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Center of scholarly knowledge and shipwrighting, Zeltiva is a port city unlike any other in Mizahar. [Lore]

[East Street]What Will We Do With a Drunken Sailor?

Postby Azrayel Kolasi on September 14th, 2015, 9:39 pm


15th of Fall, 515 AV
Zeltiva, The Kelp Bar
Almost the 22nd Bell

Not for the first time, Azrayel found himself staring into the bottom of an empty tankard. As he lowered it back down to the bar and stared at it with sadness he moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth, savoring the salty, bottom-of-a-fish-barrel residue that now clung to the inside of his mouth. That was the lovely thing about Kelp Beer - other than how cheap it was - every mug tasted better than the last. The thought made him giddy and he chuckled, nearly falling out of his stool.

”Alright, Kolasi, I think ye’ve had enough fer tonight.” As he stared at the ceiling, her heard the exasperated voice of the resident serving wench.

Azrayel pulled himself back up to an upright position, staring at the ageing server as she took his empty mug, beginning to idly clean it with a rag that looked like it was previously used to clean out a latrine. She might’ve been pretty once; her auburn hair fell about her face and shoulders in lustrious, silver-streaked locks. Hell, a few more tankards and he could imagine her beginning to look real, real pretty.

”You don’t….Listen to me, here. The night is young, and it is improper… and unprofessional…”

Azrayel watched heartbroken as she rolled her eyes and walked away, leaving him dryer than a bone fish. He sighed, and took out his purse from his pocket, counting out a few coins onto the bar.

How many did I have…? Five? Six?

Azrayel glanced up at the weathered sign. Half-Nilo a Tankard? So…. One half of… Minus the… Carry the...

”Bah, petch it.” He slapped give Gold Miza’s on the counter. She could use the extra coin anyways. Briefly feeling pleased with himself, he turned in his stool, scanning the rest of the room idly.

It was a typical night at The Kelp Bar. The patrons were rowdy, but not any more so than usual. Slurred voices raised high in merriment, and rang out with old pre-valterrian folksongs and sea shanties new and old. Azrayel hummed along, turning his head as a particularly stocky trio of sailor types at a nearby table proudly filled the ramshackle building with one such tune. Their voices rose and fell in an inebriated crescendo. and words got slurred and skipped over, but with three of them singing in unison, the words came through regardless:

Goodbye Sweet Lady of Zeltiva,
Way Hey, Sweet Lady of mine,,
Oh I’ll see her again, yes, I’ll see her again,
Way Hey, sweet lady so fine,

Somewhere she stands still waiting,
Way Hey, fair lady divine,
Yes she waits for me still, yes she waits for me still,
Way Hey, sweet lady so fine.


Azrayel reached for his tankard, pawing indignantly at the bar when he felt nothing. The words stirred about in his mind, and he sighed, resting his head on the bar. They spoke of things that eluded Azrayel; He was a man who had become a stranger in his own city. Alastair had been the last of his friends that had drifted out of the city. He no longer could face his parents. So drank alone. He grumbled as he sat up, trying to get the attention of the serving wench as he heard the sailors begin to wind up for another few verses.

Makes my heart yearn for home,
Way Hey, my lady so sweet,
Think of you still, yes I think of you still,
Way Hey, my lady unique.

Returning to you shortly,
Way Hey, my beautiful bride,
Stay on the shore, aye I’ll stay on the shore,
Way Hey, lady at my side.


Azrayel pushed away from the bar, taking several haphazard stumbles toward the table where they were singing. Just so sick of it… He very nearly collapsed onto their table, knocking two tankards over - one of the sailors getting drenched in the malodorous green concoction. They all abruptly stopped singing and stood up, letting out several surprised expletives.

”Petching hell! What’re you on, pisshead?”

He pushed back from the table, falling back a step. The world pitched and lurched to the side, and he threw out a hand, bracing himself on one of the buildings rickety support beams. He felt his stomach rolling forward slowly in his stomach and he held a hand over his mouth, letting out a hearty chuckle, relieved at least that the sardonic singing had ceased. Looking back to the table of perturbed sailors, he began to slowly clap.

”You fella’s got real talent…Should be paying you fer the entertainment.” Azrayel finished the thought by pointing at one of the sailors, now coated in sticky slime that smelled of week old, sun-ripened caviar. ”Escpeshially you. You were brilliant.”

The man pointed back in response. ”Oi, you got me filthy mate!”

Azrayel stumbled back up to the edge of their table, grinning. ”Least you don’t smell as bad as yer mother.” Tired of thinking...

At this point, the three muscle-bound seamen had gotten uncomfortably close to him, boxing Azrayel in from all sides. The constant inebriated roar of small talk in the background began to simmer into a dull murmur.

”Nobody petches about with my mum, right, boys?” The other two nodded in unision.

Just make it stop. ”Really? Aint what she told me outside The Loveless last-”

The air resonated with a flat-packing thud as Azrayel’s head whipped back, stumbling and nearly falling over, narrowly catching himself on the bar - and nearly knocking someone out of their stool in the process. ”Hnng… Sorry about that miss.” The man's fist had hit him like a cannon, and the floor beneath him seemed to tilt and whirr. He dabbed at his lip, wincing and coming up with blood on his fingertips.

The two cleaner gentleman chuckled, as the sailor who hit him took a swaggering step toward him, beckoning. ”C’mon then, funny guy! If you’ve got anymore jokes, I’d love to hear-”

Azrayel was on him in a moment, his entire body lunging forward behind his fist. The hook tore into the sailors jaw, and before he could topple from the blow, he had the guy by shirt. ”Yeah, He paused, pulling down on the guy’s shirt, he cocked a fist back as far as he could.”You hit like a girl!

The other two quickly were on him, each grabbing a separate arm and pulling them apart. The third man, rubbing his jaw from the hit, walked towards him casually.

”Well, we’ll hafta see about that, mate.” The sailor’s face spread into a toothy grin as he pressed his fist against his palm, his knuckles letting out an audible pop.

Well, Azrayel clenched his jaw tightly. This is gonna hurt…
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[East Street]What Will We Do With a Drunken Sailor?

Postby Fallon on September 19th, 2015, 6:00 pm

Image

Fallon peered over the rim of her tumbler, feeling the distinct bitter taste of some pungent alcohol upon her tongue. It was not her usual preferred gut rot but a different tasting one, leaving a particularly oily taste in the back of her mouth. She suspected it was some strange Zeltivan concoction made with the help of kelp or fish, but with only the taste and the remains of the dark brown-green to go by she simply shrugged and returned her attention to her surroundings. Ignoring the overall distance between home and this bar there was some form of comfort she found in it, the lower class, the level of darkness that came from behind the doors in East Street. There was the lingering sensation of Sunberth here without the near constant threat of being stabbed in the back at any given moment.

The Kelp Bar attracted all sorts of faces from all different walks of life, shaped by work and the elements of the bay. The gaze shifted, spying out the sailors who seemed to be enjoying themselves for the moment, and then over towards another pair - women this time with their coats close around them. Her eyes blinked as she caught a slither of brighter, bolder colours from beneath the dull exterior, before she forced her gaze to shift away. Prostitutes, perhaps? It would make sense considering the other establishments in the area - Touchy and the Clam. It made her wonder briefly if there was others within this district, unknown or not working beneath these names before she nudged the idea to one side. Contacts would be useful, but there was a time and place for considerations of such.

Her eyes flickered, moving to the staff that milled about. The tavern keep looked more tired of late, the dark bags beneath his eyes as he repeated the movements of tending and cleaning the bar. Her orbs moved again, this time settling onto the barmaid as she served one of the more drunken individuals. She did not gain much of a good look beyond the dark curls and the slight slurring of speech escaping - until the server simply shook her head. She gave a cock of her thumb to him, the creasing of a scowl upon her face as she mouthed to the bar keep; "He's pissed as a rat".

A smirk curled up from around the corners as she watched the same man stagger up to his feet, the noise akin to a strangled cat cawing out at the crowd. She could hear the snorts of disgust from the other onlookers, the mutter of jeers from patrons who preferred the hum of voices than song. Her gaze moved again, ears straining and she watched with care - where was he? What was his position? Last thing she needed was some drunken letch being all over her and disrupting her process of thought. Lifting her drink she took another sip, ears straining to the conversations going around the bar.

"Wish he'd just shut up."
"You heard about Jim?"
"Say, gotten cool lately-"
"Go on, down it! Down it!"
Ears strained, hearing the clunk and complaints of sailors slice through it all. Staggering, she could see the drunk singer be weighed up against them, gathering round and surrounding. She heard the clink of bottle and tankards behind her, the sound of the tender attempting to protect his goods from a sensed destruction. Fallon felt her free hand twitch, her eyes lowering down in an attempt to remind herself on what was on her person. The kukri for combat, the collection of her usual tools hanging from the belt. The thumb rested on the top of the leather, shifting and moving away until it came to rest. Another sip, a gloved hand rested on the kukri pommel eyes sliding to the audible crack of knuckles meeting flesh and the crash of wood and drinks.

An exchange, or an attempted one, of fists, another crunch as the bodies of the others moved from the immediate vicinity. Jeers, she heard them with the snarls of annoyance from the sailors as they begun to make their moves against the flailing weaker body. Fallon placed a foot firmly upon the floor, a lean forward on her stool, the muscles tensing - springing, ready to move into action on the chance it came her way. She did not want to get herself ensnared too much in any potential trouble - more issue that it was worth. The bartender gave a mutter, "Great. Going ta wreck the joint aren't they?"
"Seems like it,"
muttered one of the servers, "Petching hai. Think we should get the guard?"
"No. Wait a few chimes. Might be a quick one. Hopefully."
FALLON
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Fallon is a Master of Intimidation, "At this level, a Master intimidator often unconsciously intimidates their target unless the intimidator monitors their stance, tone, and actions to prevent this. Master intimidators will nearly always have a reputation that precedes them unless they have taken special care to prevent it."
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[East Street]What Will We Do With a Drunken Sailor?

Postby Azrayel Kolasi on September 20th, 2015, 8:49 pm


THWAMP!

The world exploded into static hues of yellow and red as Azrayel’s head whipped backwards with the force of the blow. His knees buckled as his will to keep standing quickly evaporated, but the men at his sides held steady to his arms, keeping him suspended there as the third sailor grabbed a handful of Azrayel’s hair to steady him.

”Not so sodding smart now, are ya?”

Being forced into eye contact with the man, Azrayel gave him a sneery response.
”Still smarter’n you, mate.” He regretted the words almost before they had even finished leaving his mouth.

SHWAP! The sardonic, flat, clapping sound of another hit echoed across the room. Azrayel felt his lip tear open, one of the men holding him getting a light speckling of crimson across his face.

”Oi, mate! You bled him all over me!” The big muscle-bound sailor squirmed as he held onto Azrayel’s arm, his lips curling back like he had found a rat in his dinner.

”Well he covered me brine-rot! I’m not gonna be able to…"

Their voices faded into the background. Azrayel’s eyes scanned the room idly. It was all he could really do, suspended there, with his assailants bickering inanely. Distantly, some part of him wanted to struggle - to use their temporary lapse of focus on him to try and wriggle free. But his body felt heavy; his mind felt heavier still. So he settled for studying the room, noting the varied spectators. Their faces were almost universally lit up with a combination of irritation and amusement, in varying combinations of both. The only one who really looked concerned was the server. More worried about the place gettin’ smashed up than any of us, I bet…

And The girl seated near the server. She seemed to be about his age, and was watching with more intent than most in the room. He considered her for a moment. His eyes caught the glint of of a weapon refracting the light from a nearby torch, hanging somewhere off her waist. She had shifted ever so slightly, and Azrayel recognized the posture she had struck; although whether she was poised to attack or to flee eluded his observation.

The world spun and darkened as the sailors knuckles dug into his cheek. He could feel the blood trickling down his face as he went limp in the hands that held him like iron shackles. Are they at least gonna stop hittin’ me when I pass out? Azrayel contemplated not waking up tomorrow morning. It didn’t disturb him. At least, not as much as he was disturbed by the fact that it didn’t disturb him. S’pose everybody's gotta die sometime… Azrayel chuckled almost inaudibly, staring at the ceiling. Punched to death by drunken idiot? Not exactly epic poem stuff…

The salty stench of sun-decayed salmon and seaweed invaded Azrayel’s nostrils. His attacker
was right in his face now, baring his teeth at him, noxious breath passing across his face. ”I’ll give you somethin’ to laugh about.”

Azrayel gasped violently as the sailor slammed a knee into his guts. ”You aint even got no business bein’ in here, boy!” He forced Azrayel upright by his hair, leering at him. ”This bar’s fer seamen, not unemployed street trash!” He forced Azrayel back down, lifting another knee to greet him, hammering the wind out of him.

The floor was rocking and tilting as if the entire bar were at sea. Azrayel’s eyes shut tightly as he fought to catch his breath. Street trash, huh… He felt a great magnitude more sober now as the sailors words swam around in his skull. His thoughts still felt heavy, clearer now. He slowly brought himself back to a full standing position, hissing words through clenched teeth. ”Oh yeah…” As he spoke, his right hand was beginning to flex, rapidly creating and dismissing fists. The veins in his arm had begin to grow tense, pressing against the inside of his skin as tightened and released the muscles. ”Trapped in a small space for weeks at a time…” He spoke in a deliberately long, drawn out voice, lingering on each syllable as long as he could. It was a dangerous thing, magic, likely moreso under the influence of intoxicants. He didn’t care, though. His brows were furled and his lips twisted into a snarl. ”With a bunch of other men, each smellier than the last… paradise for blokes like you, eh?”

He saw darkness cross the sailor’s faces. The one in front of him grabbed onto Azrayel’s hair again, much tighter this time. ”Mind repeating that, mate?”

It was a strange sensation, feeling the djed as it concentrated in his arm. It was as if the arm grew heavier, but lighter at the same time. It was straining his concentration, but the constant flexing of his arm helped. He imagined it like the beating rhythm of his heart; each flex of the muscles pulling energy from the rest of his body, flowing through the neural pathways like blood in his veins. ”Yeah, listen up...” Azrayel spoke almost in a whisper, and it drew hit attackers in ever so closer.

Tingling and pulsing with energy, he ripped his arm straight from the grasp of the man on his right, and dug it into the sailors side with a thunderous hook. He released Azrayel’s hair and stumbled backwards, letting out gasping wheeze that was likely a mixture of shock and pain. Before the other two had time to process what had just happened Azrayel was already moving, using the same arm to grab the head of the man who still held him, and drove it down into a nearby table, several splinters peppering the ground as the man collapsed.

The third, and only one still on his feet, stared at Azrayel mouth half agape. ”...How in the hell?”

”Guess I’m stronger than I look, mate…” He responded in a hoarse voice, tentatively standing fully upright, and finding his balance as he rested his left hand on his right arm.
He didn’t like possibly outing himself as a Flux mage in such a public sphere, and prayed that no one had really been paying attention to what had just transpired. He winced as he gently cradled his right arm. The whole thing was numb, and lines of pain shot up and down the like tiny needles being jabbed into him only to be yanked out again. Probably overdid it a touch…. That’s gonna hurt in the morning…

The one he had tagged in the guts was standing up again, although still was doubled over. The other was still on the ground, his face splattered with blood and splinters. Azrayel kneeled by him, and touched a hand on his chest. Still breathing. Good… He looked up, and the other two were already glaring at him.

”I dunno what you’re playing at mate…” One of them spoke while retrieving a skinning knife from his boot. The other grabbed a longsword which had been sitting up against his seat at the table and drew it from its sheath. At this point, the entire bar fell absolutely silent. ”But you’re dead.”

Azrayel stood, listing a step backwards before regaining his balance. His right arm had regained a little bit of feeling, but was still hanging weakly at his side. His left hand rested on the hilt of his cutlass. I’m not a left handed swordsman… Hell, I’m barely a right handed swordsman… He glanced at the exit of the bar. An escape would require running right through the range of the guy’s longsword - more of a feat than he was willing to attempt, given his level of inebriation.

He grinned sheepishly at the sailors, and grabbed an empty tankard off the bar from behind with his right hand. ”C’mon lads!” He lifted the cup toward them. ”Can’t we settle this over a few pints? My treat!”

The two were already advancing on him, his words bouncing off them uselessly as their lips curled back to bare their teeth at him. Their weapons gleamed off the soft light in the room, and Azrayel felt his chest tighten as he backed up against the bar. Helplessly, he fumbled with his sword hilt with his off-hand, his fingers trembling with panicked inexperience.
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[East Street]What Will We Do With a Drunken Sailor?

Postby Fallon on September 27th, 2015, 8:56 am

Image

The beat down continued, her orbs flickering around the various bodies involved. It seemed to be little more than the acts of bullying, the picking on the weak beneath them. A sense of obtaining superiority within the disappointing life that was being led. Her off hand took to the remains of her drink, a lift to her lips as she downed the rest of the contents swiftly - caring not to focus on the taste but more wishing to obtain what she paid for. And maybe also to instil some form of fake courage. A firm blink as she gave a shake of the head, her eyes returning to the potential hazard that was growing. Fluidity, she heard the crunch of the body as it slammed onto the floor, the momentarily blip in time as the rolled gazed looked around the room in an attempt to focus on something in the middle of his brawling. Or, to work past the pain that was still being brutally unleashed onto him.

The tavern by now had been reduced down to silence, the beating punches being the only audible sound. Perhaps it was due to the level of brutality that the Zeltivans were left to simply watch, body limp in the case that they would find themselves dragged in. A gargle of words spat between the combatants, the deep inhale of breath as Fallon cleansed the air in her lungs as the world seemed to give pause and the combatants gave a stand against each other. Speed, it was fast - too fast. Fallon's eyes narrowed, a faint groan of wood of her stool as she stood. The tables turned quickly, too quickly, enough to make her skin prickle as the sailor in response spoke the words that were going through her own mind.

If there was such an ability, then why did he hold back until now? Was it a ruse to push them into reaction? He was staggering earlier, clearly intoxicated, yet now had managed to sober up enough to not only be coherent but to fight back? No, something was not right - and there was enough witnesses about to help her confirm her thoughts. Yet here he was, a brag crawling out from his lips as Fallon moved, dipping behind a watching table and patrons. Her fingers curled tighter around the kukri hilt, her low mumble of voices from the table. Strength, stronger than before with strange reactions, he was clinging to his arm in a sense of discomfort; projection perhaps? She continued the slow walk around, looking at the limpness in the arm - but he had swung with it, a punch, something else then? She caught the glimpse of one of the sailors rise back up from his pounding, the two spitting out their threats. It was with a look back to the bar keep that Fallon, mouthed at him "Get the Waveguard. Now."

She moved herself in and around, picking out where the backs were, exploit the opportunity to calm them down or put herself in a position of control. And then there was a blade drawn. A gasp of the crowd, she could hear the once silence go to that of panic. She needed to move, she needed to act before things got out of hand. Stupid, all of it. She exhaled, shoulders rolling back, her form squaring up. The persona of Bitzer trembled, rising up from her core and into her mind, the lips peeling back to reveal a wolfish smile. Right round now to the back of the sailors, continuing on their advancement. With an exhale she moved, a click of the kukri as she pulled it the needed half inch forward.

The left hand came clapping forward, the gloved hand curling firmly into the shoulder of the sailor. She could feel the entire flinch of the body then, the gaze to look back at what touched him, only to have her stare back. Cold, calculated, the wolfish growl rumbling from her throat as she took a long hard look at him, "You've had enough, don't you think so?" The hand tensed, squeezing a little as she held her ground, "Being nothing than a bully. So, why don't you sit down and forget about this dead horse flogging?"
FALLON
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Fallon is a Master of Intimidation, "At this level, a Master intimidator often unconsciously intimidates their target unless the intimidator monitors their stance, tone, and actions to prevent this. Master intimidators will nearly always have a reputation that precedes them unless they have taken special care to prevent it."
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[East Street]What Will We Do With a Drunken Sailor?

Postby Azrayel Kolasi on September 28th, 2015, 11:57 pm


Azrayel’s eyes had caught movement - the outline of a girl, against the near total stillness of the other patrons in his peripherals. One of his attackers froze dead in his tracks, turning to find himself face to face with her predatorial eyes; despite being larger than her by an order of magnitude, the Sailor actually looked frightened. ”Uh… What? Who’re…” The Sailor spoke with wavering certainty, and Azrayel almost felt a little bit of sympathy for him.

Or he would have, had he the time. The other Sailor, still blindly charging forward and unaware that the man that was ostensibly his pack leader had been waylaid, drove his crude little blade toward Azrayel haphazardly in a drunken stumble. Instinct took hold, and Azrayel leaned back into the bartop, his left hand bracing on it as he half-vaulted, half slid across the top of it, knocking several drinks over in the process - and narrowly avoiding the long slash of the knife.

The other had noted the gleam of Fallon’s weapon, the threatening cadence of her voice, and turned his head to his comrade in a panick. ”Samuel!” He shouted after him, lowering his longsword in a gesture of submission. ”Knock it off, you tosser!”

It was too late. He already lunging across the bar after Azrayel, driving the tip of his knife towards him yet again. Azrayel stumbled to the right, nearly colliding with the server, and then as best he could with only one arm, hopped back over the bartop - and this time, as he did, delivered a knee into the Sailor’s face, who was still sitting with his body half extended over the bar. Keeling backwards from the force of the impact, the Sailor grabbed at his face in agony as his nose leaked sanguine into his palms.

”This’un’s for the three-on-one beatdown, petch-head!” Azrayel blurted out in an inebriated slush of constants before grabbing the wrist that held the man’s crude weapon, and then tucking a leg behind the Sailor, slammed his full body weight into the guy, forcing them both to the ground. The dagger slid across the floor, and came to a stop against the leg of a stool, harmlessly.

All was still for a moment, and as Azrayel slowly stood back up, he nearly fell flat on his face with the effort. He looked at Fallon, and the Sailor she had accosted, shaking his head to try and force a little bit of sobriety into his thoughts. ”Is… Is it over, then?

Gently, the Sailor pulled back from Fallon’s hand, returning his weapon to the awaiting depths of its sheath. He seemed an awful lot more lucid now, with Fallon and the rest of the bar staring at him, and he moved past Azrayel, helping his comrade off the floor. He shot Azrayel a glare, before motioning toward the third man - still unconscious on the floor. Together, the two of them lifted him up by the arms.

”We wont cause no more trouble…” The Sailor’s voice was uncharacteristically apologetic, although it wasn’t entirely clear if it was directed at Fallon or the wench running the place.

”Jus’ get the hell out! And don’t even think about comin’ back anytime soon!” The server had moved toward them, waving her hands to usher the three of them out the front door. She leaned out to yell at them as they vanished from the establishment, ”And next time keep your sodding weapons in their petching holsters!”

With this, the tension in the air seemed to break, and the background choir of the bar built back to a crescendo. Still cradling his right arm, Azrayel moved toward Fallon in several staggering steps. He peered at her suspiciously, opening his mouth to speak. ”So, what-”

He was interrupted by a crass bark from the server, who was now standing next to Fallon, shaking her head at Azrayel. ”Ye gods, Kolasi, you really oughta learn when ta shut up.”

Azrayel looked at her, then back to Fallon, then back to the server, rubbing at his forehead as he felt his cheeks burning. ”Erm...Aye. That uh… That got a bit outta hand… I’ll pay for the-”

She raised a hand to cut him off, shaking her head somberly. ”Nothin’ really broke. Table’s a bit dinged up, but… You overpaid fer yer drinks, again, So we’ll just call it a night for now.” She let out an exasperated sigh, and looked at Fallon, giving her an appreciative nod.”I’m gettin’ too old for this nonsense…” She mumbled to herself as she slipped past them, and set about cleaning up the mess.

Azrayel watched her walk past, then turned back to Fallon. He had wanted to ask her something, but couldn’t quite remember what it was. There was too much going through his mind all at once. Namely, the stinging pain in his face. He reached up, gently touching his fingers to his lip and wincing. Still looking at Fallon, he did his best to manage a smile.

”Well, uhhm…Thank her. She just saved your pathetic hide. ”That was, uhh…” He cleared his throat, shifting his eyes to the floor as he rubbed at the back of his neck. At last, he carefully extended his right hand to her - his arm trembling with the effort. ”Uhh… Name’s Azrayel. Guess I owe you one!” He spoke with uncharacteristic joviality for someone who had just gotten the tar beaten out of them - likely a side-effect of the booze still coursing through his body - and gave her the best grin he could muster, his teeth marked with his own blood.
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