Closed The Hand That Bleeds You (Rafael and Edreina)

[Razkar]

48th Day of Winter
The Seaside Market
14th Bell

"You can tell hard times in these lands: when stalls selling silks and jewels are bare of customers, but food and firewood can't be sold fast enough, or for more."

"Woh'wuzzat?"

Razkar blinked a few times at... yes, that was definitely Common. I can tell when you've learned a language, too, he thought as he regarded the human with a scruffy black beard and sores on his hands, as opposed to taking one for granted.

"Talking about the weather." He said mildly, looking around at the white carpet that covered all, from the slush-filled sewers to roof tiles turned grey with soot on snow. "Probably get worse, I think?"

He laughed and the human laughed a second later, and for too long. The Myrian had grown used to that. The fear and the eagerness to please that went with it; a talisman that the weak or foolish seemed to clutch to.

Make it laugh, make it feel clever, and it won't hurt you... but try using it to get a discount.

"How much for all?"

He gestured to the bundle of logs and Maere made a show of adding it up. Razkar could have rolled his eyes: the trader probably knew the cost of every twig, the profit for every log and yet still he played this game. He named a figure. Ten days ago, it would have been half that. Maybe a third. But that was before the heavens opened and the rain came in frozen sheets of ice, choking and burying Sunberth.

Killing the crops, the livestock, the homeless that Razkar just stepped over or around like stiff, blue logs. Now and then he saw teams of robed monks or bored/concerned citizens gather up a bushel and take them to the endlessly-smoking mountain outside of town. The vast burning heap that cast a pall over a town already in the gods' shadows.

"Done."

Razkar paid and tied the bundle securely together, then started back towards the Sunset Quarter. Extortion or not, he and his lover would need the heat. Already there were vacant rooms in the Slum area, caused by the renters simply freezing in their beds. Razkar had seem a handful brought out, blankets and bedding stuck to them, availing them nothing.

Not me. Not Edreina. Not if I have to bleed my heat across her...

Still, he hoped it wouldn't come to that, and desperate as the citizens were becoming, they gave The Dock Wolf a wide berth. Face shadowed by his scalp-hewn cloak, Razkar's eyes glittered but he did not smile. It was an old joke; barely amusing. He'd slaughtered a handful of men less than ten chimes after stepping off the Calypso into Sunberth.

He needed the city to understand he spoke the language. Fluently.

The young male's mind turned from those thoughts as he gathered his cloak around him tighter, edges whipping around his knees, clutching the bundle of firewood with one hand and his satchel of food with another. Bread, cheese, eggs, smoked meat... enough for them to stay in their lodgings and scorn the outside world until Syna returned.

Razkar moved swiftly through the drifts, half-blinded by the cloak and the howling wind racing and nipping at his face. But who would face him? Who would dare? Who would be so bold or mad?

Wrong questions. Right question:

Who would be hungry enough?

[Rafael Colebourne]

Rafael wrapped his hands even closer around his body in a futile attempt to stay warm. The vapors that he exhaled betrayed his faltering, unsteady breathing. It hadn't been this cold in a long time. Normally he wouldn't have minded. Even though his father's house was drafty at best, he had blankets there and a small fire to keep him warm. What he didn't have was food. His stomach growled like an angry dog. “Yea, yea,” he muttered as he rubbed his stomach.

He'd been hiding from the cold in the recess of an abandoned shop that overlooked the seaside market. It kept him away from prying eyes and out of the bittercold wind that came sweeping from the sea in deafening gusts. His eyes scanned the market for the umpteenth time. All he needed was an inattentive tradesman or customer, then he'd move in and snatch his meal. Buying it was another option, but with the sky-high prices of late, he wouldn't be able to sustain himself for long and he'd heard say that most of the food was mouldy and rotten.

Definitely not worth his coin.

There! A man with a cape carried a bag of fresh food, he could almost smell it from afar. His mouth began to water as he trained his eyes on the man. The crowd parted for the tall man, and no one made a move towards him. Rafael wasn't suprised by it, the man was at least six feet tall and had a ferocious look to him. Stealing from this man probably wasn't a good idea, but dying in the cold or wait for the city to turn to cannibalism was an even worse one.

Mustering his courage, Rafael stepped out of hiding and, at a safe distance, trailed after the man. He could hardly feel his feet underneath him as he zig-zagged through the masses. It was busier than usual, most likely because many had lost their homes to the ever mounting piles of snow. For once, he was happy that the city was suffering so. With so many people about, he could make a quick dash for the bundle of food and return home with something to ease his stomach.

For three chimes he stalked the man until he turned onto a busy square were repairs to collapsed rooftops were being made. Biting his lip, Rafael tried to strengthen his resolve. He had to try.

Like a scared rabbit he leapt forward, grabbed hold of the bundle and tried to yank it out of the man's hands. He could only pray the man had been distracted enough by the starving and destitute, begging for a crumb left and right of him

[Razkar]

"No, No I don't have... no, I'm sorry, just... please, get out of my..."

Fear overwhelmed hunger and soon Razkar was striving through a small crowd of beleaguered transients like a ship through swells. Everywhere he turned, another emaciated face stared at him; another nose turned black with frostbite, or eyes so sunken they were like gimlets at the bottom of caves. Hands, hands, hands, reaching out and begging, groaning.

Razkar was not, as his detractors may have said, unfeeling. He felt much, in fact: he simply didn't allow those urges to rule his actions. Feeding the poor, handing over a few coppers? A fine ideal... but then what? Every step he took in the city would be dogged by beggars. Worse yet, his reputation would suffer. Philanthropy, generosity... weakness. They would only see it as weakness, and the weak died in Sunberth.

So he pressed on through the starving, clutching his possessions under his cloak, and neither food nor gold was proffered by him. Just a little further, past the ladders and cursing workmen and-

-grasping pressure at his side, closing around the paper package packed with food, a sudden yank-

All his senses, born and honed from battle and brawl, kicked in at once. Someone was attacking him; trying to steal from him; violating what was his.

The Myrian sacrificed his package - which could be replaced, though at a cost - to give himself a free hand, so when he whirled to his left and his hand darted to his waist, he could grasp the bone hilt of his gladius-

-rip it from its sheath with an angry, low hiss, bringing it about immediately into a horizontal slice at his unseen-

Boy. Barely fifteen Summers, and looking younger for starvation. The rest of the bedraggled horde fell away like leaves from the center of a hurricane, scrambling and crying out, leaving the two of them in the eye. The Myrian and the thief, frozen as the skies, the former with a gleaming blade unwavering a few inches from the boy's throat.

His words were snarled, growled, ground out as if his mouth was filled with granite. Teeth sharpened to points leered at the boy's face; Razkar's own was a map of scars and black ink, pierced in places by polished bone from memorable and defeated enemies. Black eyes crushed by bushy eyebrows glared at him balefully and yet, the fact he wasn't missing a head could have told him much.

"Let. Go. Now."

[Rafael Colebourne]

Like two statues of old they stared each other down. He felt like a statue too, as his entire frame had solidified and rooted itself to the ground like a tree clawing at ruins. It took him a few heartbeast to become aware of the here and now again, as if his mind had already surrendered to the inevitable.

The knive hovered just an inch from his throat and he could see two tiny specks of dried blood on its end. Its wielder wasn't fooling around, the grimace on the man's face petrified him. What could he do? The prize he held in his hands was like a leaden weight and for a moment he feared he'd snatched the wrong bag. From the corners of his eyes he could see the crowd scattered like a flock of doves. Whoever this man was, with his pitch black eyes, snarling lips and sharpened teeth, he didn't want to meddle in his affairs, nor was he certain he'd ever get the chance to.

"I-"

Carefully, as one would try to pet a wild animal, he moved his hand holding the bag back towards the man. "Here, have it back," he said in a husky voice, though he was suprised he managed to squeeze the words out at all. Keeping his eyes trained on the furious pupils of his opponent, he took another gamble, he'd come too far to give up completely now.

"How much for some of that meat?"

If the man was unwilling to consider a trade of sorts, it could serve as a distraction and he could bolt away or make the unexpected move and fight back. Silently he moved his left foot between the man's feet, ready to jam his knee up the man's crotch.

[Razkar]

Well, he hadn't been expecting that. Which, he reflected mere ticks later, was probably the point.

"I am not looking to-"

It was the tensing up that gave it away. An amateur mistake, but then again, what else would a boy so young be, even in a place like Sunberth? A shuffling of movement from below him caught the Myrian's eye even as he spoke the words and a fractured tick later Rafael's leg jerked up-

-and Razkar ensured with one quick movement that it would hit nothing but a bundle of hard, dry firewood, pulled in the space of a blink in the boy's path.

Once the pain racked him and his focus was off, Razkar's left foot would snap out and land a clinical, near-crippling kick right under the boy's other, grounded kneecap. Once he tottered the Myrian would finish up by tucking his chin to his chest-

-and launching a punishing headbutt into his face.

Razkar doubted the would-be thief would be standing after those three moves. Writhing, wounded and seeing naught but stars and shadows, Razkar would step to his side... put one foot on his left wrist... and point at it with his gladius.

"Where I come from," he said again, only now the heat was gone, replaced by a calm, merciless nonchalance perhaps even more frightening, "Males who try to steal lose a hand. Did you know that?"

The barbarian probably didn't, didn't know anything other than where to get his-

Next meal. Because he's starving. Because there's no-one to help him or feed him or care from him, or he wouldn't have tried to snatch a mouthful of meat from a sodding Myrian, of all people. He was desperate, not wicked.

But a thief is a thief.

"Alas, we are not where I come from..." His eyes glittered like stones under water, and he gave a small, regretful shrug, knuckles whitening just a touch as he gripped the hilt of his gladius. "... so I will show some mercy."

Razkar's gaze flicked coldly to the boy's trembling pinkie finger... and then the gladius stabbed down towards the base of it like lightning from the heavens.

[Rafael Colebourne]

Within ticks he was downed. His knee jammed into something hard, probably not the man's balls. His shin was hit hard. He lost his footing and stumbled forward only to be smacked in the head. Dazed by the sudden blow he stumbled backwards. Left and right blurred, up and down switched position and writhing in pain, he found himself on the ground with the shadow of the man looming over him. Run. He had to run. But his body denied service, every movement he made sent another jolt of pain up his spine, and so he remained firmly on the ground.

The man's boot pinned his left wrist to the ground and even in his discombubulated state he grasped the full meaning of the man's threat. He was about to lose a whole hand for something he could've bought. At least I while have something to chew on, he thought bitterly. What tradesman or sailor would take a boy into his service with only one hand? No, he could only become a cursed cripple, a public shame, a nobody visibly weakened. Easy prey.

He was almost relieved then when the man aimed his sword at his pinkie. Almost. He cried out in pain as the cold steel stabbed into his finger. The floodgates behind his eyes opened, blinding him even further. The precious liquid warmth of his body seeped out his hand. Was it still even there? He couldn't feel it anymore, he only felt the snow-caked boot pressing down on his wrist, a hammering reverb in his head and a lanciating pain soaring through his shin.

Perhaps it was folly, perhaps it was sheer desparation, but Rafael wouldn't be left like a piece of trash, he wouldn't be a helpless, crying coward. His right hand was still free and with it he intended to grab the man's left foot. Not to injure or pull him down, but to lock him in place, even if only temporarily.

"Damn you! Don't you have someone to feed?"

Then he let go and succumbed to his suffering. Time seemed to skip ticks and he knew not what happened next.

[Razkar]

He'd made his point: loitering wouldn't serve him any fresh purpose. He did, however, let his slow gaze take in the crowd, now definitely watching from a distance.

Shivering faces watched as he bent down lightly, grabbed a handful of melting snow... flecked with scarlet from the warm little lump he'd amputated... and cleaned the blood off his blade with it. Razkar's hand felt like icy needles were impaling it, but a warrior who didn't maintain his weapons was unworthy of calling himself such.

He sighed shortly, almost like the snort of a pony: loud and definite. Final. Some of the onlookers would whisper later at how nonchalant he'd seemed about it all... much like one native to Sunberth, in fact. The boy was writhing at his feet, forever maimed for a hunk of smoked pork, yet for all the world Razkar had just finished taking a piss and was doing up his breeches.

"Get ice on that." He said mildly to the squirming boy, grasping his mutilated left hand. "Stops the bleeding and prevents it from... corrupting." He made a mental note to find the healer's word for that. "Next time, know who you're stealing from before you try."

The gladius was sheathed and that was the end of the discussion. Razkar silently approved that throughout their little bit of theater, none of the starving rabble had even tried to dart forward and take his wrapped bag of supplies. None were willing to receive what Razkar had just meted out. He retrieved it from the ground and turned to-

-again, that pressure. Less certain, but... still strong. Still defiant, and he saw that flash in those swimming eyes when he looked down sharply. Rafael looked up at him and near-shouted his retort, words echoing dully around the silent street.

"... well, yes. That's why I cut your finger off. Because you would have taken food from their mouth... and... boy?"

The thief slumped back to the slush and Razkar rolled his eyes. This as getting complicated, as only Sunberth shenanigans ever could get. Simple retaliation had now left him lumbered with a fainted, maimed boy... and a thief, at that! He should just leave him. What did he owe the boy? A Sunberth rat, through and through, he would have robbed Razkar blind and mayhap stuck a dagger in his ribs if the Myrian had been aged and bent.

But to leave him? Before your footsteps had faded this horror show would fall on him and strip him down to his skin. His wound would turn, his skin would freeze... and even in Falyndar, thieves are not killed.

"Not for the first offence, anyway..."

His grumbled words in his own tongue reflected his mood:dark and put-upon and... Gods, what a mess! With an angry growl the Myrian rolled his eyes and patted down the passed-out youth. Boots, sleeves, waistband, pockets... no weapons. The crowd watched with interest as he transferred both his packages under his left arm and with a grunt and a muttered Myrian curse-

-lifted the boy over his right shoulder, giving him a hard thwack! on the arse as he started walking.

"You sodding owe me, boy..."

Razkar's audience watched him depart without so much as a bow or backward glance, bent a little under his new burden, but his pace determined, heading back to Sunset Quarters.

Fifteen chimes later...

The door swung open amid curses and thumped and the female probably hadn't been expecting it to burst into her room. Whoever it was she'd undoubtedly heard struggling up the stairs down the hall, he didn't sound happy... and did sound overburdened.

So one can imagine Edreina's surprise when the door was kicked roughly open and a panting Razkar, red-faced from sweaty exertion and freezing wind, appeared it it... no, more than that. Filled it, thanks to the limp, mumbling package dangled over his broad shoulder. He shuffled into the room life she wasn't even there, dropping their firewood and food...

... swiftly followed by Rafael, hand flopping within her sight. Missing a digit.

The Myrian massaged his back and finally caught her gaze. Instantly the scowling, sinister savage from the Market was replaced by, well... a Myrian in the presence of his prime female. He swallowed heavily and put up both hands, as if to placate some angered beast

"OK... before you say anything... I can explain th-"

He didn't get any further than that.

OOCOK, time for the Red Lady to make her appearence...

[Edreina]

Cold cold cold... I hate the cold... The Svefra groaned mentally, pulling the blanket tighter against her chin. She missed the warm seas, the stifling, salty breezes that were always at play upon the Suvan. She missed home; or at least the weather of home. But, Sunberth had one thing that the Anchorage did not and, for that reason alone, she wound herself tight in blankets and huddled against the inner wall of their room, nearly falling between it and the wall every time she fidgeted.

Speaking of reasons... There was the distinct clatter of a blade against a wall as someone fumbled up the stairs to the hallway on which their room was located. Likely Razkar, struggling under the weight of the firewood he had decided to fetch as Edreina pressed yet another chilly extremity against his ever-present warmth. It seemed as if he was handling it better than she, the bastard.

Almost reluctantly, Edreina started to emerge from her little cocoon, hair standing on end as it slid cross the blanket's surface. They nearly resembled a butterfly's glittering red wings until her arms came free of the blanket and smoothed the tangle. Groaning, she tumbled from the bed onto the floor as Razkar thundered his way into the room. "If you had waited just a second, I would've gotten the-" Words caught in her throat. Razkar held a body.

From the proportions, she guessed he was in his teens, later teens, perhaps, judging by his height. The boy fell awkwardly, and a groan escaped when he hit the wood floor, betraying his life. Fury, disgust, and bile at the sight of the boy's wound rose in her throat, choking her for an instant before a deep breath calmed her. Relax... for all you know, he found the boy like this- No! He did this. If he had found the boy, he would have taken him to a healer. But, for whatever reason, he saw fit to bring him here. That shows a sense of responsibility... That stupid petcher!

"OK... before you say anything... I can explain th-"

Teeth bared ever so faintly, the Svefra stopped him with a raised hand of her own, blue eyes hard. "I don't want your explanation. Sit." Without waiting for him to take the initiative, she caught hold of his medical kit and knelt beside the boy, taking his mangled hand in hers.

The cut was clean - part of her relaxed at the realization that the boy's finger had not been bitten off - but left no trace of the finger. This had been done on purpose, she was utterly sure, now. "I'm so sorry..." she whispered, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from the kit. "This will hurt terribly..." His wrist found itself firmly manacled by the strong grip of a woman accustomed to holding ornery lines. Carefully, she poured the alcohol in a gentle trickle on the stump, letting it cover the screaming wound. It started to bleed again, to her stomach-rolling discomfort.

Pressing her lips together in a taut line, she slowed her trembling breath and searched for her center as he alcohol ceased to fizzle faintly. Deep into her soul she reached until it became substantial to her insubstantial senses. She could smell it with each breath she took and taste it on her tongue. Slowly, she started to feel her Djed becoming Res in the palm of her hand as surely as she would a sixth finger. Opening her eyes, a golden-orange swirl occupied her hand, no greater in volume than what could be held by both cupped palms, but it danced and flickered upwards like the tongues of a flame. The Svefra feared conjuring any more, but knew that this might not be enough to finish cleaning the wound.

Breathing slow and deep, still, she willed the Res to form a thin line and weave through the air like a god's thread until it reached the boy's finger-stump. Again her teeth bared ever so slightly as she concentrated, willing just the end of the Res to transmute into water. It did as she commanded, pattering pinkly onto the parched wood floor. With a gasp, she fumbled and the transmutation occurred more quickly than she hand wanted, flowing instead of dripping gently onto the wound. But, it did well enough. It had to.

With quick, nimble fingers Edreina took padding from the kit and pressed it to the stump before binding it tightly with linen, hopefully staunching anymore bleeding. When that was done, she sighed and put his hand back on his sharply-moving chest. Gods help me...

"Razkar..." she said quietly, turning without standing. "What did you do to him? I want you to explain, not excuse." Her voice was ice, as if the coming reproach could dull the poor boy's pain. Unconsciously, her hand reached out to stroke the top of his, fingers light and gentle and hoping to comfort. Apparently, no matter how hard you tried, you simply could not slay a woman's instinct to mother.

(c) Wanda Endust

[Rafael Colebourne]

Boom, Boom

He was bounding up and down on the shoulder of the man, who carried him around like a sack of flour, hearing nothing but the muffled drumming of his feet.

Boom, boom.

He felt like one too, heavy, clumsy, and leaking at the seams. Fluttering in and out of awareness, the blurry ground underneath him seemed to magically change texture. Very slowly it began to dawn on him: he was being moved. The constant burning in his hand was numbed by the biting cold, and whenever the pain flared, he joined the man in muttering some unholy curses, though his were merely a coarse whisper.

The sound of the man's heavy steps changed from crunching snow to that of creaking wood, the temperature changed and his peripheral vision grew a bit dimmer. Where the hell was he? And why was he with this horrid man?

Apparently the man read his mind and, to confirm their mutual dislike, dropped him rather unceremoniously to the ground. He groaned as he landed in a hapless pile on the ground. There was a female voice, he didn't care to open his eyes and look who it was, it was much too exhausting.

It's just a finger. You're crying like a baby over a finger.

And a head-but, he retorted mentally. Wherever that pesky little voice had come from, he was determined to deny it.

"I am so sorry..." he heard the woman say.

He lazily opened one eye, the grey in his eyes had dulled as if it could only observe some remote place, faraway from the here and now. Unsure what to say back and too groggy to even attempt a mumble, he simply stared at her. She warned him more pain was to come, and he made no objection.

Even though he had been warned against the biting sting of the disinfectant, he still kicked his feet at the ground, as if he was trying to rid himself of a sleeping leg. When that didn't prove enough to counter the lanciating pain, he resorted to biting on his righthand sleeve, nearly chewing his unharmed hand off in the process. Much as the alcohol caused him distress, his endless squirming made him a bit warmer --thin streams of sweat started to trickle down his neck, and much more awake.

It seemed an eternity before the woman bound his stump, but he didn't dare to move or sit up, in fear of provoking the man who had carried him there, Razkar. He overheard the woman uttering the name, though it didn't sound half as foreign as the man himself looked. A hand, cold but caring in its touch, met his and almost instinctively he grabbed hold of it, as if it was the only thing protecting him from Razkar.

[Razkar]

"I don't want your explanation. Sit."

"No, I will not! We are not in the jungle and you will not order me around! You will stand there and I will explain to your how merciful I was today!"

Gods, it would have been wonderful if he'd said that. Catharsis for countless generations of Myrian males, all spilling out of one puffed-up chest. Every male that had been beaten down would have smiled and wiped a single tear from a bleary eye.

Which was a shame it all happened in his head.

He heard the last words and a millenia of male subservience kicked in all at once, overwhelming his pride and logic and killing his legs from under him. Razkar's arse hit the chair with an audible thunk and even he was amazed that-

Is it really so easy to order me around? By a barbarian?!

The Myrian watched in stony, sullen silence as she went about her tending to the boy, cooing over him like he was some lame pigeon he'd bought home. But when the shivers started again and he saw the female had no need of an assistant, Razkar got up - and Great Goddess, he almost asked for permission - and tended to the fireplace.

At least it was something he could concentrate on. A lifetime around billhooks, fishing knives, whip-fast sail lines and crashing cargo meant that Edreina knew how to stop bleeding and treat a wound (as long as it was a finger or three). The Myrian didn't have to teach her much, so just focused on-

The boy hissed, and Razkar looked over... finding a few ticks later that his hand had slid by itself to his gladius. Intruder. That was what the boy was, after all. He didn't even know his name but already he knew where they lived.

Yes, and you bought him here. So how much is her fault, hmm?

"Razkar. What did you do to him? I want you to explain, not excuse."

He flashed a glare at her and held her gaze, though he knew it would be about as much good as shooting peas at a Tskanna. "I was not planning to 'excuse'," he said in a slow, dangerous tone that said he was not going to be tested on that point, "and now the wharf rat isn't bleeding all over the floor, I can finally talk..."

But he didn't, for a moment, and didn't give her a target as he turned away and continued packing kindling around the mound of firewood. Razkar spoke as he worked, making sure the kindling was close enough to spread the flame, but not close enough to starve it of air.

"I was at the Market, just bought wood and supplies. I was walking home and he tried to steal my food. I put him down and took his finger as punishment."

He blinked. She didn't. Finally the Myrian sighed and realized that probably wasn't the answer she was looking for.

"Gods, Edri, how many others would have just opened his throat, eh? Among my people he would have lost his hand. I took his finger, but then the idiot fainted on me. I couldn't leave him there, not in that state."

Which you caused.

"Gods-damnit-!"

With the last word he threw a flaring match onto the kindling and within ticks a greedy little flame was licking around the bushy fuel, teasing and scorching the thicker logs on top. Razkar warmed his hands and got up, standing over the newly-bandaged Rafael with something between disgust and pity on his face.

Quite a gap, but there it was.

"Let me drag him to the fire," he said, then quirked an eyebrow as he grasped onto her proffered hand, clutching like a lifeline in stormy seas. Razkar switched to his native tongue: "You know boy not sleep, yes?"