Exploits

[Sharps Lashscore]

He hit the streets at a bristling pace, the beleaguered man had skirted his head upwards; eyes roiling bitterly as he discovered his pockets a touch lighter. "Come back here, you petching fool!"

But Sharps ignored him, more'n willing to weave out o' the vale of arrows zipping at him. A few bit into the right leg of a pedestrian; he honked a sound and puckered his lips weakly; the feminine wimpiness radiating off him. Sharps rattled in his pockets, and hurled an empty ale glass at the heartless shooter. It shattered into his not-so-symmetrical face and he settled for tottering towards Sharps; who had turned abruptly into a derelict, narrow alleyway.

Water sparkling from the yawning, beautiful towers... a few cuts dribbling their bad blood down Sharps' pursuer's face. Emilio was his name, but Sharps didn't petching know that... he was too stupid cursed with blood rumbling through his thick-headed skull like rapturous thunder. Arrows were mercilessly flirting at his collarbone, his neck., teasing his adam's apple, scoring a hearty punch into his leg now before he ducked into an open windowsill (but no, it wasn't open... that would be too easy); it shattered and showered it's magnolia colored pieces everywhere.

(Will continue once I get back, petch!)

[Sharps Lashscore]

There were a few blue skins with arrows poking out of their blood-boiling eyes... fresh arrows streaking across the blue, bird-trilling sky. Emilio rounded the corner, and loosed a hail of arrows that tore through a few indolents who happened to peek their fear-tangled heads out.

Sharps caught flecks of splitted skull and red shimmering jelly, with his face and beard teeming with the undesirables deadness... he let out a fierce way-cry; stubbornly deflected an oncoming arrow that could of fatally tongued him in the eye.

He gave a few ill-advised tumbles (which miraculously confused the hell out of Emilio) and took a few ring-encrusted fingers off in a blood-high arc.

Emilio barked a few intolerable-sounding words, "You are going to pay for those rings, petch!" Sharps found it odd this was the first thought springing to mind in a man who just lost his fingers and a thumb (how could he ever fire that magically target-finding bow, again?)...

"Eh, it is art, is it not?" Sharps smirked, walking abreast of a few men sobbing and bopping at his chest desperately imbetween asking was a few gold really bloody worth it?

Emilio coldly worked his mouth, "It is not... And I have just the faintest inkling chasing an artform is the least likely exploit of yours, barbarous foreigner."

"I wouldn't want ta get all tangled in overcompensatin'." Sharps shrugged with his weightily-lidded eyes, greatsword stained to a magnificent shine; and an incalculable look of irritability on his weathered face.

Sharps' strides somehow enigmatically purpose-filled and wayward, leaving the man behind to become a caricature of neglect; and watch the blood slowly fountain from his new-found nubs.

The only thing keeping Emilio company was the foreboding whistling wind closing in around him the unfortunate and the considerably more unfortunate swept around him like a grimy, common criminal's rug. He almost caught himself saying you have to be optimistic, but he had never been that optimistic.

The sky looked like it had gotten snagged on a pen-knife, all of the altruism squeezed out of it and only toil and its invariably-fitting cousin; Hatred.

Sharps knew well on that account, his hatred was as keen as his weariness, and it remained unadulterated and waiting. He would not neglect even the smallest hindrance impeding the smallest dose of vengeance.

Seething red drooping from the sky, patches of dominating purple, shafts of lonesome blue catching the commanding tides of the swelling waves.