[Ionu's Wager] Cheating Pays (Belaya)

[Ulric]

The shingle gave a clap as it struck the ground. The few pursuers couldn’t do much but stare and shout. Ulric just gave them a grin, then spat over the edge before he turned back to the whelp. An arm shot out, grasping a shoulder to stop him from running. “He was cheating, not bluffing,” he spoke acidly. “I’d know, because I was cheating, too. The others were probably cheating, now that I give it some thought.” He cocked his head, lips curling back in a sneer. “Didn’t you know that everybody cheats? The problem was that his method of cheating was better than mine was. The problem was also that you decided to lend a hand. They might’ve just clapped him in irons for that, but once you get a mob worked up, they tend to want a few heads.” As he spoke, the Gasvik clambered over the edge of the roof. Ulric glanced at it for a moment, then heaved a sigh at the whelp. “I don’t suppose it matters any longer.” He gestured for the whelp to lead on. He wasn’t used to running around on roofs, but he figured it was about time he tried something new. That, and he wanted a finer vantage of the sunset. OOCSorry for the delay.

[Belaya Smert]

-double post

[Belaya Smert]

Luckily most of the roofs were flat, so the going was easy. Calling over his shoulder, Belaya said, "You never told me your name. Don't make me come up with a nickname, you won't like it."

Coming to a wide street, Belaya looked both ways to make sure that there wasn't a mob waiting to lynch both of them. Tying up a rope, he rappelled down the side of the building. He was about to yell to the other man to come on down when someone came up behind him and dashed his head into the wall of the building. Dazed but still standing, Belaya turned around and saw someone wearing a black trenchcoat over a leather jerkin, but he couldn't make out the face from under the hood. He had barely gotten his katana out when the strange man attacked him again, driving a punch at Belaya's head. Quickly ducking under the punch, he saw that the man was using a punching dagger. I can't let this guy too close, or else he'll easily gut me. What's taking that other guy so long anyways? Before Belaya could think of anything else, the man in the trenchcoat came at him again. He sliced down at the man's arm, taking it off below the hand, but immediately he felt something stab into his side. "Wha-" was all he managed to say before looking down at the dagger the man carried in his other hand covered in Belaya's blood, and then collapsed onto the street.

[Ulric]

“Ulric will do for now,” he grunted, and then they were moving across the shingled roofs. That was a rather new experience for him, though he swiftly observed that the chimeras did not cease when you were several dozen feet above the ground. There were gaping holes on some of the structures, covered with flames or a strange, shimmering pink substance. He tentatively probed the flames, found them deceptive, and continued following Belaya. The pink stuff he just went around. That color just made him nervous. Whenever he glanced over the city, he perceived a shifting cloud of fog, dappled with hundreds of hues. The lanes seemed to slither like a snake. He thought he saw the flicker of some huge, tentacled monster ripping a house from its moorings, but he just kept going. Eventually, the whelp decided they’d gone far enough. Ulric was eager to agree. Seeing the city from up high was making him nauseus, and even more disconcerted than usual. Perhaps a person could only cope with a finite quantity of illusion before they became overly paranoid. Belaya tied off his rope and began to clamber down, leaving Ulric to ponder on Ionu’s quite probable insanity. He wasn’t quite as swift a climber, though. He went down slowly, feeling the muscles of his back strain as he descended, thighs twisted around the rope so he could halt himself from plunging onto the cold, hard stones. By the time the whelp was on the ground, he wasn’t very far from the top. By the time the whelp got his face smashed into the wall, he hadn’t gotten much further. That was when he decided that caution could petch itself. “Desank, stop prancing around up there,” he growled, and slid down the rope, leather gloves keeping the coarse hemp from taking the skin off of his palms. He landed heavily. There was half of a hand on the ground, flanked by a punching dagger, and by then the whelp’s sword was clattering to the ground, his eyes rolling up into his head. The other man just stood there gaping at his stump for a moment. “Now that’s bothersome,” he remarked, which was enough to jerk the man from his stupor. The bloody dagger flashed through the air. Ulric scowled and drove a heavy boot into his groin. The man curled, so he kicked him in the face, sending him tumbling to the ground, where he lay in a daze. “Was that really necessary?” he asked. Kicking away the dagger, he stamped on the face again, felt the incisors snap under his foot. He stamped down again, saw a satisfying spurt of blood. And just for good measure, he snatched up the severed hand, which had stiffered around the punching dagger, and embedded it in the man’s chest. That was when he looked to the whelp. There was blood on the ground, and while he didn’t exactly feel like staying, he also felt as though he might regret leaving. “Desank, know anything about hot water and that shyke?” “Aweu adub oanfb faubgb,” snorted the Gasvik. “Oh, good,” Ulric sighed. He did his best, jerking open the whelp’s coat and jamming a wad of cloth against his wound. He only hoped that it staunched the bleeding, and that the thrust hadn’t struck any organs. “Hey, wake up,” he snarled, giving the whelp a ringing slap upside the head. Smack. “Wake up, damn you.” Smack, smack.

[Belaya Smert]

Belaya woke up to see a hand draw back intending to smack him in the head. He weakly drew up his hand to block the smack, but sighed in relief as the figure standing above him lowered his hand. Judging from stinging sensation he could barely feel in his cheek thanks to the stab wound in his side, he knew he'd been smacked at least once or twice very hard. Having a hard time keeping conscious, he looked up at Ulric and faintly said, "How bad is it?"

[Ulric]

Ulric scowled at Belaya. “I don’t know, do you feel dead?” He kept pressing the cloth against the whelp’s side, not knowing what else to do. He couldn’t knit flesh and bones like one of the goddess-touched. If the bleeding didn’t stop, he’d probably have to carry the whelp to a healer. But I’m not paying for that shyke, he thought. “That’s what you get for meddling,” he grunted, even as he turned to glance at the corpse. The features were rather crushed, but now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing him among the pursuers. “You seem to be having quite a bad day. Now answer me this, what are you doing in this reeking city?"

[Belaya Smert]

Wincing, Belaya propped himself up against the wall of the building as best he could. Trying to not worsen his wound, he looked Ulric in the eyes and said, "W-well, I came here originally t-t-to take care of a blood debt. Oh, speaki-king of blood, I s-seem to b-b-be bleeding out. You wouldn't mind t-taking me to a healer would you? I'm kinda h-ing trouble k-keeping consci-sness as it is. Are y-you even listening to me, you a-asshole? I'm g-going to d-." Belaya cringed as he felt a blood vessel break and blood come spurting out, spraying Ulric. Screaming loudly in pain, he futilely tried to put pressure on the dagger wound and stop the blood from coming out. He then passed out from the blood loss and pain.

[Ulric]

“You’re avenging a blood debt?” Ulric growled, casting around for the dead man’s jacket. “Now, can you shut up? I’m trying to–” He jerked back, blinking away the crimson that spurted onto his face. He tasted the coppery tang on his lips, fought back the impulse to gag. Now that certainly wasn’t good. There wasn’t any time to get the jacket. Reaching down, he tore open the whelp’s shirt and stuck a hand in the weeping gash, seeking to the origin of the flow. “Wake up, you stupid shyke,” he growled, grimacing as his fingers slid across slimy tissue. With his other hand, he gave the whelp another smack. And then he felt it. A ropy, pulsing strand of something. Swiftly, he clamped down with both fingers. That wasn’t very effectual, for just got sprayed again. Cursing, he shifted his grasp, clamping down on the upper part of the strand, felt a slight pressure against the tips of his fingers. The flow began to slow, but it wasn’t going to halt. The only thing keeping the whelp from bleeding out were his fingers. “Why does it have to be me?” Bending down, he grasped Belaya under the arms, keeping his fingers in the wound, and began to drag him away.

[Belaya Smert]

Everything was dark, with a strange feeling like he was being tugged backwards. Belaya's thoughts were coming slower and slower, becoming more confused. Maybe I'm just dreaming. It stopped hurting, it must be a dream. Coming back to consciousness for short periods of time only shook this notion for as long as he was conscious. His sight would come to him in short, blurry glimpses, in which little could be made out other than that it was dark and a trail of some liquid was being left behind them. He slid further into the darkness of his mind, trying to find some warmth. Closing his eyes, he whispered, "This seems like a good place to sleep, eh Del?" before closing his eyes and transforming into his wolf form.

[Ulric]

Ulric dragged the limp, bloody whelp over grassy cobbles, through patches of illusory muck, and over a stack of crates, grumbling and cursing the whole while. Not once, over the course of his life, had he sought to heal the injured. Just freed them from their misery, or left them to pass among writhing shadows, dead eyes pecked by the crows. He was frustrated. Taking lives was easy – just the flash of a knife was enough to suffice – but saving them was harder. He couldn’t make the gash close and flesh knit together, no matter how hard he pressed on the sodden rag. He winced at the strange pulse against his fingers. Eventually, frantic steps brought him to a ruined clutch of structures, shingled roofs tumbled, walls reduced to heaps of brick, faded timbers jutting out like splinters of bone. There was a wrecked fountain in the center, surrounded by thorn bushes and shards of pottery, statuary overgrown with ivy and creepers, the pale marble encrusted with brown lichen. Ulric propped the whelp against the sloping lip, using a blunt, bloody finger to lift one of his eyelids. There was a faint murmur, the echo of some distant dream, but the strange golden eye did not flutter. Grunting, he reached for his cloak, used his teeth to tear at the hem. He vaguely remembered sending his Gasvik for help. He fumbled with the strip of cloth, his hands seemingly too large, too unwieldy for the task in front of him. He cursed again. There was a rustle of leaves, the warble of a pigeon. The constant rumbling of hawkers, artisans, jouncing carts in distant lanes and alleys. The tinny ring of a smith’s hammer meeting the anvil. Furtively, he glanced around, but there was nobody else. Just him, and the dying whelp. Deep down, he wanted to run away. This wasn’t his problem. There was no point in fighting the storms of fate. But he had to try. Though his fingers were awkward, even shaking, he managed to drape the strip of cloth over the wound, tried to pack it deeper. There wasn’t much hope. And then the unthinkable happened. There was a flash of white, bright enough to blind him for a moment. He flung up his hands, leaning back from the glare. Only when it receded, he saw before him a wolf, with a similar scar over the eye. Shapeshifter, he thought at first, half snarling, for he was ever distrustful of the perversions of djed. But the spark of concern pushed his doubts aside, and he found himself staring at the wound. He might have been mistaken, but it wasn’t leaking as badly now, the gash covered over with bloody, matted hairs. “You are more than you seem,” he murmured.