RP:injury vs intoxication
Summary: After a late night of celebrating Lita's victory in the Blood Bowl tournament, Lita and Gorehilt are awoken to irritation and harsh words, which come to blows. Leo breaks up the squabble before his bar is entirely destroyed and Mahri enjoys the show.
This is a Rogue's Guild RP.
Gorehilt snores loudly. Cinderback's hoof twitches. The two of them sleep in a disheveled, tangled drunken heap. Gorehilt is still in his armor, though his horse has managed to shed itself of saddle and bridle. Both of them snore like a 4.0 earthquake. Their cozy joint quarters are improvised, built out of warehouse crates. Cozy in his box fort, oblivious to the world and his mounting hangover, Gorehilt dreamlessly sleeps, face pressed to the floor in a puddle of drool, legs and arms bend whichever way. Thankfully, the horse's magical fires haven't spread to the wooden boxes--something the horse seems able to voluntarily control. Unlike the snoring. That's definitely involuntary.
Lita had probably had intentions of going home at some point. But something about the best laid plans of wolves and vampires, or something. So instead she'd stretched out on a familiar couch, probably cuddling that crown like it's a teddy bear. Which last for a few good hours before the orc's snoring- and the horse's- woke her about as pleasantly as a twelve pound hammer to the skull. She throws a pillow at them, which glances off the crate fort construction and does nothing to squelch that earthquake. Next up is an empty liquor bottle that's within reach. With clatters to the ground and leaves the pair unphazed. So she stands with a groan, having every intention of yelling at the orc to shut his cake-hole, except she stubs the toe of her already injured ankle on the corner of those crates and she hits the floor with a thud, catching herself with an oof on her stomach. She rolls onto her back, only slightly thankful there doesn't seem to be an audience yet, and reaches for a bar stool to send it hurtling towards the crate fort with a string of expletives in its wake.
Leoxander typically was the one up into ungodly hours of the next day with a wake of destruction behind him. Maybe he was starting to fall into that soon-to-be-married role far too fast, but he’d been the responsible one trying to arrange a tentative stay with Simon for the summoned healer (that worked out just wonderfully) and returned home, or aboard the ship to get the sleep he hadn’t gotten the night before working on Ace’s brace. The painted doors of the warehouse had remained unlocked for the afterparty, but opening one now to look inside at the scene of his lounge (description needs much upgrading but there is a pool table and boxing bag where the tattooing used to take place, hopefully still intact), he may have regretted his leniency to the half orc, snow angel, and vamp champ just a bit. A pause might ‘halt’ the woman behind him, whether or not the two maned wolves had opted to follow the pair or wander off a bit on their own; they were getting gradually more bold and independent, though always together for the attachment as twins. In time to witness Lita just letting go of that stool that crackles into splintered pieces. Oh no she did’n….
Loravelle wonders what's going on inside the JR and why Leo pauses before entering. Usually that meant trouble, which meant she'd probably take a giant step back from the door unless he or the twins gave her some signal to indicate that everything is fine. Then there's swearing, and her eyes narrow. Was that Lita's voice? Was someone – Lora isn't at all built for heroics, but that doesn't stop the Mouse from trying to squeeze past Leo in some urge to protect the vampire who could handle far more than she ever could. “Lita-?!” Oh. She's the attacker, not the attacked. That stops her in her tracks and she isn't quite sure what to do with herself, then.
Arlyeon may have tried sidled up behind and between the soon-to-be-wedded pair, so that she could prop her elbows up on their shoulders and use them to prop herself up and peek into the JR. Which is really tricky given the whole 5'1 thing, but she tries all the same. And then after probably getting brushed aside, she simply dances a few steps back, and takes a sip of the horrid smelling drink in her hands. Which is more or less a slushified peach bellini, if someone had decided that foxglove and Tamsy made for great garnishes, "Eb-en-in'. Whas shakin'?"
Gorehilt snores unabated. Cinderback startles awake at the explosion of splinters. The horse hops to its feet, pokes it's head above the ramparts. Spotting Lita, it narrows its eyes accusatorily. The flames of its mane and tail leap. Gorehilt for his part snorts, twitches, and rolls over inside the box fort, oblivious to the crash of wood and splinters against its precariously stacked walls. The change of posture frees something up, and for several long seconds he farts more noisily than he snores. The timing is unfortunate, coinciding precisely with the Cinderback's angry flare. There is a fiery flash and a deep, resonant "hoomph" that shakes the floor and the rafters. The crates teeter and fall every which way, outward and inward, scattering across the floor and on top of the late Castle Boxfort's unfortunate inhabitants. Cinderback neighs, kicks, and clambers out to rear in fury and indignation. Gorehilt groans. The fallen crates stir to a growing crescendo of increasingly violent and inarticulate orcish curses. "GRAAAH." With explosive force, Gorehilt throws himself upright, bursting violently out of the pile and shaking his fists at the sky. "AAAH. AH MY HEAD." His bloodshot eyes have bulged nearly out of his skull. He and the horse make quite the enraged pair as the stand, bellowing and giving their blind rage full liberty to ascend and consume them.
Leoxander wasn’t in the best situation to also be dealing with the trickster, but it wasn’t as though he could stop the fox from her random visits. While he noticed her scent absent from the finals the night before, it only seemed predetermined she’d be around in time for trouble, which is what that scene seemed to be. While she and Lora pushed passed him inside and he was left holding open the door, with a low statement that the gods would smite him for if not for the overriding sound of clopping hoofsteps and Gorehilt’s complaining. “You, out. NOW.” He pointed at the fiery steed with a similar element burning behind his own stare. One the horse could lock onto with a death glare all he wanted, he wasn’t budging from that command and made certain the heated creature was out that door before he let it go. “The hell’d you two get into?” Beside the fungus beer, which was still irritating his nose with the stink.
Arlyeon said to Leoxander, "Which you? S'ere like. Three. Of you."
Lita knows somehow that Leo will blame her for this. Despite that she'd only wanted the orcish brute to stop snoring, or in the least for the horse to be kept outside. She watches a bit in horror as the bar stool splinters into the crates and okay, that part might be her fault. She scrambles backwards some under a table as Cinderback's flames flare and Spike makes his appearance known, by smell before sight. She groans, waving her hand in front of her face. "'Ell did you eat!?" She groans over the noise before pulling herself at last to her feet. The pirate makes his entrance and Lita makes a face, pointing to the orc with a string of complaints and expletives that are mostly muffled by the snorting of that steed clomping angrily passed her. Lita makes her way to the bar finally and find a seat. "Look, you can't handle drinkin' all the dirt-swill you excuse as beer, maybe you should sleep in the barn." She drawls at Gore.
Gorehilt staggers out of the boxes, yelling and clutching at his temples as he teeters and lurches. Cinderback glares daggers at Leo, the very picture of "if looks could kill." It prances out, but not before snatching a bottle of liquor by the neck in its teeth. With one more look of defiance, the horse dashes out through the door in a fiery whoosh. Gorehilt, meanwhile, has picked up one of the fallen crates. "It was a good present for YOUUU!!" He throws it. Ignorant of the crate's contents, apparently unbothered by the consequences, his rage fueled by insult added to self-inflicted injury, he throws a full crate at Lita's middle. Just hucks it. The old heave ho and then some. "AAH MY HEAD." Immediately after throwing it, without bother to see if it hits, he hunkers double and clasps his big, green, useless cranium in both hands.
Lita is thankfully half bent over to pick up her crown off the floor where she'd dropped it unceremoniously. Well that pride lasted all of a day. Ruttin' ogres... she stiffens when she feels that crate go whizzing over her head, shattering to pieces between a bar stool and the bar. And she stands slowly, dark eyes wide at the pirate where he stands as she points back towards the shattered crate. "That one was not my fault." She turns on Gore then, slams that iron crown down onto the bar top. "Listen!" She yells, though she doesn't have a whole lot to say and he's clutching that oversized dread collection anyway. In a fit of frustration, she looks for something else of his he can kick. The crate fort is already destroyed. And then she eyes the barrel of pig's blood disguised as beer he'd hauled in the night before. Well, if Leo was already gonna yell at her... she draws her arm back and plows her fist through the side of the barrel towards the bottom, shaking her fist as the remaining beer floods out across the bar and onto the floor. "There's you ruttin' present." She growls at Gore.
Leoxander managed to stare daggers at Cinderback’s hindquarters as the thieving steed made his way out of the warehouse, looking back just in time to see Gorehilt throwing a crate, empty or not, at the Blood Bowl champion with her sprained foot. Insert that roll of his eyes and a whisper of words under his breath here. He wasn’t exactly caught off guard by their impatience and fight-ready antics, but it wasn’t that long since the floor had been littered with glass and pieces of wood to sweep up. He could sense that crackle in the air like an oncoming storm across the ocean water, suggesting an oncoming fight, but he wasn’t about to try to defuse the situation. Better they get it out than let that disagreement fester into something that couldn’t be handled by fists and projectiles of cargo or furniture. Moving around the mess behind the bar in time for Lita to slap it down, he kept an eye on Loravelle, and also on Ina, for very different reasons. Protective of one, suspecting of the other, both for good reason. But obviously this was that moment where the pirate needed a drink before he could digest what was about to happen in his pub. He was stopped short when that smell of fungus beer flowed out with a flood of contents across the floor, but took a fairly calm (three shots worth in a swallow) drink from his tumbler afterward, muttering to the two. “Don’t think you blaggards aren’t cleanin’ this s*** up.”
Gorehilt was already enraged. It's hardly as though he required provocation. He was mad enough to throw a crate. His hangover is agony. Castle Boxfort has fallen. And now, in this his darkest hour, Lita picks up his heart, pulls the pin out with her teeth, and tosses it back at him like a live grenade. Though the dim light burns his eyes, he watches in spellstruck horror. "No!" He gasps, watching the beer splatter onto the floor. There's almost an audible "pomp" as his veins bulge in unison. "YOU!" Gauntleted hands clutch furiously at the air, miming how he would crunch and pulverize Lita if he only had his hands on her right now. Gorehilt's groggy legs take the hint. Running on nothing but fury and adrenaline, the hungover greenskin staggers and jerks toward Lita, hands swiping and snatching as he approaches, apparently intent on ripping her limb from limb. Who know's what he'd actually do if he managed to grab her.
Lita might have been worried at the angry bull that Gore is suddenly. Except the last week leading up to the tournament duel finals has been a blur of stress and liquor and overwhelming emotion that she was not equipped to handle. She's still a but shocked and rattled that she'd won at all. All that to say that the little angry gnome that is Gorehilt in her brain just now has her laughing. It's not entirely uncharacteristic, she tends to laugh in situations when she shouldn't. She rolls her eyes towards the pirate, maybe sighs a bit. And she waits until Gore's close enough before she throws her arm out, aiming to clothesline the angry little monster. She's every intention of throwing him to the floor except the force of him rocks her stool backwards and she flails a bit, half trying to keep Gore off of her as her other fists comes up aiming for the side of his face. "I swear, if you bite me!" She threatens.
Gorehilt runs straight into Lita's clothesline. It catches him in the throat. He gags, his legs fly out, and he lands on his back in a big puddle of fungus beer. Bright stars flash across his vision. "Aagh!" A cry of pain escapes him, but it's choked out as a stream of fungus beer, still pouring from the ruptured barrel, falls across his face. For a split second he sputters, but an instant later, he his gulping down the life-giving trickle, that blessed fountain, that hair of the dog. His HP and STAMINA meters visibly restore and cap out with a "ding." The spiked tips of his gauntlets scrape into the bar a he clutches it, yanks himself to his feet, and brings his upward momentum with him, throwing it all into his free hand for a shoryuken uppercut. It's an all or nothing bid. He's relying on the hit connecting, relying on Lita's weight and momentum to counteract his own, otherwise he's definitely going to throw himself off his feet again. Let's see if it pays off.
Leoxander clutched whatever bottle he’d opened to make sure the force of impact didn’t topple it off the bar counter before he picked it up and refilled it as the two clashed, his expression a bit grouchy but not comparable to Gorehilt going hulk-mode. Taking a drink as he watched Lita reciprocate the charge, his blue gaze swept across the floor where puddles of unsanitary swill had formed, making their arena of choice almost as treacherous as a field of hungry, demonic flowers. “You two stay the (censored) away from my new table.” He warned. Champion in their own rights, they could bet Leo would have them both out in the sand on their asses if they broke his new toy.
Mahri manages, hopefully, to sort of sneak in during all the shenanigans and crept her way to wherever Leo was. The Silver watched Gorehilt intently, given his position in the organization. From a pocket of her duster, the wolf withdraws a flask and flat tin with smokes nestled inside. A drink taken from one, a hand-rolled from the other is then lit by a flame on the tip of her finger.
Lita is somehow not surprised that something called fungus beer is super effective in sending the orc into super-saiyan mode. For a moment his hair looks as even more blonde than the pirate's and that's probably why Lita doesn't quite avoid that fancy little uppercut. The orc's dainty little fist dances across the side of her jaw and across her cheek and temple as she turns her head and she grits her teeth. That was gonna hurt tomorrow. She whirls away from the bar and while she side steps Leo's new toy under penalty of death, she takes a few steps towards the dart board, grasping a trio of blue darts in hand and tosses them Gore's way. She's used to throwing daggers but she's not exactly aiming these. Instead she follows in their wake, ignoring the pain in her ankle and the doctor's orders as she aims to slam her left forearm (and that leather bracer) into the side of Spike's head.
Leoxander was a thief, first and foremost, and when Mahri came into reach with a smoke between her lips he stole it for a drag and a shake of his head with no particular words before he granted it back, half paying attention to the brawl happening on the other side before he gave his alpha-sister a sidelong look and a low spoken, “Hey.” Just another day in paradise. She could keep her flask on reserve if she accepted the drink Leo poured her from the same bottle after retrieving another cut glass.
Gorehilt sways with the follow-through, staggering one step to the side. It's just the lapse Lita needs. The darts hit in a cluster. Two of them ricochet off the half-orc's breastplate, one clattering away across the floor, the other sticking right in Leo's new table. The third sticks out of Gorehilt's forehead. He seems not to notice it. Lita swings, and the death knight raises a forearm of his own (and metal bracer) to block it. His shield arm is accustomed to absorbing impact, and it's natural for his sword arm to follow. Gorehilt grabs an empty bottle off a nearby table and swings to shatter it somewhere upon Lita's person. It's a haymaker, and he'll be happy if it connects anywhere at all. A line of blood falls down his face, trickling from the dart still embedded there.
Mahri took back the smoke, and the offered drink in the glass but not before putting the flask away. "Hey," she returns and follows up with, "The hells started this?"
Lita glances away from Gumby (Cinderback is Pokey) long enough to see that dart embed itself into Leo's new table and look, that one is definitely not her fault! She might have said as much except Spike is blocking the swing of her forearm and smashing a bottle against her shoulder. Which is fine. She doesn't even try to stop the blow or avoid it. At least it's not more of that damned beer. A chunk of glass glances up across her cheek leaving a thin line of blood in its wake. She takes a few heavy, shallow breaths as she turns to face him again. "You are startin' to royally piss me off." She hauls an elbow back to aim a fist for his nose and whether that connects or not, she'll reach her other hand for his shoulder to hold him still some as she aims a knee into his ribs.
Leoxander gave Mahri a half assed shrug and an equally efforted shake of his head. “Probably somethin’ wrong with that pisswater Spike brought in, but I s’pose he had good intentions.” That, or maybe the fact he’d caught the sound of sir and steed creating a storm of noise before he’d even opened the black-painted door. “Might just be whatever’s left from the tournament needin’ out, though Ace shouldn’t be walkin’, let alone fightin’ this soon.” Still, he wasn’t the vampire’s keeper and he wasn’t about to clean up their mess. Spotting that dart in the brand new green felt of his billiards table, he paused with tumbler raised before his own drink and his jaw tightened. “Sonuvabich…” He spoke under his breath and drained his glass, starting to wonder if he should step in. But not just yet.
Mahri winced, watching the brawl as calmly as Leo was, mostly until the dart marred the felt of the billiards table. Dang, sorry dude. "She'll be fine. Ouch - " the bottle swinging and making contact actually had the wolf flinch a little, more than the dart in Gore's forehead did.
Gorehilt reaches over to lay on a hand on his broken barrel of exquisite imported beer, so unjustly emptied before its time. He's in the process of picking it up when Lita pops him one in the face. The half-orc doesn't have much of a nose, but she manages to find it somehow nonetheless. The world lurches, and Gorehilt sees stars again. Things don't get any better yet. Lita yanks him in. Gore hoists the barrel over his head in both hands. The knee slams him in the sternum. A few flecks of bloody, foamy spit fly out from between Gorehilt's tucks. The world reels, but while they're still entwined in the dance of melee, while Lita still has a grip on his shoulder, Gorehilt swings the barrel down, splattering them both with warm fungus beer. He'd like to put Lita's head through the hole she punched in it. Gore's a sucker for poetic justice, or, failing that, he's at least a sucker for violence. Sometimes the two go hand in hand.
Lita is not mad about the barrel of piss-swill excuse of warm fungus beer being passed off as exquisite being smashed over her head. She's not even mad about the time it will likely take to get the smell of that stuff out of her hair. Definitely not mad about the fact that the momentum and force of it, coupled with the already slick floor, makes her lose her footing and lands her squarely on her butt with a grunt of complaint. No, all's fair in war, regardless of how impromptu the arena. But what she is absolutely livid about, is the fact that that brand new leather bracer, barely a day in this world and so lovingly crafted, is now drenched in that stuff as well. Which is why as she takes a moment to look up at Spike from the floor, there's a little glint of violet in those usually dark eyes. She leans her weight back on her palms and draws her right knee up to her chest, before aiming the heel of her uninjured bare foot into the orc's knee. She'd reach for whatever bar stool was closest then, swinging wildly upwards towards his head, shoulders, chest, whatever really.
Gorehilt is beginning to feel the blows he's taken. The barrel smashes over Lita, but instead of leaping on her and finishing the job, the greenskin stands there and watches her in a sort of daze. He watches her fall, meets her eyes as she looks up, and watches her wind up a kick with a sort of detached interest. Well, a sharp blow to the poleyn snaps him out of that. It's a good blow, even with the armor, and it earns a genuine yelp of pain. Gorehilt staggers, slips in the beer, and falls backwards. The barstool clips him on the way down, banging noisily off one of his pauldrons. He lands on his back with a crash and an assortment of curses. Maybe a bit of the fight has gone out of him. Gorehilt hacks up a wad of bloody phlegm, spits it off the side, and snorts. "You had enough?" he manages hoarsely, still laying spread eagle on his back and staring at the ceiling.
Leoxander finally placed his empty glass down. Someone was gonna break an essential bone beyond a displaced nose sooner or later and there was that reek of beer - forget Lita’s hair - how was he gonna air that out of the warehouse he was trying to get back into business? Stepping around Mahri toward the pair, reaching to grab Lita’s bracered arm before tugging her back roughly away from the sprawled orc on the floor, bad ankle or no. His other hand gripped into whatever purchase he found on whatever chest armor or covering Gorehilt had crashed in to jerk him up to his feet, a taste of the pirate’s lycan strength felt by both skilled vampire and battle hardened orc. He wasn’t appreciating the puddle around his favored boots but stood between the two to hold them both less than gently out of range of each other. “That’s enough!” It was actually kind of rare lately that the wolf-rogue barked in that way that stirred bones, short but impactful like a bolt of skyfire too near. “You two wan’a bloody kill each other, go f’gin’ take it outside an’ consider yourselves out’a work.” Or, they had that option to calm down or go their separate ways. They were both friends, one tacked with a few many years more, but he was playing the Rook, now, blocking the queen from knight.
Mahri just takes a sip of her drink, watching all this go down. One corner of her mouth quirks slightly in amusement.
Lita watches with a twinge of satisfaction as the orc flails to the floor. She is vaguely aware that she should bad for this. That Gore is quick becoming an amusing friend. At the very least that they'd managed to do a fair bit of damage to Leo's bar. But all she can managed to try and see right now is the red of his blood spilled from his nose and how pretty it would look painted across a larger canvas, say an entire wall. Maybe a lot of that is some aggression left from the tournament. Maybe some just an irritation from pain but either way, his words have her attempting to stumble back up to her feet again. "Had enough!?" She's spewing between a few more colorful curses. She might have had more to say as she took a step to advance towards Spike, but the pirate ensnares her arm and she nearly aims a fist for him instead, lips curled back from sharp fangs for a moment. It was rare that she let the rein on her control slip that much, especially in public, and she yanks her arm violently away from him. She reaches for her crown at the bar top, finally noticing Mahri- when had she made an entrance? But she doesn't offer a greeting, just turns to head for the door. Probably shoving a few chairs out of her way in the process and slamming the door open on her way out.
Mahri mutters, "nice to see you, too, Ace" as the vampire stomps by.
Gorehilt blinks in mild confusion. Something about he way Leoxander picks him up so easily just... doesn't seem real? Maybe his head has taken more punishment than he realized. Gorehilt reaches up, pats Leo's arm, then feels around a bit on his own face for the dart. He finds it and yanks it out. "Nah, we're good, boss." Gorehilt's rather bold to be speaking for the both of them, especially since Lita is storming her way out. "We're good." Finding his feet, the dazed half-orc woozily stands. He props his back and elbows against the bar, studies the dart in his hands, then tosses it at the board. It sticks in the 4.
Leoxander felt the woman jerk out of his grip and let her go, though his glare followed when she pushed some of his chairs, spade-marked even, out of her way and might have toppled one over. It was nothing that couldn’t be remedied but the pair had already worn his patience thin. Holding onto Gorehilt for just a moment to make certain he didn’t follow Lita out too quickly, or perhaps to listen for hooves if Lita tried to steal Cinderback again, he finally loosened his grip with a slight shove that wouldn’t likely knock the half-orc off his footing a second time, just a meager, warning push to make sure Leo didn’t trigger and put him back into ‘snooze’ mode. “You call this ‘good’? I d’know what got up yer arse or hers, but this (clattering of some half broken furniture, turning fully broken) better be f’g’n pristine by tomorrow.” Only then did he look back toward “Ma” with an expression that a father might, breaking up a sibling fight gone too far. He was probably going to be left with the mess they had made but so long as it stopped there, he’d deal with it on his own time. He was gonna need to take that bottle to go; she had her flask.
Mahri shrugs at Leo, but eyes Gorehilt a moment before leaving the bottle behind for the captain and making her own exit. What ever was going on in the she-alpha's head wasn't going to be shared at the moment.
Gorehilt grimaces at the warning shove, not in anger, but in discomfort. His face wrinkles as he looks around the joint. Yeah, they did do a number on it. A lot of this mess was from the night before, but, well, tough luck. Gorehilt knows better than to point that out at a time like this. "Pristine, got it." As he wipes a hand down his face, he spots Mahri between his fingers. A sixth sense clues him in, tells him there's something she isn't saying. He could bother her about it. Or he could take a little more hair of the dog and get to work cleaning. Yeah, that's probably the brighter idea. He does that.
Leoxander left Gorehilt to the chore without another word. He hadn’t been riled enough to string up anyone outside the building that night but… tomorrow was a new day, for better or worse.