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[Fallon]

61st Summer 514 AV

The air was dusty, thick with heat and dry. Fallon could almost taste the bitterness in her mouth, the sticking sensation that suffocated the skin. Her eyes gave a drift, watching the shadows of the alleyways twist, the eyes watching and waiting. Tense almost, as if waiting for the first to move and burst into life. Mercenaries and fighters were brought up, the silent gathering of arms to ensure their defences. Alliances were made, others were broken, swept away behind the noise of rumours and treachery. The lesser gangs were making a move, swelling up their resources into one point, securing their surroundings and looking to putting down their marks. Her gaze gave a sweep, a careful step as the metal beneath her black cloak clinked.

No, it was more than simply tense. It was heavy, weighted, suffocating almost in every sense of the word. All eyes judging, hands resting upon hilts itching to draw. There was the smallest shift in weight of one, a turn of the head of another as they looked. Her eyes gave a flicker, catching the shapes that pulled out of one of the streets, the press up of another against the wall. All watching, all waiting for a move to be made. Swallowing, Fallon snatched her attention ahead once more. Part of her was surprised that none had chosen to hire her as a mercenary, a second arm in which to stand at their side and fight, but on the other she was not so surprised. Rumour circulated after all, faint whispers here and there without any strong evidence outside of shouted accusations. But that was the same case as many a local now, half crazed men pointed and the one at the end simply shrugged and carried on.

And then there was the Scars. Barely breathed, but even she knew they existed within the shadow. Small but strong when together. When separated as they were now however, she did not know how long they would last. And that was a bother in itself. Small and scattered, their best hope she knew would be to find a spot to hunker down and hide. To take the fight out would only lead into chaos, weaken them and scatter what little they had. They would need patience this time round, and a lot of luck.

An inhale, a quickening of her steps as she watched a trail of thugs begin to make a beeline to another. Shouts hung upon their voices, a beating of feet and shimmer of steel as they made their presence known. Eyes gave a dart, the jeering taunts as she watched the bodies shift and move. The scene unfolded, warping and moving, before she had any real time to work out what exactly was going on.

"You killed him you bastard!" one shouted.
"Petching looking for a fight? Shove off yeh Vagik!" bellowed another. A punch, the crowd gathering and hissing as they bundled in together. Blades flashed, a shove to the side as she felt the shoulder press against another. Eyes burned down at her, the jaw tensing as she watched the entire form pivot to face her. Her fingers grasped around the kukri hilt in reflex, the barging of another body into her as things started to compact. Eyes moved and darted, scanning and searching for an exit. A howl, a cry of pain as her head was smashed to one side by an elbow, "You! Sonofah-"

A burning match had been thrown upon the oil, in return it burst into flames and ignited everything it touched. The people were no different. Violence was paid back in violence. Blood with more blood. A sea of rage and anger blooming forth into the breaking of a riot. Hands grasped, weapons were drawn - Fallon was no different in these actions. Kukri grasped, her entire shoulder barged into one as she thought only of freedom, dipping down and slamming herself past another. A wayward punch struck against her side, a stagger and a topple back into the remains of long abandoned debris. She gave a duck, blade swinging round and pointing defensively as one decided to try and square himself up to her - thinking now only of carnage. Fallon snapped, a growl in her voice as her shoulder blades reminded her that backwards was not presently an option, "Back off!"

[Raenetyr Verogane]

The oppressive heat did little to cool the simmering unrest in Sunberth; rather, it seemed to fray at the thinning patience of the city's inhabitants. The normal clamor that came with the day was absent, replaced by hushed whispers and low muttering. Eyes darted frantically, at least more so than usual, the people willing to lower their gazes to the ground as they hurried along. The streets were still packed, and to those who didn't know better, things might have seemed as normal as they come, in the Berth at least. If only that was the case.

Raenetyr Verogane jostled against the mass of bodies with quite some difficulty. His height, though it allowed him to see over most of the crowd, also meant that he was unable to fit through gaps that formed in the tightly woven network of humans. His face was set in a burning scowl, so harsh in its intensity that many of the more nervous citizens would quickly glance away. But the bounty hunter's outward intimidation was for himself as much as it was for the outside world, as he attempted to steel himself against a nagging fear that gnawed at his gut. Sunberth was about to lose its lid, that much was certain. The only question was how many would be scalded when it boiled over.

He had been on his way to the docks, to buy some food from the fishmongers there. It was one of the only places where one could be sure that products were fresh, and it was relatively cheap for how reliable it was. But getting groceries had become a life-threatening ordeal, it seemed. Almost as soon as he'd turned off his home street, Raenetyr had noticed that something was very, very wrong. Mercenaries and sellswords skulked about, in numbers that were more than enough to cause alarm. Some had daggers hidden under cloaks or stowed in boots, while others were so bold as to carry naked blades. But the message was clear; Dira would have her hands full and the streets would run red, with the lifeblood of fighters and innocents alike.

It was like a slowly gathering storm; no one knew where the lightning would strike, though all knew it was coming. Raenetyr had reached a small square by now, though the masses had only thinned out minutely. Fear spread on the air like a mind-altering miasma. Any contact, accidental or otherwise, was often rewarded with a flinch or curse. Those who had weapons gripped them, and the sea of bodies pushed as many tried to return to their homes. Not that it'd be safe there, he thought, if things got out of hand. The bounty hunter took deep breaths, and his pace slowed. Don't try and control your fear; use it, let it heighten your senses, fuel your reflexes. Raenetyr's thin mouth set in a hard line; if anything was going to happen, he was ready. Let them come and try him, by the Gods!

And then it happened. Sudden, like a spark that lands in a heap of dry kindling. Angry shouts rang out and were met by an uproar, screams of fear and pent-up tension and anger, all fighting to drown each other out in a cacophony of voices. The mindless violence spread like wildfire, only spurred on by those who were trying to escape as they clawed and shoved. The hissing of blades from scabbards underscored the thump of bodies against bodies and the thuds and cracks of combat.

Raenetyr cursed foully, the tight press of the crowd preventing him from drawing his greatblade from its sheathe on his back. A well-muscled man closed rapidly on the large bounty hunter as he struggled to make room. A face that would normally entrap the most critical of women was contorted into a rictus of savagery, a cross between a sneer and a grimace. Steel flashed from a push blade, held tightly in the man's knuckles. Raenetyr snarled, fighting to draw his hand-and-a-half sword against the frantic swarm. No, he wouldn't die. Not here, and not so that some pretty boy could brag about his skill to some loose tavern whores.

Raenetyr's hands relinquished the hilt of his weapon at the last moment, as the rogue pulled his blade back to gain momentum. One arm lashed out like a club, striking the man across his well-defined chin. The other arm found the fighter's weapon hand, and the bounty hunter's calloused fingers gripped a vulnerable wrist. The bigger man's scarred face was set in its determination as he grappled with his adversary. While his opponent may have had him beat in the looks department, he was no match for the sheer strength that now wrestled with him. The small knife was slowly turned upward, and the man's good looks were marred by a growing fear as his own weapon rushed up to meet him.

The stranger didn't look so dashing now, with steel in his socket and the remains of his eye seeping through the cracks. Raenetyr shoved his defeated and screaming foe back with a growl, and did not waste any time in drawing his weapon, the sharp whisper of steel on scabbard cutting through the chaos. What had begun less than a few chimed ago was now in full swing; it was like a massive free-for-all, and even those without any defense were targets. It sounded like a battlefield; and from the muffled sounds of pitched battle nearby it seemed that the skirmish had quickly spread to other streets and alleys. The hand-and-a-half sword was firmly in the bounty hunter's grasp now, but he had no time to waste. He swung his formidable blade at an advancing rioter with one hand, and he felt a jarring impact up to his elbow as the steel bit deep into the man's neck and down well into the chest. Raenetyr's free hand found the the back of another person's head and intertwined with locks of sweat-slicked hair. He dragged the hapless figure backwards before throwing him to the muddy, trampled ground; all while trying to free his greatsword from its spasming sheathe of flesh and bone. The large man then stepped deeper into the fray, teeth clenched as the battle-furor descended, his strikes deceptively fast for a man of his stature. His blade hummed and sang as it swung around its wielder, with enough strength to nearly cleave a full-grown man in two, allowing the grizzled warrior a wide berth as he waded into the gruesome melee.

[Raenetyr Verogane]

OOCdouble post

[Arvo]

Today was not a good day to be on the streets that was for sure. The paranoia that came hand in hand with living in the city of Anarchy was truly at it’s peak. Arvo was carrying all the weaponry he owned, but he didn’t feel like it was near enough. His usual confident demeanor had taken a dive, and he had made himself as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting to be killed today and pissing someone off amongst all of this tension would surely achieve just that. If only he could just make it home before everything erupted. He quickened his steps, eyes darting around nervously, watching for signs of an outbreak.

The alleyways were like giant abysses, and waling into them would be suicide. As strong as he acted, his skills were still ridiculously undertrained. Arvo felt vulnerable, but he couldn’t let the fear show through. These mercenaries and thugs could probably smell it, like beasts. He avoided eye-contact, and he was making good progress. But would it be good enough to get him out of the danger zone and behind locked doors? Not that he’d be safe there. In fact, he wasn’t safe anywhere. There was no such thing as safety in this city.

He passed face after scowling face. Thugs and gang members alike, all glaring and jeering at each other, waiting for someone to make that dreaded first move and start the violence. The tension was still rising steadily. He noticed a hand after hand go to their weapon, just itching to get it out and spill blood. Arvo kept his hand near his blade and his bow, ready to slice, or notch an arrow. Fighting at short range with a shortbow was a whole different ballgame than shooting at a target long distance. It was something Arvo wasn’t confident with yet, but it was better than just standing there and getting blown to pieces. Maybe he could find a nice solid roof and shoot a path for himself. He’d stocked up on arrows to the point where he simply couldn’t fit any more in his quiver, and good thing two, because there were a lot of enemies.

It was beginning to dawn on the mixed blood now that he wasn’t going to make it home. Someone swore, and threats were flung around as thugs clashed together violently. Just like that Arvo was flung into the middle of an all out war. It was as if his lungs were tightening as fear set in. Someone, probably unintentionally, knocked him from behind and he fell to the floor. Wasting no time with seeing who the one at fault was, he used his momentum to roll forward, turn onto his back and notch an arrow, which he promptly sent whistling through the air to imbed itself right between the eyes of the brute that had pushed him. The arrow pierced his skull in a gut-churning, bloody scene. Arvo felt nothing as he murdered. His fear was definitely there, but it was well hidden behind a mask of cold-bloodedness.

No going back now He reasoned, as his heart pumped in his chest and his eyes darted around nervously. Civilians like him were fighting for their lives. A girl with a Kukri was closest to him, and another man slicing his way through the riot leaving a trail of carnage and blood in his wake. Arvo grabbed his shorsword just in time to stop a blow from a blade from impaling him. “Shyke!” Arvo yelled as he parried the blow (Barely) and spun in place to send the sword into his shoulder. He waited for the cry of pain and then swung again, moving in a deadly dance I’m not dying here he thought. Desperately as another man fell.

Arvo hung back, going on the defensive until he could figure out just how he was going to survive this ordeal. Getting to a rooftop he could climb easily would be his first goal. He could pick them off like flies that way. Right now though, the crowd was too thick, and that wasn’t an option.

[Zandelia]

She had often heard it said that violence was deeply set within the nature of man, that no matter how hard it tried it would forever have to lurch upwards, ascending to a better nature whilst dragging the blood thirst with it - docile perhaps but still that ever present sense of being bowed down. She was not so sure, she was beginning to suspect that it came down - more or less - to environment. Sunberth was a dark and rotting place compared with much of the world and it held by far the greatest levels of casual violence she had seen in her traveling. It bred the people to be what they were, disorganized and scrabbling for every breath. With no real surplus’ of food and water, of health care and the rest, it fell to the strongest to win most days. In such a place there was freedom…there was also a profound restriction. And at no time was it more apparent than at a time of true, blood soaked street type of warfare.

It’s coming, I can feel it. They know, we now it, everyone who has lived in Sunberth long enough knows it. You’d have to be a fool to not see it plain as day in front of your no- she thought to herself bitterly, thoughts turning inwards and philosophically jaded before being rudely interrupted - the door of the Pig’s Foot slammed open.

“It’s started! They’re killing each other! The bastards have started a petching massacre!” the middle aged man shouted before slumping sideways into someone else who, for once showing a decent side, caught him and levered him into a chair with some help.

She rammed her fists into the surface of the table and pushed herself upwards, she had no choice in theater despite the foolishness of wading into a maelstrom of steel, teeth, nails and gods new whatever else people thought they could use in a cramped alley. Eyes shifted to heart the noise, startled and wary but they said nothing. Merv averted his gaze as her own emerald passed over his face. He was a businessman and had a stake in keeping his nose clean and his tavern safe from harm. She walked over to him and placed her gold pouch into his hand firmly, it contained everything that she had on her and wasn’t about to let it disappear in a brawl to be used to buy daggers to kill others with. She held her stare until his eyes met her own and nodded.

“Keep it safe, about a hundred there. Take people in, keep them safe if needs be. Take the cost out of what is there. I’ll tae the rest back…if I come back” she told him firmly.

“Why?”

“Because no one else ever does, that’s why. And we should all be ashamed of that. People suffer because other people want to play at swords. Or clubs. Or…whatever. Just do what I damned well say I want done with my own bloody money Merv. Now…stay safe” she finished and with that it was a simple walking to the door, the opening and ushering out and the firm slam behind her.

There was running of course, that was the first sign that something that all feared had reared its beastly head once more. Mothers ushering their children home, merchants fleeing for the sake of their businesses and their lives. Reading the flow of the crowds, all fluttering in one direction, told her enough about the locations of the fighting. There were several she noted but she only had one choice to make really - find Fallon. Make sure she was protected. When she was safe then the others could be sought out and found, banding together to protect themselves perhaps. She took a leap of faith, for once, and began to mae her way in the general direction of one outbreak. Forcing her way through the crowds was easily done once she had drawn her tonfa - they moved out of her way for their own sakes. She made good progress, the ringing of steel echoing and growing louder as she moved. Through an alleyway here, a warren there and emerging unto pooling red and fallen bodies. There were not that many at the moment, she had arrived early it seemed. She scanned the group and found no Fallon at first.

“Petch!” she cursed to the world in general - a mistake.

“There! Get the blonde bitch so we can have some fun lads!” one burly man shouted and two of his comrades turned, steel in hand and with sickly smiles.

There was no time to think only to react. Tonfa came out spinning as she stepped forwards, left absorbing a blade and turning it to her right as she stepped to the left. He now blocked the other from getting at her and she stamped on the back of his nee to bring him down and her right tonfa lashed out at his temple to floor him for good. She darted backwards and waited, the man stepping over his fallen friend presented a window of a lack of balance and she rushed in. He tried to step backwards but tripped on the body, tumbling and weapon flailing. She leant back from the strike and jumped onto his hand, all but shattering his fingers viciously. She kicked his weapon away and brought a heel into his throat to end his miserable life. It was then, in a momentary shifting of the combat, that Fallon appeared. Pressed and wielding her kukri before her.

“Bitzer, I’m he-” she began to shout but had to duck underneath a sword swing and a kick to her abdomen sent her stumbling backwards into the wall behind her.

She growled, gutteral and primal, as she glared at her assailant - the one who wanted some ‘fun’. There would be no fun this day, not for him she decided. She would kill him, get to Fallon and then her promise would be fulfilled - one way or another.

Back to back…guarding… she thought to herself as a smile of wrath crossed her lips.

[Fallon]

Fallon flexed her free hand and charged. There was a tight grip upon the kukri, her fingers flexing and wiggling around the hilt as she closed in. Forward was the only answer now, and that came apparent as she let the air fill her lungs and a snarling war cry escape. He did not take a hint, and it was not long before the splayed hand pressed upon his face, eyes burning as she took that step in and hacked the blade down with the other. She left the man crying, cradling his shoulder where she had left the large gash in it, sobbing into the dirt and blood. Wrenching away, she raised the left arm elbow leading as she barged on past.

She heard the gurgling shouts as others begged for mercy, the desperate swelling and throbbing beat as the inhabitants divided in mentality between being either escapists or animals. It buzzed with noise, the edge slicing down upon the outstretched hand of a grabber, before she once more turned round and pushed onwards. Another quick blade, she felt the sting nick at her arms as she continued to push, contorting and twisting as she tried her best to avoid. It was close quarters here, she barely had any real time to grasp upon. Another gurgled scream, she caught only the glimmer of the man with the steel in his eye as he disappeared behind the sea of bodies.

Another scream, a shouting of a name grasped her attention for a moment before it was swept on past again. She had to keep moving she knew that, and so urged her body to move as it could between the trappings of flesh. A club came round cracking right behind her knee and sent her stumbling. Another latched onto her, a wild almost frenzied state within their eyes, teeth gnashing wildly as they locked onto leather. There was a jerking flinch, a sickening crunch as the cold iron met the neck, and the form slumped. She felt the club again, this time across the shoulders and pushing her down staggering.

The blade coiled back to her, her entire head ducked as she went to defend herself against the next hard clubbing to arrive. But there was none, and so she took the opportunity of lacking attacks to scrabble up to her feet and press once more. A clatter of steel, her entire form froze when she saw the man and the large blade wading through the crowd, eyes blinking as the large weapon was simply swung and sent to cleave whatever came near. She threw herself back, feeling the definite level of inadequacy of using a kukri in such a situation. Her back went into another, that momentary off balance as she tried to lurch away. The tulwars at her waist called at her to be drawn, but there was no space - more so when she found herself balancing between a greatsword and a short sword, both keen and ready to draw blood.

There was a broad swing, an attempt of a deterrent as she stepped away and looked for a way out. Her head snapped to the calling of her work name, eyes scanning the crowd for the source. She caught the glimmer, the shifting of forms as she was once more lost behind the bodies. There was no thought, there was only do. With a sharp turn upon her heel she gave a lurch forward, the voice ripping up and escaping from her lips in angry tones, "Move! Petching move!"

Hands clawed, eyes burned as she shoved her way through, kukri piercing the space between and the rest of the form wriggling after it. Barely coherent thoughts racing up into her head; why was she here? What was she doing? Was she alright? A deep inhale, the pulse quickened, her eyes burning down as she caught the first target within her gaze. Arms wide Fallon threw herself at him, a spring up from her feet and a full on tackle. There was a crunch and a clatter, the coiling back of the kukri and the snarl ripping up her throat, "Leave her the petch alone! You son of a-" A fist clattered around her jaw in response to her demands and the struggle for dominance begun. Her gaze barely glanced at the woman, "Get out of here you idiot!"

[Raenetyr Verogane]

Screams rent the hot, shiftless air. Desperate pleas for salvation and safety mingled with screeches of pain and terror. Someone cried for their mother over the collection of voices that howled and wailed until they were hoarse. The clang of steel and the breaking of bones punctuated the endless din, as the denizens of a godless city fought and died in oppressive heat.

Raenetyr's breath was ragged with exertion, and perspiration dripped down his grizzled features. His forearms and torso were drenched in blood and gore, and his broad back was quickly soaking with sweat. But his determination was like an iron spine; it strengthened him, and would carry him for several bells more (though the very thought filled him with dread), long after he should have succumbed to exhaustion.

His greatsword flashed like grounded lightning, and each stroke that landed true brought forth a spring of crimson. He was shockingly quick; many made the mistake of underestimated the agility of a man his size, and many found themselves woefully dead before they could correct their error. The first few seconds of a fight, before surprise wore off, could be all that it took. That fact had served the bounty hunter well so far, but he felt out-of-practice. He knew how to handle his weapon, that was for sure; but he felt like a shadow of the swordsman he had been when he left Syliras. He'd been a veritable master of the blade back then, though about two years of drinking along with the general standard of living in Sunberth were bound to take their toll.

Raenetyr swung his greatsword up from his hip, and it met a rushing assailant before they were even in striking distance. The blade itself was proving to be a major advantage. Fighting in Sunberth was down and dirty, and often conducted in thin alleyways with next to no spare room. The weapons commonly found did just that, and were generally brutally efficient in dealing pain and death, whether it be through stabbing or hacking or blunt trauma. But you'd be hard-pressed to find weapons that could fend off a hand-and-a-half hander, and the sheer force that could be put behind such a blade was usually enough to snap a hilt or dent steel. The reach was fearsome as well, and it often lent an element of intimidation to the large bounty hunter in combat. He wasn't sure that he was seeing it now, however; most people were fighting too desperately to care, like cornered animals.

Raenetyr changed his grip and leaned back to deflect an axe-stroke. He returned the attack, and the iron head of the hatchet was shorn clean off, along with the fighter's other hand. The bounty hunter stepped back and swerved to avoid a slicing curved sword. He almost lost his balance on a slippery corpse that lay underfoot, an arrow lodged in its skull. The blunder allowed his opponent to step into range.

He was of average height, putting him a few inches below Raenetyr, but was athletically built, and the blood on his weapon spoke well enough for him. The two locked blades savagely, almost lost in their own struggle, oblivious to the surrounding chaos. Dirt kicked up about them as they moved. Raenetyr's fighting stance was a sure footed one; his feet rarely left the ground, and were usually planted for balance and strength. His foe, meanwhile, darted and twisted, avoiding attacks rather than parrying them. Steel flashed and whirled around them. Raenetyr was hard pressed to keep up with the smaller man's attacks, and winced as a shallow red line opened up on his thigh. His assailant grinned, and moved past the greatsword's reach, ready to finish the fight. The grin was wiped off his face by a cheek-splitting brawler's punch to the face. He received another haymaker from the bounty hunter, which connected squarely with his nose. Blood sprayed onto Raenetyr's fist, and the man staggered back.

There was no time to finish him; it was chaos, pure and simple. The large man was sure that someone would deal with him, anyway, and if it wasn't by dagger or club then it'd be by trampling feet. His gaze flickered over a man that seemed to hang back, as if waiting for the right moment, visible through a thin alleyway that had opened up in the press of bodies. He had a shortbow; that would be devastating, if he knew how to use it. Raenetyr locked eyes with the bowman, and stared for an instant before launching into action. He made a beeline straight for the pale fellow, his boots thundering on the muddied and bloodied cobblestones. He knew that if he didn't close, and fast, he'd be brought down like a deer, and usually 'bristling with arrows' was a sure way to go out of this world in excruciating pain.

Raenetyr's charge was interrupted as he managed to collide with a stumbling brute of a man. The two went tumbling to the side, the corridor lost by writhing bodies. The bounty hunter fought to keep himself from falling over; once that happened, it would all be over for him. He managed to right himself after a frantic few yards of backpedaling and cursing.

The grizzled bounty hunter glanced up to see that he had gone from the frying pan and into the fire. He was near the epicenter of the slaughter now, where the press of bodies was so great that some died and were held upright, entrapped by a wall of straining flesh. Thankfully, he was far away enough from that particular hell that he still had room to wield his blade.

Raenetyr tried to quickly assess the situation. A woman fought nearby, wielding some sort of blunt weaponry with strange, perpendicular handles. She crushed a man's windpipe before she was shoved back by a swift kick from an adversary. Suddenly the man was taken down by someone that had leapt into the fray. The two wrestled on the ground for control, and the aggressor shouted something before taking a fist to the jaw. His height allowed him a short glimpse over the warring mass, where he could see more people rushing to add to the bloodshed. They'd be fresh, and ready for a fight.

Raenetyr considered his options. His house lay in the opposite direction, and the brunt of the battle seemed to be slowly churning that way. The battle-wearied mercenaries and fighters turned to meet the new and unblooded attackers, and it seemed as if an unspoken pact had formed on that side, as the initial combatants banded together to survive against the fresh wave. If he could make it over there, he might stand a chance... But he couldn't turn his back on the current battle, knew that it would be suicide to even try.

He faced one of his enemies, the woman that was still standing. On second inspection he realized that one eye seemed to be clouded white. An advantage, hopefully, though you could never quite tell with some. He knew that underestimating her could lead to a lost eye of his own, quickly followed by his own life. He stepped forward, and his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his blade. His scarred face set in an impassive glower, his eyes like coals under his dark brows. He aimed the studded sole of his boot at the two grappling figures as he passed them, a quick stamp that connected sharply, though with which one he wasn't sure. His hand-and-a-half sword swung in his grip, specks of blood flicking from the steel as it cut lazy circles in the air. He cursed foully, his low Syliran accent grating in the sweltering air as he prepared himself for a fight.

[Arvo]

Arvo had found an opening in amongst the flash of swords and the spurts of blood and gore. He hung back, shrinking into the shadows further, counting on the fact that, for now, he had been forgotten about. The only problem was, he’d have to re-join the crowd eventually. The Alleyway behind him was a dead end. What a blow that was to discover. He picked off some more men who got too close and they fell silently with arrows through their throats. His eyes darted around. He had good eyesight in dark places, probably something to do with his unknown father, so even though the alley was comp,etly bathed in shadow, he could see every crate, every fence, every half-wall. And he formulated a plan. He was going to skirt around the edges silently as he could. The brutes were so busy jumping into the bloodbath that they probably wouldn’t notice him as long as he didn’t attack, or make any loud noises.

As he was about to scramble his way up a wall that looked climbable and into the next dark allyway, he noticed the man he’d seen before ruthlessly slaughtering his way through the swarm. His eyes were locked with Arvo’s, his expression dangerous. For a moment, Arvo actually froze in place, a stab of fear tightening his chest and momentarily stunning him, and halting his breathing. Then the tall man charged, and Arvo snapped into action. He closed the gap fast, and he’s had a head start considering Arvo had frozen up like an petching imbecile. He fumbled around, reaching for an arrow and notching it clumsily like an infant. Arvo was dead, he wouldn’t make it in time.

But it seemed Dira wouldn’t be taking him. Not yet. For a stroke of dumb luck saved his life. Arvo’s attacker was taken down by a hulking man who just happened to step into his warpath. Arvo allowed himself a few chimes to be relieved, and then got a move on, leaping for the wall and hurling himself over it into the next Alleyway. He landed awkwardly on a trashcan, which gave way with an awfully loud crashing of metal against cobblestone. Just up ahead he could see the apex of the massacre. And this time there really was no way to go around it directly. He couldn’t get onto the rooftops here, there was no way he could climb those walls without falling and breaking a leg, they were simply too high up. He’d have to clear a path and cross towards where the press of bodies was thinner. He couldn’t stay in one place, because the crowd was no gravitating in his direction.

Arvo took a breath and rapidly started notching arrows and sending them into skulls and necks, moving forward with every new takedown. He was doing well for a long time. No one was able to close the gap fast enough. But suddenly he felt something hit him in the back of the head. Someone had managed to hit him with a petching bottle of all things. Arvo felt every shard of glass imbedded into the back of his head, and almost threw up. A wave of Nausea nearly took him out. But the hunter spun in place and from a stomach-turning distance of just a meter and a half, he sent an arrow through that son-of-a-bitch’s eye socket, and continued on his path. The women he had seen before wielding the Kukri was there fighting to save another woman with blonde hair and only one good eye. And there was the man who had charged him before.

Arvo cursed and backed up, hands gripping his bow. “You again, huh?” He growled. His eyes darted between the woman and the man.“Petching truce! Yeah? More are coming, and I’d love to stand a chance against them.” He yelled wildly as he made eye contact with whoever was standing and tried to fight the awful dizziness that constantly threatened to take him out of this fight for good. Blood ran down his face, a stark contrast against the colorlessness of his skin, but his golden eyes were fierce and focused, and his arms were ready for new blood. He refused to lower his bow, of course. The man couldn’t charge him this time, Arvo’s weapon was already drawn, and he was out of range of the man’s fatal swing.

[Zandelia]

She had been expecting an assault, her back bouncing hard off of the wall as she tried to ready herself by bringing her tonfa across her body protectively, but it was not to be. Instead any lethal stroke was ceased in its tracks by the arrival of Fallon. Guardian as usual she barreled into the man and the scuffle began, surging forcefully but not in what one could call a normal manner. It was then, as the brutality was laid bare and she was shoved back she knew that Fallon was not entirely herself. She was slipping into that state within which her true self cocooned protectively and the rage took over. She really hoped she was still coherent enough not to try and murder everyone within sight - getting out of such a thing would be near impossible and she’d stay of course, stay and likely die. Before she could speak she was clipped in the thigh by a random kick and stumbled sideways with a curse.

“For the love of all that is blo-” she growled and turned only to see someone bearing down on her partner from behind.

She darted in to block the blade clumsily, turning it just enough to make sure Fallon was safe but getting a small cut across her upper arm in the follow through. She whipped her other weapon around and slammed it into the opponents ribs, she wasn’t even aware of who it was she merely reacted upon instinct. She managed to turn a losing situation into a winning one with two forceful jabs into the sternum to send them stumbling backwards to get impaled from behind by another blood thirsty fighter. This was getting stupid, there were few sides here now and the ones who were working together were shifting the tide of battle. What allegiance was unknowable but she knew a losing battle when she saw it.

Only a matter of time before sides kill off the individuals and then turn on each other until only one is left. We need some fucking help! she told herself as she ducked under another wild punch - not eve a weapon this time. The man spun around but her tonfa was ready, lined up along her forearm and rising in a chop to the throat that was more a brawler’s attack than anything else. Still…they fell into the growing pile of bodies.

“If I am an idiot Bitzer,” she hissed at the woman as she stepped in behind her, trying to keep her back covered, “then you are a damned moron! I’m your ally you feral little-” she snapped as the younger man crashed through the throng, obviously dazed and looking for help.

He had blood streaming and clearly would die without assistance, he didn’t look able enough to fight off many more and against her better judgment she found that he was better as an ally than as an enemy. At least he could be a human shield of sorts if it came to it, though she was loathe to throw away resources in such a manner. For that is what he was, a resource. She used one tonfa to push him to the side and against the wall where Fallon and herself were holding a position as best they could before her tonfa whirled thrice, the forst blow batterin at the man’s weapon vertically down, the second coming up the other way to knock it from their grasp and the third slamming down across their face as she kicked them backwards into several other fighters. She scowled at the newcomer darkly as she spoke to him, firm words filled with the truth of menace.

“Fine, stick close and try not to die. Betray us and I’ll make sure you die next. Bitzer! We have a new friend!”

“Here, she said Bitzer. And that’s Web! Petching get them!”

“For petch sake!” she shouted at the three new assailants, “first one to touch her goes through me,” she pointed her tonfa at them as a warning, “Bitzer…please for god’s sake hear me this time. That giant of a fighter, killing quite a few people. See him? Tall and bearded? He’s making a path out of this. Try to edge that way” she shouted the last as she stepped into the first attacker’s strike o get her tonfa inside his guard to flick into the wrist and disarm as fingers involuntarily jarred.

She received a punch to her shoulder in recompense but she was inside him and he was weaponless now. It was a quick end as the other tonfa flicked up to break jaw and teeth were spluttered in shards between the screams.

“Get to the edge of the battle before we get caught between two sides!” she screamed at the both of them, gesturing vaguely towards the hulking warrior carving his own path.

[Fallon]

A shouting snarl in response, her free hand snatched and squeezed down around his windpipe. It clenched, a struggle as the wrestling continued and the kukri came hacking wildly at the flesh. Once, twice, thrice, and then stillness. Her chest heaved, adrenal pumping and rising up into her mind. Thoughts were distorted, flickering back and forth between what needed to be done and what could be achieved. Blood, she could smell blood, rich and tangy upon her senses, smothering hands and blades - her eyes flickered and stared at it. She tried to establish some grounding in which to work upon, to let things unshackle would breed more chaos and right now that was not an option. She was a leader, a cold iron mind and a tactician to boot - there was no time for letting the more feral and primal side loose in a mad dash for defence. Discipline was key.

Sucking in the air, her fingers pulled away and smeared the blood. One foot pressed under the other, the rage swimming momentary in her vision. Zandelia was up and moving, fighting back besides the cuts and injuries that swum about her. Her jaw ached, stiffening as she tried to stretch it out, form rising up and pressing to the bodies beneath. The kukri was slipped away, clicking into its sheath. Hands slipped and grasped onto the tulwars, a judging of space to draw and dubbing it possible to do so. Weapons slid out, grasp tightening as she pulled and prepared herself for what was to come. She puffed her cheeks, the eyes sliding out to burn and then letting out an amused growl.

"Not. Feral. Yet!" teeth flashed, a firm nudge with the elbow as she stepped and took her position. The wrists rotated, a dual swing of both as a mad man came at her with a swing, "And take the moron bit up with Eyris!" Precision was key, that much was apparent, defend, attack, move on. There was no time for dallying either. She shot a glare to the new lad that made his presence known, a flicker as she weighed him up. The face was locked into memory, grim though it was - no doubt she looked a similar state too. A small snort and a nod, she gave a look at his weapon, "Close quarters, bow is useless."

Another inhale, the inner fire being tempered into something much more useful. Focus, do not win, survive. She gave her own curse when she spotted the three approached with their intentions clear. They were coming for her, the Scars and its following. There was a quick pivoting step round, a cleaving motion with the right blade as she picked her target, the left holding back slightly before she swung it round. Closing the gap was the next option, and whilst the attacker shrieked, it was the head that reeled back. A mighty crack sounded as she head butted him and promptly sent him spiralling away. She shook herself, foot thrown forward and a sweeping of blades at those that came close.
"You don't have to tell me twice Web!" she barely turned her head round, blades crossing together to brace against a downwards swing. They scissored, tilting and then lunging forwards into the other. "Oi! Twinkle!" she shouted at the lad, "Going to be a press of bodies when the next wave comes. Good luck firing. Now come on!" The tulwar gave a general point towards the man cleaving his way free, "That way! Or do I have to carry you?"

She did not really wait for an answer. With a quick step round both tulwars were raised, set upon slicing and hacking where she could. Defend, fight back, the words repeated in her mind. Reach, length, out manoeuvre and side step. The seasons of past training repeated in her mind growing louder as she continued the movements. Another hack, a forward thrust as she could begin to feel the bodies close in around them. They swelled forward, a variety of shouts emerging and the rising sense of pressure. A firm shove back as she focused on making the clear path towards the other. Her voice gave a bellow, another push as she gave a glance back.

"Come on! Keep up!" she caught the oncoming blow of another, her blade rising to defend. A grind of steel, she bent into it, the inner curve running up and across her shoulder and back. A full drop, a quick, rapid slash with the left as she went with the momentum. Even as she felt the sharp stab through, the piercing of skin in retaliation. The body gave a slump against her, and was promptly abandoned to one side with speed. Adrenal pumped, a deep hiss inwards as she made the push to move. Another shout, "Back off! Son of a-"
"Grab her! Get her!"
"For the love of the Gods," she dryly muttered. Her voice picked up, directed out across. Firm and hard, laced with no room for argument, she was in no mood to play about with words any more, "Big guy! Cleave a petching path! NOW!"