PM to join Underground [Clyde and Midna]

[Razkar]

Fast Freddy March knew that reputation was everything in East Street. For fear, for faith, for obedience and the reassurance enough to shake your hands or put gold in it... without a solid reputation to back it up, everything else was worthless. He had one, of course: tough but fair, ruthless when crossed, honorable when obeyed and dealt cleanly with.

Most of it was bunkum, of course. That's the thing about reputations: it's just another way of saying "public lies".

And now he was faced with a challenge to it, in his own domain where he held (theoretically) absolute sway. The Myrian kicked open the door to the iron cage just as soon as a nameless, faceless minion unlocked it, smacking it into his forehead as he did-

-and not noticing. His eyes were still fixed on Freddy. The crowd parted like a shoal before the shark as he approached. The lugs on either side of Midna stalled and exchanged looks. Neither of them would have liked to tangle with Savage Henry, at least not without three friends and him looking the other way... and now the thing that had just crippled Henry was striding towards them.

Angry.

Freddy controlled it well, Razkar had to admit. Faced with a monster from darkest Falyndar, the kind his mother (well, if he had one) whispered ghost stories to him about, the rat-faced hustler didn't budge nor tremble. He knew what was at stake. So did Razkar.

"This bitch disrespected me."

"I regret that," Razkar lied, hands flexing, fists forming and relaxing over and over, "But she is a Child of Myri."

"What does that matter?"

"To you? Nothing. To me? Everything. I would have you release her."

"Didn't you hear me? She disrespected me! Here! In my own place!"

Someone sidled up to Razkar and the Myrian glanced aside to see Sebastien's pinched face at his side. The sellsword was clearly not enjoying this turn of events, the euphoria of his victory (for of course he'd set down his own purse for Razkar to win, not just the gold the Myrian had given him) now obliterated by having to step into the stand-off.

"Er... your winnings, Raz," he mumbled, handing over a purse more than three times fatter than the one Razkar had given him, "Minus my, ah, half, like you said, and-"

"My steel?"

"Oh... here..."

The human felt angry and unforgiving eyes on him as he handed the shining, blade-covered weapons harness back to Razkar, who threw it over his head and began buckling and fastening as Freddy gritted his teeth, bore them-

Ah, no chance to get me without my blades, hmm, barbarian? Well, tough shyke.

"Thank you, Seb. You can go."

Seb did as he was told, wanting to get as far from this volcano-waiting-to-blow as possible, and only just heard Freddy snort and snap: "Talking much finer now, aren't you? No more of the broken Common savage bullshyke."

"I will pay fifty mizas, gold, for her... stupidity," Razkar said, silently and fervently beseeching Myri's forgiveness for his words, "The female is clearly drunk. She did not know, or she would not have offended such as you."

"Such as me?"

"A man of wealth and power."

Freddy grew a few inches, and Razkar kept the smirk off his face. Goddess, these barbarian types were so easily to manipulate, once you knew where their foibles rested. His black eyes flicked from the Brain to the two Brawns flanking Midna, dwarfing her, and he let his hand fall to his gladius.

He coughed. They let go. Freddy's smile faded.

"A fair price and a good point, Myrian, but-"

"One hundred, then. For the insult to your pride."

Even the crowd muttered at that offer. A hundred mizas, just to pay for misplaced words? The Waveguard did not give fines to excessive. Freddy looked around furtively, gutter mind calculating the odds and the whispers that would issue forth from this place...

Razkar could see his mind whirring, and decided to give him one final nudge. Hands held up in complacence, he said lowly, "I would not add my offence to you, Mister March."

That did it. Now he had The Myrian paying homage. The crowd murmured again and Freddy gave a stately nod like one dismissing a prisoner. He failed to pull it off, naturally, but Razkar could still see it, and his sneer as the tottering Midna was let go.

"Get her out of here."

"With pleasure, Mister March."

He didn't pause nor question nor introduce himself. Strong hands gripped around Midna's like vices and she felt herself pulled along, faster than her feet could follow, tripping, stumbling, gliding through leering faces and sparkling eyes that had light but no souls, until the cold air hit her and there was a horse trough and-

"Right, female, time to wake up."

-and Razkar shoved her head into the freezing water.

Winnings+260gm (originally 800gm - eight-to-one odds against Razkar - minus the house's 10% betting fee, NPC Seb getting half of what's left, 100gm given to NPC Freddy to smooth over Midna's mouthing off to him)

[Razkar]

OOCWell, Midna's been AWOL for a week without any word, so I'mma tie this one up, since Part III is still ongoing.

He did not know if Myri would forgive him for treating one of Her daughters so harshly, but that fearful thought would only occur to Razkar later. Back in the darkness of the street, holding the struggling female's head under the icy water, he cared only for the way she had acted in the Knuckle Club, before gormless barbarians and preening thugs.

She had disgraced the name of their race. Myri's, her clan's... and Razkar's.

"What in Blessed Myri's name happened to you?!" He growled when he finally pulled her free and let her collapse onto her back, sputtering and gasping for air. "How far could you have fallen to allow yourself to be so... so... weak, in these dangerous lands?! You carry the blood and the line of Myri within you! Yet this is what has become of that fruit?! Withered and deformed by vile drink and whatever else you have taken?!"

No answer. No defense. Not even an excuse, and that called the male most of all. To see all flight fled from one who bore Myri's name... it was almost intolerable. It was... an abomination. Razkar shook his head at her in disgust and decided there was little he could do.

This moment is the product of her choices, ill though they were. Thus, she must rely on herself and Myri's wisdom to survive it.

"Mark me, and mark well, female," he said, voice controlled now, a tranquil anger that raged behind his eyes but did not so much as shake the finger he leveled at her, "I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, son of Yurta and Zek, Child of Myri, Warrior of Taloba and I am ashamed this day to include you within my race. Heal thyself, female; your will and your famished body and your easily-swayed soul. Rise from the gutter you clearly are accustomed to. There is the blood of a goddess within you."

The Myrian leaned forward, face stark and gruesome with flickering shadows playing over fresh bruises, spiky piercings and black ink.

"Earn it."

With that he was gone, leaving the one he did not know as Midna Coolwater to her own private hell, far from the grace and light of Myri... but hopefully, with enough shame battered into her to change that.

Razkar did not turn, however, neither to hear her leave or see her still lay there. But as he walked, swift and intent, his lips moved in silent, fervent prayer.

Blessed Myri, cast Your eye upon Your wretched daughter, lost in the barbarian lands, in darkness and bereft of Your grace and strength. Let her see that within her again, and rise to victory, as befits one of Your ancient and eternal glory...

The first few dregs began to spill from the Knuckle Club, gabbling excitedly and rubbernecking for their newest champion. But all they saw was the outline of a swishing coat in the distance, flapping in the murky darkness like a bat's wings... then swallowed by it.

[Clyde Sullins]

At first Clyde had been confused as to where he was, or what was going on. It was an odd place, and certainly not the type Clyde frequented. But he felt it was safer to be stuck in here with this mass of people, than wandering around outside. Besides, most of the people in here where distracted by the fighting. For that was what it was, Clyde figured it out once the announcer started going, using some trick or other to project his voice. It was some kind of fight club, obviously underground, in more ways than one. Clyde settled in to watch the next fight, wondering if they would be any good, or if they where even staged fights. Hard to say, he would need to watch. However as the fighting began, he knew quite quickly this was for real, the blur of motion, the faces of the fighters, both clearly fighting to stay alive, to win, to be victor, to get a edge on the other. He recalled it from other fights he had been in, fights to the death. And while the announcer had said there was to be no killing, both of these men seemed ready to bring their foe within a inch of this prohibited position. The man with the piercings skillfully dodged and countered with a blow of his own, driving on. A knee to the side, pain, then a small wait before more flurries of motion hard for the eye to follow, both fighters moving and hitting by their own razor hones fighting instincts and training. With three more strikes in quick succession, the "Myrian" ended it, though his foe was still on his feet. But Clyde knew, could see, it was over. The other one had lost. He just was not willing to admit it. And then he finally ended it, rather unexpectedly and spectacularly by biting off the mans ear. But that was not enough for him, and he stalked onward making his way towards someone in the crowd, apparently ready to fight some more if need be. Once it was all said and done, Clyde found himself somewhat impressed by the Myrian's skill. So what else could he do, but try and talk to him. After all, he needed someone with such skill for his... Endeavor... Perhaps this fighter could do what he needed. If he could find him that is. The crowd was moving quickly, and it was hard to follow, it would not be that difficult to lose him. After all, he was already lost.

[Razkar]

It didn't take long for the Myrian to realize he was being followed. The sound of boots on the cobblestones behind him weren't letting up. The scent of sweat and soap that weren't just from a building, because he kept smelling them. His ears pricked as he heard the pace of his pursuer: somewhat hurried, as if he was catching up... desperate to, even? And why?

Razkar turned into the next alley and increased his pace. He didn't hear the sandals again until he was near the end of it, turned the corner-

-and swiftly lost himself in one of the shadowy doorways. There... he was still. Breathing shallow so his chest didn't move nor the rote suck and sigh of his lungs betray him. Far back enough that the torchlight wouldn't glint off his eyes, and he pulled his cloak around his weapons, hiding their shine and glamor... waiting... listening...

As the paces became a jog, his follower trying to catch up. The Myrian blinked with coldly appraising black orbs as he saw the figure. Hmm... familiar... ah, yes. The strange fellow from the Knuckle Club. The one who did not belong. Safe and unseen in the shadows, the Myrian gripped his hand ax, then his voice launched from the darkness-

"What do you want?"

[Clyde Sullins]

Once the Myrian left the place, he seemed in a hurry to be done with his business. He tried to catch up with him before he got to far away, but even going into a slight jog was not enough to keep up with the purposeful stride of the fighter. He almost lost him, but saw a shift of motion, and watched as what he was fairly certain was the Myrian disappeared into a alley. Clyde was no runner, did not usually fight that much physically, so was certainly in far less shape than the man he was trying to talk to. All he could do was put his left in front of his right, and repeat, keeping up the slow jog as he tried to see which way he went. However as his quarry vanished, he slowed. He did not want to get jumped, not to find this man. And what if he turned out to be less than honest? As Clyde slowed and almost halted his forward progress, he clung to his staff with his right hand, and pondered the notion of lighting a small fireball to light his way... Of course, that could also attract trouble, so it might not be a good idea. However before he could make up his mind, a voice spoke from the shadows, surely able to see him while the source of the voice was hidden. "What do you want?" Clyde paused his walking, and let in a deep breath, before talking. There was a tiny splinter of hot pain beginning to gather in his right side, but nothing to bad. And it was quickly fading as he stopped and caught his breath. "Well, clearly I was wanting you. In this case, I was hoping we might speak. I have a proposition that might be advantageous to us both. After seeing your skills, I thought you might fit the jobs needs." Clyde paused once more, taking in a breath and letting it out, before going on. "Though I must say, I prefer to talk to people I can actually see. Perhaps we could continue this conversation in a place a bit more well lit than this. Or if you would like, I could make a bit of light."

[Razkar]

"Well, clearly I was wanting you. In this case, I was hoping we might speak. I have a proposition that might be advantageous to us both. After seeing your skills, I thought you might fit the jobs needs."

Razkar's lips twitched a touch in the darkness. Ah, 'twas always the way, in his world. You were no man to any man until he's seen your capacity for violence. Once that had been displayed and your ferocity proven against a capable opponent, you became valuable. Or useful. Whichever it was, Razkar cared not. This man had seen something he otherwise wouldn't, and now a "job" was apparently available. And since he didn't have anything better to do...

Caution, boy. All barbarians are born with deception in their hearts and lies on their tongues. He may offer one hand only to fill the other with a dagger.

"Though I must say, I prefer to talk to people I can actually see. Perhaps we could continue this conversation in a place a bit more well lit than this. Or if you would like, I could make a bit of light."

Now a frown twisted his pierced features. The man didn't look like he had any tinder or... ah... wait, that could mean something else. Fire mages weren't common among Razkar's people: djed-wielders in general were seen as weaklings who compensated with the wyrd the physical failings. That didn't go over well with the majority of Myrians, but here? In the barbarian lands? Razkar had seen more wyrd and magecraft in a year than throughout his whole life.

The shadows shifted to the human's right, and a Myrian stepped out of them. One hand still gripped the ax under his cloak, hidden as it eased his treasured weapon from his belt. Black eyes that glittered with reflected torchlight measured him like a snake would a mouse, blinking every so often as if he'd learned how to do so, and did so for the look of it.

They flicked up and down the man... and he took another step forward.

"I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls," he said formally, giving a short bow though he never let his eyes leave his new acquaintance, "Son of Yurta and Zek, Child of Myri and Warrior of Taloba. I am also battered, tired and hungry, so I do not feel like talking about a "job" in the cold, foggy street."

The ice in his voiced mirrored the temperature, but any fool could see his granite exterior soften a touch, along with his features. No need to be a shyke-head without cause, after all...

"However, if you would know a tavern nearby...?"

[Clyde Sullins]

Out of the shadows stepped a form, indistinct at first, but soon gaining clarity. Clyde could only assume it was in response to his prior request, and was glad to see things were moving at least smooth enough for him to accede to such a small request. That of being visible. Clyde could see he had his hand ready, perched upon something under his clothes, not visible, but ready to be made visible. Due to the nature of the man, and what he had just seen, he could only assume that logically it was a weapon of some sort. Or at least some means of attacking Clyde. Clyde showed no fear in response to this, simply staring back at the man. After all, if he wanted to attack him, wouldn't he have done it before leaving the hidden depth of shadows? Surely it meant he was at least willing to listen. "I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls," he said formally, giving a short bow though he never let his eyes leave his new acquaintance, "Son of Yurta and Zek, Child of Myri and Warrior of Taloba. I am also battered, tired and hungry, so I do not feel like talking about a "job" in the cold, foggy street." "However, if you would know a tavern nearby...?" Clyde paused for a moment, mulling over what he had said, before responding, a small grin coming across his face as he began, not upset at all by the tidings he was reporting, in fact if anything finding his own state of being lost a bit funny. "Ah, if only I did. I am sad to report I am atrociously lost. In fact, I was lost upon ending up at the establishment where I saw you fight. What odd things can occur though when you are lost and without direction or plans, despite the confusion and chaos. In this case, this led to me finding you. So perhaps being lost is not such a bad thing." "However, since I don't know this area, and have in fact gotten more lost since following you... Perhaps you could lead the way to a tavern where we could get warm and such. I fear my leading the way would just lead to us becoming even more lost, if such a thing is possible at this point."

[Razkar]

"Ah, if only I did. I am sad to report I am atrociously lost. In fact, I was lost upon ending up at the establishment where I saw you fight. What odd things can occur though when you are lost and without direction or plans, despite the confusion and chaos. In this case, this led to me finding you. So perhaps being lost is not such a bad thing."

Razkar's eyebrows arched for a second at this little bit of street wisdom, but his eyes still revealed nothing. Not even a name had been spoken so far; nothing but words on the air and vague interests in the Myrian's skills. Still... he was hardly throwing down a challenge or issuing threats.

"However, since I don't know this area, and have in fact gotten more lost since following you... Perhaps you could lead the way to a tavern where we could get warm and such. I fear my leading the way would just lead to us becoming even more lost, if such a thing is possible at this point."

Razkar sniffed the air a few times like a wolf seeking a scent. Burning tallow... thick, sea-speckled fog... waste thrown in the streets from animal and horse manure... sounds drifting or slashing across it, shouting or laughing... then something rich, aromatic... simple fare, but still-

"This way." Razkar said, nodding his head down an alley, where light blazed from a pair of windows in the middle of a building and the smell of cheap, filling nosh for the lat-night or nearly-empty pocket crowd awaited. "After you..."

His hand swept through the air in an almost deferential gesture, but the hardness in the savage's eyes said there was little genteel about it. For over a year, Razkar had been living in a world that did not issue trust or loyalty for free: it was bought or earned, in blood and mizas. This... human, who had yet to even give a name, had not purchased either, so-

"For now, you stay in my eyes... friend. You can see the lights. Walk to them." His lips twisted into something like a smile and when he patted some other stretch of scalp-covered cloak, a merry chink sounded out. "The meal will be on me..."

OOCLet's wait until we get inside for our friends to arrive. Haven't had a chance to have an honest-to-gods bar brawl yet...

[Clyde Sullins]

"This way. After you..." "For now, you stay in my eyes... friend. You can see the lights. Walk to them." The meal will be on me..." Clyde nodded, and headed in the direction the Myrian had indicated, the only sound his boots on the ground, and the occasional tap of his wooden staff every few paces. The man behind him seemed quite, perhaps even purposely moving so silently, a practiced gait, the way he put down his feet, the way he moved his body. Clyde studied this, as he thought perhaps later copying such motions would help should he need to sneak some time. He knew he was not very stealthy, and his prior attempts at it had ended horribly. But perhaps with practice, and such a good example, he could get better. "My name is Clyde, by the way. Though I am unsure if we could really be called friends quite yet, we have only just met. How about acquaintance, Razkar of the shorn skulls, does that sound more accurate? " Clyde headed onward until he made it to the bar the man had mentioned. He did not often drink, and when he did it was usually just some simple ale, which took quite a volume to get one drunk. And he had long since decided it would be a bad idea for him to get drunk... Loss of inhibitions for a mage was less than wise... But a small meal would not be bad, even if it was of less than usual quality, as he expected food in this area to be. Once they finally made it to their destination, Clyde had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness as compared to the dark streets and alleys. Tables, chairs, stools at a bar, all simple and standard in more or less any such establishment across Sylira, probably even farther than that. That and the tumult of voices that inundated the room, as people laughed and drank and ate and made merry. He even recognized one or two of the people as having been back in the fighting establishment they had just come from. Probably winners spending their new windfall.

[Razkar]

A small cheer was raised as the cause for so much flowing ale and bowls of grub walked in the door with his new "acquaintance". The Myrian smiled awkwardly as glasses were raised and ruddy, beery faces turned to him with fat, satisfied smiles. He just hoped none of them tried to

"Pudithere, paw'l!"

No such luck...

So, once Razkar disentangled himself from that unwanted attention, Clyde and he found a corner booth and did their best to avoid any more of it. A serving wench marched over - no heels or clogs here, just good thick-soled sandals for the working girls - to take their order, swiftly taking it from Clyde first, then her eyes goggling as she turned-

Oh, big surprise.

-and Razkar ordered a bowl of beef stew and a tankard of... whatever.

"My name is Clyde, by the way. Though I am unsure if we could really be called friends quite yet, we have only just met. How about acquaintance, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, does that sound more accurate? "

The Myrian chuckled and nodded, real amusement glittering in his eyes for a moment as his smile reached them. "I was thinking much the same thing. And just "Razkar" will do fine, human."

He leaned forward, intent on keeping their conversation private. One never knew what unwanted ears could be dropping in on your words, and while Razkar was sure his new but firm reputation would help, it never hurt to be careful.

"So..." He said lowly after the foaming wooden tankards arrived. "... what is this... "job" that you speak of...?"

He waited for an answer, casting his eyes around... and finding a sullen set watching him quite intently. A large table of men sat staring at their booth with expressions that seemed like silent snarls of fury. Razkar wondered idly what could have caused such ill-feeling... then noticed the food and drink on their table. Or, more accurately, the stark sparseness of it. Clearly there boys had lost much of their purses this evening.

Bet on the wrong man, boys. Just the way it goes.

The Myrian blinked slowly. Six men. All armed. Knives, perhaps saps and bludgeons. Three... no, four worse for drink, but... not too problematic. He turned away and back to Clyde. Trouble seen was hardly trouble avoided, not when barbarians were concerned, but he would not fret until there was cause to.