Closed You Go To What You Know (Raenetyr)

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Raenetyr stood back to let Brother fall to the floor, a small trail of blood following him as he slid down the wall and onto the ground. He could not tell if his foe was alive or dead, and would have checked had he not heard a pitiful cry behind him. It sounded as if it was far off, though Raenetyr knew that was his skull still recovering. He shook his head softly in an attempt to fix his vision back into focus, and slowly turned. What he saw surprised him, to say the least. He had thought the giant was spent; but the man had managed to subdue Raenetyr's bounty. But the victory was short-lived, and the bounty hunter's eyes widened in shock as he saw Big Nose coming at him. The warning from the prizefighter served to galvanize him, and he began moving as he saw the small axe that his last opponent brandished.

Big Nose lunged, his hatchet flashing as it arced towards Raenetyr. The bounty hunter stepped inside the sweep, and felt the wooden handle of the axe thud against his shoulder. He rolled his back and twisted as Big Nose raked his weapon back towards him. Raenetyr cursed as he felt the sharp edge of his foe's weapon draw a shallow line across his shoulder. He grabbed his adversary's arm and twisted it, hoping to prevent the criminal from getting in any more hits. His other limb delivered a sickening blow to Big Nose's stomach, and the man doubled over as if he was about to retch. Raenetyr planted his foot against the man's upper chest and pushed, knocking him to the ground. As Big Nose's sprawled in the filth of the street, Raenetyr turned and stepped over Brother's body to grab his great sword.

He could hear Big Nose getting to his feet as he drew the hand-and-a-half up off the ground. He growled as he turned, and saw the bastard coming at him again. His enemy knew that he had to be quick now, or else his sword would not be effective and he would be hacked to bits. Raenetyr's growl turned into a harsh yell as he planted his feet firmly and drew his sword over his head, both hands clenching the hilt until the knuckles were white. The blade hissed as it shredded the cool air, and Big Nose tried to sidestep while raising his own weapon to negate the attack. If only he had been quicker.

Big Nose let out a pitiful and whining moan as the bounty hunter's greatsword clove the wooden handle of his hatchet in two, as if it was nothing more than warm butter, and continued on to sink into him. The stroke bit deep into his shoulder, through tendon and muscle. It snapped hard bone and still continued; it went so deep that his arm and part of the left side of his chest lolled to the side. Several inches more and he would have been sliced in two. Blood spurted viscerally from opened arteries. staining Raenetyr's lower legs and spilling over Big Nose's clothing. The light quickly left the man's eyes and he fell with a squelching sound into the refuse underfoot.

Raenetyr put one foot on Big Nose's carcass and levered his sword out of the man. He stood there for a moment, deep breaths serving to slowly bring him down from the frenzy of battle. He suddenly felt tired, and very thirsty. Gods, he could go for a skin of cold water, and then a couple flagons of mead. He turned and looked down at the prizefighter; still breathing. As for his bounty... not so sure. He nudged the rapist's head with his bloodied boot as he sheathed his weapon.

"He dead?" He asked gruffly. He sure hoped not; he doubted that he would get the full 100 gold rims if the bastard had escaped life so easily. His gaze then turned to the giant. Fuck, that man was a mess. He didn't look like he'd make it out of the alley on his own, let alone anywhere safe. What next came over Raenetyr, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was compassion, though he would never have explained it as such. Maybe he felt like it would be a waste of life to condemn the man he had just saved to a slow death on the filthy cobbles of that back alley. Whatever it was, it sure wasn't something that befit the cruelty of Sunberth. Raenetyr sighed, and bent down to help the massive brawler up, struggling slightly under the man's weight.

"Name's Raenetyr Verogane. Bounty hunter and... well, savior of your ugly hide. Between the Vantha and those bastards, you look like you let a butcher's apprentice try out his new cleaver on you. Fuck, let's get you back to your place. Show me the way. Don't worry about them, I'll pick 'em up in the morning. Doesn't look like any of them are going someplace fast."

Raenetyr had suggested the other man's quarters for two reasons. One, he NEVER went straight home after getting in a fight that left someone dead, especially when it was on business. That was just asking for trouble. Two, he knew that he had drank his own place dryer than a desert a couple days ago. So, naturally, that was not where he wanted to be right now.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

"He dead?"

"Fuh... Fuck do I... care...?"

Some part of Nate's mind thought the question was stupid, and his mouth managed to pick up on it. Every other action or impulse was swimming through a thick mire that had bled out all the energy from his mind and body. He managed to get to his knees and spent half a chime just panting at the ground, trying to will some strength, some anima, some feeling back into his arms...

Then that strength came... but it was not his own. Strong, solid arms gripped under his and hauled him upright, a bulky torso snaking under one side and keeping him there. Words like the growling of a pine wolf found there way to his ear; he barely heard them over the shock of someone, anyone, for any reason, actually helping him now their mutual enemies were defeated.

Standard Sunberth policy after that point was to, well... make fresh enemies. In each other.

"Name's Raenetyr Verogane. Bounty hunter and... well, savior of your ugly hide. Between the Vantha and those bastards, you look like you let a butcher's apprentice try out his new cleaver on you. Fuck, let's get you back to your place. Show me the way. Don't worry about them, I'll pick 'em up in the morning. Doesn't look like any of them are going someplace fast."

Back to his place? Bounty hunter? Pick who up later? A barrage of questions and Nate's lips had no time for any of them. Swollen and useless as much of his body was, the big man just let the bounty hunter be his strength as his feet and his will guided them. He patted the purse in his pocket first, his brass knuckles, kukri... all there.

"Might wanna..." He gulped, even a pair of words forced from his puffy mouth an exertion. "... come back... before morning... never know wuh... what they'll do... to a couplea' bodies... 'round here..."

Nate certainly knew that was the case. Back in "The Day", it had been him and his little street rats patrolling the alleys and gutters and sewers for dead or unconscious bodies, stripping them for gold, jewelry, filings, shoes, giving them a sharp rap on the head with a bludgeon if they wriggled too much.

Most times when Syna rose in Sunberth, she rose to naked corpses, not clothed ones. If there were even corpses left: plenty of pox doctors and lunatics to Petrocious who'd pay modestly for fresh "experiment" fodder.

Not that Nate was worried too much, by the time they got back to Sunset. He fumbled with the key and lock until Raen got bored and did it for him-

-and a growling like a Balicani's stomach stopped them both dead. Nate sighed and rolled his eyes, addressing the glimmering mass of sharp teeth and wide, staring eyes in one corner of the darkened room.

"Jorka?! It's Master. Calm, love..."

It wasn't immediate, but it was understood. The maw vanished, replaced by a flash of pink tongue licking her lips... and then a sleek shadow of nearly ninety pounds padded from her corner and nuzzled her master's hand, eyes rank with concern. She smelled the blood and exhaustion on him, and Nate dropped to one knee, cooing softly.

"Hey, hey... I'm here, now..."

Jorka seemed to take his word for it, then gave the new two-legs a swift sniffing. Hmm... blood and iron and sweat and that strange, stinking water they seemed to like so much. She looked up and found eyes scarcely less animalistic than hers... then snuffled once and trotted back to Master's bed. She had no doubt he'd need her presence during the night.

"Close the door... will you?"

By the time Raen did that, he'd find Nate staggered into the kitchen, holding onto everything he passed as a makeshift crutch, before finally digging into a cupboard and finding a bottle of something foul. He pulled the cork with his teeth and took a swig, face contorting in horror and agony as bleeding gums were cauterized and assailed by the alcohol.

But finally he managed to swallow... and offered the bottle.

"Least I can... do. So... lucky night for you, eh? Men yer... looking for... just happened on me. Dunno if you... planned that, but... glad it happened, either way..."

Nate collapsed into his chair once the bottle was out of his hands, taking off his shirt and pressing the sweat-and-blood covered mess to his face. Hardly sanitary dressings, but for the tick, it would do.

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Raenetyr continued to support the larger man like a human crutch as the two made their way through winding streets and shift corridors. He would not be surprised if the bodies were looted, alive or dead, by the time he returned. Looting corpses wasn't his thing, anyway. He was a bit worried about anyone who was looking to sell some extra coin on the 'meat market'; the area of trade that even the strongest of stomach didn't like to talk about. He hoped, however, that they'd go unnoticed among the dozens of other unfortunate souls that would be found by morning.

Raenetyr lived in the Sunset Quarter as well, although not too close to where they were going. It meant that he had an idea of where they were headed while not feeling that his home was in jeopardy. He sighed as he watched the battered fighter struggle with the key like a sozzled drunk, before he unlocked the door himself. He had not even stepped into the frame before he heard snarl, and he froze. A dog. Gods, he hated dogs. It would seem strange at first glance; a bounty hunter who can't stand a beast that could sniff out his quarry? Except that wasn't how it worked in the city; it was rare that the four-legged beasts could pick out a singular scent in such a populated area, especially in a place that stank like Sunberth did. And they gave you away as well, with their yowling and yapping. He figured that he might like one that was tamed, after a lot of getting used to. But the only beasts he ever ran into were either the near-feral wolves that many eccentric and dangerous types liked to own (why, he would never know, as half of them ended up getting put down after biting someone's child or something similar) or the massive dumb guard dogs that would attack even their own master if he wasn't careful.

The gargantuan brawler's voice rang out hoarsely, and the dangerous pet, naught but a silhouette in the unlit interior, slowly backed down. Raenetyr took an involuntary step back as the beast walked up to its owner, and had to fight to stop his hand from resting on the pommel of his blade. The dog began licking its master with a raspy large tongue, and did not stop until the beaten colossus reassured it again. At which point it turned towards the bounty hunter and looked him over. He scowled at the ragged ball of fur and teeth, and it snorted before padding into the room.

"Close the door... will you?"

Raenetyr nodded, and swung it shut before bolting the crude latch. As he turned, he saw his new ally limp his way across the floor. He used the opportunity to survey the man's quarters. Everything seemed tidy, or at least tidier than his home, but there was a strange feel to it. It didn't really have a homely feel, though the change seemed recent.

"You moving? Found a better hovel to shack up in?"

As soon as he said it, he chastised himself internally. Fuck, you don't even know the sod! He hasn't given you his name, has he? And why do you give such a shit, anyway? You didn't need to help him at all, could've waited until he was dead, and then taken those scumbags on. At least you would have had his prize money to show for it. And who's to say that he's not biding his time? There's still time for a knife to drive itself into your back. There's always still time for that.

As if on queue, the larger man began rummaged through his cupboards. Raenetyr stiffened, and this time his hand DID go to his hilt. It wasn't until his imagined foe turned with a flask in hand that he was able to relax, if only a little. He removed his hand from his great sword, and allowed his usual mask of indifference to creep over his features as he reclined in the wooden chair. He was about to say that he should go check on the bastards, make sure they weren't gone, before the pitfighter offered him the decanter. Fuck.

"Least I can... do. So... lucky night for you, eh? Men yer... looking for... just happened on me. Dunno if you... planned that, but... glad it happened, either way..."

"Can't say no to a bottle." He shrugged, and then took a deep draft of the dark liquid. Agh, that was the stuff. He grimaced as he felt the all-too familiar sensation of fire traveling down his gullet, and took a second gulp to chase it before he responded.

"No, didn't plan it. Was a bit lucky, I suppose, though they had it quite a few days coming." He started to feel a bit uncomfortable, hoped that his host wouldn't ask too much about those who had commissioned the bounty. It wasn't that he felt compelled to be discreet; Just thinking of it, safeguarding the anonymity of a ring of flesh-herders who had, essentially, ordered a hit on someone, was ridiculous. Ha, ha. But he knew that there were a good deal of people who were openly hostile to slavers, and there were many more who would have thought him a soulless bastard for working for them. And maybe they were right, he mused, though they could still go jump on a pike if they felt obliged to voice their hypocrisy aloud. Either way, he decided that it was time to change the conversation, even if he couldn't really think of too much.

"You fought well. Liked the little surprise at the end, even if it was on the gruesome side. That kind of fighting comes in handy, in my line of work."

[Nathaniel Ankah]

"You moving? Found a better hovel to shack up in?"

Battered or not, Nate still had the wit to chuckle through his shirt, bloodied teeth bared to his new... acquaintance. He gestured weakly with one arm, taking in his little three-room palace.

"Why, wanna make an offer?"

But he left it at that. Nate had his plans, his dreams, but Sunberth was such a gods-petched town that even the man saving your life wasn't entitled to hear them, even on the way to drunk and in your home. The less this... Raen, knew about Nate, the more he liked it. And at least he'd taken the bottle. Nate shuffled and dragged and swung himself upright again and rummaged around until he found his makeshift "healing kit".

Kit. Even that three-letter term was grandiose. Needles and thread from Kay's sewing days; alcohol you could use to clean spoons with as an antiseptic, and enough old rags to make bandages. But you worked with what you had, and Nate listened as he filled up a bowl of water.

This is the worst part. Having to do it yourself. No-one to take the burden off your hands, swat you on the shoulder and say you're being a baby when you wince. Just you, and the damage you let them do...

"No, didn't plan it. Was a bit lucky, I suppose, though they had it quite a few days coming."

Nate grunted as he applied an alcohol-soaked rag to the wound on on top of his head, where Goatee had cracked him good and proper with that dirk. The evil-smelling shyke seeped into it, committed genocide on any infection rearing its head. But still he smiled. Had it coming? Gods, didn't that describe half the city?

"Well... hope you can make some coin outta it, at least..."

Silence, at least for a little while. Nate appreciated that Raen knew enough of men like them to just shut the petch up and let him tend to himself. Chime by chime, Nate looked less like a raw side of beef... and more like a mummy. Half of them would be filthy by morning, but aside from the head wound, split lips and bruises, the outside could have been worse.

Now, the inside? Pissing blood and not shitting solid for a week. That should be about right.

"You fought well. Liked the little surprise at the end, even if it was on the gruesome side. That kind of fighting comes in handy, in my line of work."

Nate smiled, and it was real, even though it hurt like a bastard. Johnny's wasn't as notorious as the Blood Pits, but only because killing your opponent wasn't the only way you could win. Truth be told, every few days some poor sod got beat to death or crippled for life... much like that Vantha had been. Gods, he didn't even know his name. But did it matter? Not to Nate. He was... in the way.

"Always thought..." He said, voice becoming... almost conversational. Genial. He took back the bottle after a moment and swigged down another mouthful; another dose of anesthetic. "... fighting is for men who have the time. Me? I never liked the fighting part. Put the fucker down fast and hard. How you get there, well... whatever works, right?"

Chivalry. Honor. Fair play. Sportsmanship. Anywhere else, they were noble virtues. In Sunberth, they got you killed, and frequently did. Nate took stock of the man sitting across from him. The accent and the sword... he'd almost think he was a Knight, if you took all the stories of them and muddied them with Sunberth water. The man was dangerous, though, and if his bread and butter was tracking down scum like Goatee and Co., he had to be.

"And that... bit at the end? Case in... thingy. Point, y'know? Couldn't beat him on my feet, like all the stories tell ya. Had to... draw him in. Make him think he'd already won. Heh... usually the moment you fuckin' lose..."

Bounty hunter. A comparatively rare breed in Sunberth, oddly enough. The gangs and syndicates were their own hunters; they put the word out, a bag of gold on your head and ta-da! Every street-working scum was hunting for you. But this man... he made it his business. You didn't do that unless you were good at it.

"Why Sunberth?"

The question was so out of the blue, Nate wouldn't be surprised if he got a scowl in return. If so, he'd just shrug it off, now peering at Raen through a one-eyed, bandaged gaze.

"Yer accent ain't from round here. Don't see many street daemons carrying a sword like that. More a... Dragoon weapon." He grinned at the mention of the closest thing Sunberth had to an army (though "death squad" would probably be more accurate). "Or a Knight."

[Raenetyr Verogane]

"Why, wanna make an offer?"

Raenetyr shrugged as he relaxed back into the chair, grateful for furniture that didn't creak and groan under the weight of men his size.

"Might do. A bit roomier than I'm used to."

He peered into what looked like another room, but couldn't make out anything distinct inside. He then turned and watched as the large Sunberthian went about the arduous and no doubt painful process of fixing himself up. He looked a bit clumsy with it, though Raenetyr doubted it was for lack of injuries. Maybe someone else had done it for him? He glanced into the darkened room again, and a bit of a smirk came to his lips. Explains why he's keeping distant, he figured. Afraid I'll find his little wife and suddenly lose my amicability. Not that he could blame the giant; Sunberth didn't really provide much evidence for anything of the contrary to take place.

When Nate took the bottle from him, a slight frown creased his brows, if only for a moment. That was alright. He had some of his own, even if he had been saving it. He listened to the larger man talk, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips and across his bearded face as the brawler gave his opinion on fighting.

"I must have all the time in the world, in that case. Not much else I do besides fighting. Drinking and whoring, suppose, but that doesn't really count. And I've found that it's all about patience. On one hand, element of surprise can be fatal. But if you can't take them down in the opening chime, it's best to wait for them to fuck up, and even better to make sure that they slip before you do."

"Why Sunberth?"

Raenetyr raised an eyebrow, the question throwing him off guard for a moment. He then looked down, and didn't say anything for a few seconds.

"Didn't plan it. Just how it happened, how it ended up. I was just going to pass through; get what I came here for and then... somewhere else. Riverfall or Lhavit, perhaps. Maybe Zeltiva. He'd wanted-"

Raenetyr's voice trailed off, and his tone sounded strained, though his face remained inexpressive. He let the silence sit for a moment or two, and suddenly felt like he needed a drink. He pulled a skin from his belt, which sloshed heavily as he popped the cork. The wine was sour, but uncommonly strong, and the bounty hunter had decided that it was an acquired taste. He tipped his head back and took several deep swallows. The skin deflated visibly as the sound of moist gulping filled the room, and it was quite a while before Raenetyr came up for air. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and re-sealed the noticeably smaller pouch, and only then did he speak again.

"Didn't have much reason to leave after. And here I am."

A time passed where neither of them spoke, before Raenetyr noticed the larger man staring at him from under the makeshift wrappings that covered the giant's wounds.

"Yer accent ain't from round here. Don't see many street daemons carrying a sword like that. More a... Dragoon weapon. Or a Knight."

Raenetyr let out a short and harsh bark of laughter. But his eyes glittered dangerously, and he leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees. The accent was a giveaway, as well as the blade, though the bounty hunter had never thought to change them. That field of deception was something he did not stoop to, felt that such an action would be belittling. But it made his situation precarious; even unfounded rumors of a past occupation as a knight could bring members of the Order after him. They would come and attempt to bade him rejoin, and would be relentless in their harrying. Members of the Order, or a vast majority of them at least, viewed him as a long lost brother. But out here, the influence of the knights was barely felt. Besides, there were isolated incidents where an individual was exiled, or proved too troublesome. In those cases, knights were sent to kill, not persuade. And they would be relentless in that regard as well.

"Used to live in Syliras, 'fore I found myself here. And I noticed. Lots of clubs, axes, small swords, and those funny curved daggers. Great for smashing skulls in an alley or stabbing someone in the back, and even a lackwit can use 'em to some degree. But none hold their ground against a real weapon."

He patted the pommel of his greatsword, and nodded, his palm massaging the smoothed metal as he spoke.

"Would be a good weapon for a man like yourself. Most complain about the strength needed to wield one with any results... but I doubt that'd be a problem for you. Can shatter a sword like glass and cleave flesh like butter, and the reach is formidable... at least if you aren't shoulder-to-shoulder with the walls of an alley, that is."

Raenetyr then looked over his host. Muscled and large, more-so than he was. He really was a real boulder of a man, the type that could break your hand as soon as shake it. He had the look of a brawler, though the bounty hunter doubted that it was a lifetime occupation; in the Berth that only got you a shallow grave. Maybe a guard, or a mercenary, though he couldn't be sure. A slaver or gang member perhaps, but he didn't seem the type.

"And what about you? Live in this pisspot since you were born? And why the dog? Most would rather their beasts a bit more rabid, or exotic. And many more don't have the patience to take care of the damn things, myself included. Go through enough trouble to put food on my own table."

[Nathaniel Ankah]

Nate could tell he'd touched on a subject that Raen would rather not have given voice to. The way his voice trailed off after mention a strange "he"; the very fact he described his journey across half the world as "how it ended up"... and most of all, that long, grateful slug of wine from his skin, stopping any questions, queries... thoughts, memories...

The bruised brawler felt a brief flush of pity for the man, but was careful not to let it show on his face (which wasn't too hard, considering its condition). Better to show a man disgust or scorn than pity, especially men like them. Besides, that hunted look on Raen's face could have told more than just tragedy and sorrow.

He could be on the run and have a score of dead kids to his name, for all you know. No-one "plans" to be running; they just make their fuck ups and start hoofing it.

For long chimes they sat in silence, two big men in a small house with all the chaos of Sunberth roiling around the streets and alleys beyond it. Both were too tired or too wounded to do much moving around; Nate wondered if he was only asking questions to keep himself from finally keeling over into blessed, grateful sleep.

So he was glad when Raen slid the conversation into a much more neutral yet enjoyable groove.

"Used to live in Syliras, 'fore I found myself here. And I noticed. Lots of clubs, axes, small swords, and those funny curved daggers. Great for smashing skulls in an alley or stabbing someone in the back, and even a lackwit can use 'em to some degree. But none hold their ground against a real weapon."

Nate nodded at the surprisingly accurate observation, even if the hulking bounty hunter didn't really answer the question. Most of the thugs and brawlers in The Berth stuck with anything you could use in confines no wider than your shoulders. Rough, coarse, vicious weapons that caused plenty of damage with little effort or training. Only the Dragoons really used "proper" swords and Nate couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a Greatsword swung on the streets.

He remembered what it did to Big Nose, though. All that muscle and killing intent behind five feet of sharpened steel... damn near cut him in half. Lengthways.

"Would be a good weapon for a man like yourself. Most complain about the strength needed to wield one with any results... but I doubt that'd be a problem for you. Can shatter a sword like glass and cleave flesh like butter, and the reach is formidable... at least if you aren't shoulder-to-shoulder with the walls of an alley, that is."

Nate smiled at that image: Big Nate from Sunset, swinging a mighty sword like one of the Knights from "the Old". Kay and her like had always distinguished between them and the actual Syliran Knights, whom Nate was rigorously told were nothing but bullies who wanted to enslave Sunberth, just like they'd done hundreds of years ago. But what young boy didn't want to be strong, heroic, loved, handsome and, of course, a dab hand at fucking up people who crossed you? The man he was now chuckled and took another slug of liquor, grateful that it was starting to numb his mouth.

"Might be an idea," he conceded, patting the rough, dented head of the mace he'd been using for years, "Might send a better message, eh? People see a man using a mace, they think his mind's about as sharp as one. A sword, however..."

It would have been nice to keep tossing forth tips and opinions for the rest of the night. Shoot the shyke about this blade or that fight or those styles that just will not catch on. But that was not to be, and as Raen spoke for the last time, Nate's smile drained from his lips.

"And what about you? Live in this pisspot since you were born? And why the dog? Most would rather their beasts a bit more rabid, or exotic. And many more don't have the patience to take care of the damn things, myself included. Go through enough trouble to put food on my own table."

Nate did not take long to comport himself, but it still wasn't much fun to talk about. Raen would see, if he looked, that his one visible eye never touched the smile on his face, never twinkled when he chuckled or snorted. Pain flared there, still raw and bleeding even after many days. Sensing her master's discomfort in that infallibly intangible way all animals possess, Jorka padded over and nudged her broad head under his hand.

"No, I was, ah... born to the west. I think. Zeltiva, maybe. Slavers got me when I was a sprat. Escaped on the way." A brief pause, but a pause nonetheless. Nate sometimes wondered about his parents, his sister, the mother that forced him to leave that cage they were being transported in when they got the chance. But how much love could one have for people you barely remembered? "Family didn't. Lady who... who used to live here, she took me in. Heh... I was breaking into the place, looking for food. She clouted me with a frying pan and when I woke up, she had food for me. I took it, ran... came back the next day."

The words spilled without rhyme, without a dam, roaring and rushing as if down a steep hill. Nate stared into Jorka's placid canine eyes as he spoke, finally catching himself before he got the the part that made his throat seize and his jaw tighten, lest his face began to crumple.

A grim, bitter smile would tell Raen all he would need to know about where this woman was now.

"And Jorka, here... she's all I have left of her. That and a fiddle somewhere I can't play for shyke. She's worth the scraps. Worth the howling on the nights there's fireworks or street music..."

His voice petered out to nothing and Nate realized it a little late, like he was a spectator at his own body. He breathed in quickly and forced a bright, tight smile on his face.

"But, ah... I might be leaving soon, myself. The Berth has... run its course for me, I think. Big world out there. I'd like to see it before Dira finally calls in my tab. Anyway, these... worthy gentlemen that we ran into tonight-"

That's it, give him a laugh. Best way to change the subject.

"-what did they do? Who're you bringing them to? Or is it against the rules for you to say or something...?"

[Raenetyr Verogane]

The large bounty hunter let a grin tug at the corner of his lips, as he imagined the gargantuan man before him dressed in full Syliran plate. Gods, they'd barely found a set big enough for himself. He sighed quietly, and his eyes shifted to a different place; a recollection so vivid that it could have been happening right then and there. He saw the squires, as they fastened straps and hoisted hefty steel into place, felt the irrepressible smile that had come to the lips of a much younger man- Enough. That might as well have been a dream, for all that's changed since then. A lifetime ago, a memory that isn't yours, and a man long dead. Yes, it's better that you think of it like that.

Raenetyr looked up slowly, his arms folded and his back against the chair, and saw that he wasn't the only one reliving tender moments.

"No, I was, ah... born to the west. I think. Zeltiva, maybe. Slavers got me when I was a sprat. Escaped on the way. Family didn't. Lady who... who used to live here, she took me in. Heh... I was breaking into the place, looking for food. She clouted me with a frying pan and when I woke up, she had food for me. I took it, ran... came back the next day."

The prizefighter's posture changed as he spoke. His massive shoulders sank lower, and his bandaged face turned to the floor. His voice changed, too; the rough and veridical way of Sunberthian speech that allowed someone to distance and shroud themselves from others had fallen, like a heavy curtain cut from its hanging rod. His words came forth rapidly, as if he needed to flush them out, put them in the open. And then he stopped talking, and Raenetyr saw all that he needed to in the man's clenched jaws and his thin-lipped grimace. The bounty hunter looked into the dark recesses of the adjacent room once more, and understood. Well, explains why there's a bed out here.

Raenetyr took another swig from his traveling skin, then. He had an itching feeling that it would be in need of refilling by the time he had left, and he frowned, partly at the loss of alcohol and partly at the sour drink itself. His hard stare slowly turned down to his muddied boots and his bloodstained trousers. Hadn't been the night he was expecting, he thought, as the colossal brawler began talking about the damn mutt. Then Raenetyr glanced up as he heard the man's voice flicker, like a dying candle. He noticed, too, and smiled thinly at the bounty hunter.

"But, ah... I might be leaving soon, myself. The Berth has... run its course for me, I think. Big world out there. I'd like to see it before Dira finally calls in my tab."

So there it was, the card that the fighter had been playing close to his chest. Made sense, really; If people found out someone was booking it, things could go... well, not so smoothly. Especially if there were still unpaid debts.

"Berth ran its course the day I fuckin' ended up in it."

So, why the fuck did you stay? There was nothing left here, never was. This was just the end of the road. Then again, there's nothing left for you out there, either. Thought you deserved it, maybe? Spent the days, months, years, drinking yourself senseless over the whole thing? Yeah, maybe that was it. Or were you waiting to die? Hoping that some drunk bastard would give you a dishonorable end in some shit-smeared alley, put you out of your fuckin' misery.

Raenetyr drained the rest of the wineskin, the pouch visibly deflating until the last few drops of the burgundy liquid disappeared down his greedy gullet. "Guess I just never had coin nor reason to break camp." The bounty hunter sighed, wiping several strands of loose hair out of his craggy face.

"Anyway, these... worthy gentlemen that we ran into tonight-what did they do? Who're you bringing them to? Or is it against the rules for you to say or something...?"

Raenetyr chuckled wryly as he tied the empty skin to his belt. The very idea that discretion could exist in this wretched pisspot was unthinkable. Sure, it was urged, especially by the paranoid gangs, that twitched at their own shadows. But the bounty hunter's only liege lord was the gold-rimmed. If someone was willing to pay to hear him talk, then he'd tell them what they wanted to hear. No one had ever come after him for it yet; not many were keen about trying their luck against the large and grizzled man, especially not over a couple of sentences.

"They angered people, is what they did, which isn't really a trespass in Sunberth. 'Cept they crossed the wrong people. The one you crippled had a penchant for raping newcomers before slashing their throats. Which worked out fine, at least while his prey consisted of fresh fish- Svefra, right off the boat- and other unfortunates that no one gave a shit about. Then he started targeting slave girls. Well, that doesn't help business. Slavers didn't like seeing their income bled out on their doorsteps."

Raenetyr then looked out the window and stood up, one hand held on the pommel of his blade. "And neither do I. Didn't see how much time had gone. Have to make sure that prick makes it to the Row alive. At least long enough for my employers to impart their... lesson." He grimaced a fraction at that, though it didn't seem to halt him in the slightest. He nodded his thanks, for the talk and booze. But something stopped him at the door. He cursed himself inwardly, but felt rooted to the spot. Oh, for fuck's sake. When was the last time you tried to make friends? When was the last time you even reached out to someone? And whore's don't petching count.

"Listen," He said, forcing the words out in his gravelly and brusque voice. "You ever need a... a helping hand, or the like, I'm close. Live in Sunset too, though you'd be better off looking for me in one of the taverns nearby." He groaned inwardly, one hand on the doorknob, the other at his side. You really are a wordsmith, aren't you? Bet his flea-bitten dog could string a sentence better.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

Nate's lip curled as Raen recounted his tale... the one about the slavers, anyway. His simple, one-sentence opinion of Sunberth, he had heard many times before. Only the mad, desperate or irrevocably bloody actually planned to come to that city; the rest ran there because it was the biggest blind spot in the world. Syliran Knights, Nuit warlocks, Akalak warriors, Enonstryfe assassins... they all knew that to plunge into Sunberth after their quarry was akin to leaping into a shark pool.

The big man listened intently to the rest. Slavers... the most evil of Sunberth's necessities. As one who still felt the clamping cold of shackles on his wrists during his most fevered nights, Nate held a simmering contempt for all those that sold souls like others would sheep. But without the millions the trade bought in, Sunberth would starve to death or rip itself apart. Nate had even worked for them, on occasion... as long as he was hunting rivals, not stock.

The grin that followed was an odd one. No friend to slavers was Nate, but violators of women... oh, he had a rare and personal hate for them. He knew and had seen what the flesh-traders of Slavers Row did to those who spoiled their stock: the lamp posts there were always liberally festooned with body parts, entrails, heads and often entire eviscerated cadavers. It did his heart good to know that soon, Goatee would be joining them.

Then, another surprise. As Raen got up to leave - and Nate grid to rise, too, with almost comic effort - there was another spark of grudging respect in the towering hunter'a voice. A helping hand? Did such a thing even exist anymore?

Nate wasn't sure... but he offered his own to Raen anyway, wincing as his sore arm extended all the way. Through his one good eye he sought to catch the big man's gaze, giving him a slow nod.

"Nathaniel. Nathaniel Ankah. Most folk just call me Nate... in case you're ever looking for me and I'm not here." He broke their handshake and didn't stand on ceremony... or the floor, for that matter. He just collapsed back into his chair, drained and dreary of his weary body, raising a half in a lazy, half-satirical salute. "Good fortune to you... blunter hunter..."

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Raenetyr Verogane stood still for a long moment, as the larger man offered him his beefy hand. For a split second, he had anticipated a threat; the grimy streets of this city gave its inhabitants plenty of cause to feel wary when their personal space was invaded. Then he realized, just a gesture of companionship, and mentally berated himself. Gods, quit acting like a frightened hen; you almost flinched at a petching handshake. Goes to show how long it's been since you actually met someone you felt safe turning your back to. Emphasis on felt; certainty was fatal in this shithole.

The bounty hunter gripped the prizefighter by the forearm, calloused fingers positioned carefully to avoid the ugly bruises that blossomed like discolored patchwork across the giant's skin. He met the brawler's single-eyed gaze and returned the nod; the general feeling of the exchange was one of wary respect, and Raenetyr noticed the larger man's dog rest its head, ears lowering as it saw the absence of a threat.

"Nathaniel. Nathaniel Ankah. Most folk just call me Nate... in case you're ever looking for me and I'm not here."

Ahh, there we go. Would have been a bit strange, to have left before even learning the name of the man he had saved. Careless, too; especially after all of the information he had relinquished. Either way, he appreciated the gesture. Things were looking up; maybe now he'd finally have someone to watch his back. It was a comforting thought, almost too good to be true, and it evoked a strange and unnatural feeling... relief? Reassurance?

"Good fortune to you... blunter hunter..."

Raenetyr let a gruff chuckle escape from his thin lips, as Nate folded back down like a gargantuan tent. The bounty hunter opened the door, decided to leave the man to it; he'd need a lot of rest, with the hiding he'd received. The large man, now just a silhouetted figure in the doorway, returned the salute in an informal Syliran fashion. As he turned and stepped out into the filth-caked street, his grin quickly faded and was replaced by his usual, taciturn scowl. It was time to bring in the bounty. It was a lot like rounding up cattle for the slaughterhouse; at least, that's what he told himself. A bit more touch-and-go, naturally; and the sight of the large and grizzled man carrying bodies over his shoulder, like sacks of meat, always drew stares. Not to mention the fact that the butchers of the markets would usually wait until the cow was dead before they began carving.

Raenetyr sighed and rolled his shoulders, preparing himself for the next bell or so. He had no doubt that he'd have to stay for at least part of the rapist's "lesson", while they sorted out his payment. He steeled himself for what lay ahead grimly; it was always one of the worst parts of the hunt. But the bread wouldn't buy itself, he reasoned, and so he waded through the muck and detritus of the bustling hive of sin.

[Vanari]

Ello, once both of you have updated your ledgers to reflect seasonal expenses, feel free to PM me and I will happily post your grades!

Cheers!