 'Fore more of them arrive!" Could only do so much planning. Enough to get his boys out before more trouble started. Two darted off up the street opposite the direction the twelve had come, most the torches were out after dropping into the snow - miraculously, a few still held enough heat to be brought back into flame. Fredlark took up that task, Kingsley shot the man an endearing nod on the tall, lanky human's approach. Lark had a torn sleeve and a dirty face, not much more. "Yer'still breathin'youngster? Damn. Thot I'd fekkin'get ridda'yer'fer sure dat time. Fekkin'...hell." A brief coughing fit offered a respit, Lark smirking contentedly. "Yeh. Wot. Er. Yer still're? Tah'hell yer so god damn calm'fer? YER WERKIN'FER G'OFF'R WOT?" Back straightened a bit, which made him wince - and Lark put the blade of a bloody long sword up toward Veriun's neck. It was a stretch, tall bugger the Avian was but...hell if they couldn't be intimidating in a pair. Possibly.
Veriun kept his smile, even with the sword to his throat. Did he even take them seriously? One could always ask. none the less, he tilted his head at the questions and answered them in the same matter-of-fact tone in chronological order "why shouldn't I be calm? I was not part of the battle. Which in itself should be proof I do not work for Geoff burnham. And if I had, Grot kingsley would now be dead. It would have been extremely simple. Instead of simply helping your boss up, I'd have twisted his arm and snapped his neck." He said, completely calm. Looking at the youngling with the sword with his calm yet piercing eyes.
Both Kingsley and Lark looked confused for a good three seconds, before Grot spoke up - "Er. Yeh. Er. Yeh, yeh! Lower yer'blade'r Freddyboy, dis'fekk'r ain't got no quarrels with us. Yeh. Right?" He eyed Veriun askance, Lark lowered his blade - but Kingsley only tightened the grip on the hilt of his.
Veriun returned his gaze onto Grot as he spoke. The nodded once. "no. I have no quarrel with you." He said simply. Confirming the question, it was more or less his job after all.
Grot opened his mouth to speak again, only for the wagon to come hauling around the corner wildly: "OI! Tah'FEK are yeh BUGGAHS DOING? DAT AIN'T OUR CART! GORRAMIT!" Up the street around the corner, the light of more torches drew from the deep pool of incoming death alert, and Kingsley reacted with a much less Star Trekky voice: "Oi oi oi! Time to eh, time to go Freddy mi boy. Yeh, yu, quiet observer fellow. Thanks. For fekkin'nuttin. Bugger!" With that, Grot Kingsley and crew limped, walked, or were carried to the bed of the cart and took off back to the only home they truly knew.