Flashback Discovery

[Oli Guillory]

SP 4 509

The first punch had been the worst. It had slammed into his chin with a sickening crack that had sent him reeling, stumbling backwards in a grinning daze of stars and patches of tantalizing darkness. He could feel his blood rushing, the pulse quickening as the wind rushed past him, foreshadowing another strike. There was already the coppery flavor so familiar that came with such things, and it lingered on his tongue like an acrid honey, dripping from his chin in the tick it took for the next blow to land. It was different than the first, as if the fist desired to pass through him rather than to balk at the advent of flesh and bone. The wind rushed from his lungs, making room for the man's hand to creep just a few more inches deeper into his stomach, stopped only by the meager layer of muscle that instinctively contracted in rebuttal, the sharp pain dulling almost immediately as he felt his legs weaken and knees begin to shake. It was what he had wanted, what he had desired, and though he struggled to draw in another, spluttering breath, he couldn't help but grin ever wider, his vision still blurred from where his jaw had popped, the ache already spreading its root-like tendrils out and along the side of his face.

Others had gathered long before the fight had truly begun, and their voices were like faded fabrics tapping against dusty glass. Whether they were as filled with excitement as he was of if their shouts were those of distress, he couldn't quite discern. Instead, when the kick followed the two successive punches, he sailed backwards, his balance little more than a memory as he drifted through the air with a weightlessness that felt as though it might last forever. When he hit the ground, however, his body was reminded of its mass, its encumbrance, and with it came the ache of bruised bones and the sear of scraped flesh. His assailant did not waste time, and he did not desire it. His eyes flicked back and fourth, desperately searching for a few ticks before a shadow cast itself over him, imposing but welcome in that it offered him more of what he had come for. His own first struck out, one managing to find a place dangerously close on the other man's upper thigh. The attempt at the defense was met with a crushing boot that ground his shoulder into the cold, unmoving stones beneath him. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips a tick before the man had straddled him, sinking down to his knees before beginning a steady metronome of strikes one after the other in a rising succession.

It felt as though his head was going to burst at first, each connection of knuckles to cheek was its own blow, but as they continued, the sensations began to meld together. His mouth was filled with blood, his lips split and tongue bit from his fall, but his heart pounded with all the giddiness of a child. Consciousness fought against its darker sister, clawing towards the faded light not out of a desire of survival but that of the experience. He could feel the throbbing distress of his head that he had raised his arms in a vain attempt to protect, though what exactly he was protecting he couldn't quite place. He wanted to bask in the wincing snap of fist against skin, the jarring manner in which his head bounced off of the cobbles under him with each strike. It was more addictive that the most tender of touches, and he shuddered under the strain of keeping himself awake. There was more than just the pain and pleasure: there was the distinct flavor of fear that had begun to creep up around him. It had become hard to think, and he couldn't remember the last time he had taken a breath. Little lights danced in his vision whether his eyes were open or closed, and he couldn't quite tell the difference between either. The voices had dulled into a gentle roar, and each time a fist found its mark, it was like a slow tidal wave of force passed over him like a ripple in a pond.

He spluttered beneath the weight of his aggressor, arms too heavy to hold above him anymore, falling to the side like the spent leaves of autumn, his mind focused on a single, sudden realization: this is what is to die. A cry escaped his lungs, one of visceral, tearing fear, a noise that was drawn from him rather than released from within, and it sounded foreign to his own ears, like that of another, a phantom who resided within his own body. There was a tick that passed, a rush of air, but the promise of another press of knuckles was broken as he felt the weight of the man lifted from his chest. He blinked, bleary and confused, odd shapes and colors swirling before his disorientation as there stood another, and interference, a savior. With a groan, he tried to rise himself from where he lay, his head lolling to the side, blood running from his nose and lips to stain his already sullied tunic, the bloom of crimson spreading over the pale linen like a creeping flame. Words failed him, tumbling from his swollen lips in a messy mumble. Hands descended upon him, pulling him to his feet, supporting his weight with offered shoulders, but the voices were distant, unimportant.

What he wanted was right before him: a man - a true man - in armor and with weapon drawn. He pushed against those who, in the brief ticks it took for his addled mind to catch itself up to the current situation, changed from caretakers to captors. He stumbled forward, wanting to see what it was that was unfolding before him, to hear the words being said, to understand, to know. He didn't make it too far before he wavered and more hands moved to hold him steady. The only words he was able to manage in that moment as his dark eyes stared wide and transfixed on the knight before him were two: "Who that."

[Yvan]

Twenty-five and in his prime, Yvan had officially been a knight going on four years now. Patrol had become routine, like getting out of bed in the morning and dressing, sometimes it all seemed a blur. Just like most mornings, Yvan’s watch had taken place outside of the city walls where he had just spent the last four hours traveling part way between Syliras and the road to the Mithryn Outpost. In this time he had managed to pull over and search two suspiciously heavy looking wagons, help a young woman bring her horse under control, and put out the remains of an unattended campfire in the woods, which left unchecked, could have burned out of control.

Passing through the city gates on horseback, Yvan had decided to stop for an early lunch. He often chose to eat back at the barracks rather than stopping by at one of the local taverns, but seen as he was still on duty, the knight steered his mount up a narrow side street he wouldn’t normally have taken, and ordered the horse to speed up. His armour chinked as he rode and upon leaving the shadowed walkway, he noticed a crowd of people gathered around a pair of young men, only boys really who looked to been in their early to mid-teens, and hurried down from his horse to shoulder his way through the crowd.
“Move aside!” the knight roared, shoving a rather stubborn onlooker with the face of his shield in order to get past him.

The young men looked as if they had been at it for a while, and clearly one of them was faring a lot better than the other, “Get off him!” Yvan warned, drawing his weapon, more so in an attempt to disperse the crowd a little rather than put it to use.

When his demand was ignored, Yvan ran forwards and tried a less subtle approach, raising his left foot in a swift kick to boot the youth in the gut, shoving him to one side. Undeterred, the young man scrambled on hands and knees to get to his feet in a hurry and reengage the unarmed youth Yvan had found him on top of. Without hesitation, and realising that he had no backup if things got out of control, Yvan rammed the boy with his shield, sending him down a second time, “On your knees!” he hissed, wide eyed and terrifying; he felt the people at his back take a subconscious step away from him.

This time the boy did as he was told, and taking him by the scruff, Yvan sheathed his gladius before dragging the man to his feet and walking him over to his horse where he was able to grab and pair of bindings and tie the attacker’s hands behind his back. When he told the young man to sit, the boy spat in his face and smirked, “Petch!”

Yvan felt his nostrils flare as rage welled within while the man’s saliva ran down his right cheek. His actions were swift, blade drawn in the blink of an eye to clout the kid in the face with the pommel of his gladius. A familiar crack announced that the boy’s nose had been broken and without the use of his hands to stem the blood that raced from its end and down over his chin, he lay on the ground groaning and crying out in pain.
“Did you see what happened here?” He asked a woman standing nearby with her hands crossed over her mouth in disbelief.
“Y-yes,” she managed and with tentative steps, approached the knight.
“Good, did anyone else see who started this?” Yvan called and while most of the crowd departed, having seen their fill of violence for one day, two young children stepped forth and offered a shy bob of their heads, “over there,” Yvan pointed, “sit down and wait for me to come speak to you all right?”

The children, a young boy and girl, perhaps siblings, nodded quickly and did as they were told. Yvan, meanwhile, took a rag from the saddlebag on his horse and wiped his face clean before moving to approach the kid he hadn’t seen move since he had arrived on the scene.

Going down on one knee, he rolled the youth carefully onto his side, trying to put him in a recovery position without causing him anymore pain, and held his shoulder with a gloved hand, “Are you awake? Can you hear me?” Yvan asked the boy before removing his glove and taking the teen’s left hand, “Squeeze my hand.”

[Oli Guillory]

The hands that supported him began to grow cold as the bodies began to throb with the beat of his own heart. He tried to say something more, to gain the attention of the knight who moved towards the boy who, only a half-chime before, had been perfectly willing to knock what little life was left from Oli's battered body. With a sickening squelch of flesh and metal, the boy was run through, his blood flowing from the wound in ribbons that fluttered and stretched out over the crowd, wrapped them in their cool silk. There was laughter, though he couldn't tell if it was his own or not, then there was darkness. Not a true darkness, however, as there was a crimson glow to it, an ache and pulse of pain that threatened to overthrow what little hold his mind had over his own thoughts, and it was stirred with light as there came a voice, a true voice, through the haze, drawing him out of his dream to blink with bleary eyes up at an odd, foreign face.

His beard was the first thing that Oli noticed, nothing particularly striking about it other than that it was the first thing he saw and the main point of his focus as he sucked in a sharp breath, his chest protesting with an equally edged pang as his lungs tried to fill, managing only about half what they could hold before the air slipped out between his swollen lips, the rush of the motion stinging where the skin had split and glistened with fresh blood. He heard the words before he understood them, the voice echoing through the murk of his aching head as a hand was extended towards him. Dark eyes regarded the gesture, lips too sore to shift into smile or frown, before he clumsily dropped his own battered fist into the extended palm. His expression took on a mix of surprise heavily diluted with disorientation as he felt the warmth and strength of the worn skin that pressed against his own, and his gaze finally rose to study more than just the bush of hair that quivered when he spoke.

As almost a half-thought, he remembered there had been a command and he followed it, his tongue split from where his teeth had managed to cut their way through during his fall, and gently pressed his fingers into the back of the man's hand, wrapped them about the firm flesh of his thumb's base. He was both awake and aware, or at the very least he was as aware as he could be. Everything hurt. Everything ached. It was exhilarating, and would have been more so if he had been able to regain all the proper faculties to feel more than the odd, jarring sting or oddly distant pulse of his blood as his heart still raced with anticipation of more danger, more trauma. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a crackling mumble, head too heavy to lift from where it rested on the meat of his arm, the cool cobbles firm and steady, a contrast that he was not quite ready nor able to separate himself from.

Instead, the woman whom the knight had first addressed stepped forward, her own features pinched into a frown of mixed pity and disdain. Without the knight's undivided attention, her posture was a fair bit more confident and words ringing with truth, however timorous the veil cast over them as she stared down at the two figures, eyeing the men's grip with a far more pronounced expression of scorn. "Do not let his appearance fool you, Ser Knight. He is as guilty as the other if not more so." Though she approached no further than a careful, reserved foot from the two, her arms crossed as she shook her head, looking back towards the groaning, bloody mess of the had-been antagonist. "It was a fight he wanted and a fight he received." Oli's grip on the man's hand faltered, the woman's words ringing true. He had wanted to exchange blows, to let the overbearing weight of the past few days air out through the medium of cuts and bruises. It had just been so easy to rile the other: a few sharp jabs here and there, a couple insults to draw out the rage, and a final humiliating slap. The consequence had been far greater than he had anticipated, but he had enjoyed every last tick of it. The disapproval in the woman's voice wrapped the familiar chains of shame around him once more, anchoring the floating sensation the fight had bought him with the reality of his own sickness.

One of the children, a younger boy whom Oli had seen a few times before, stepped forward, shaking his head with his hands on his hips and speaking with an authority that would have been alarming for someone so small of stature had Oli not exhanged words with him before. "That wasn't a fight." Pale green eyes flashed with their own mix of emotion as the boy shook his head at the woman's deepening frown. "Someone shoulda stepped in sooner."

His sister, a few years older if height were any indication of age, grabbed at his wrist, wavy locks of auburn hair jutting out at all angles, an apt symbolism of her own intense gaze as she hissed out, "Max, he said to sit down and wait!" Shoving her brother back a few steps, the girl offered the knight a curtsy, voice far softer and quiet as she sang her apology. "My brother speaks before he thinks, Ser. Please pardon him." The boy let out a "But-" before her hand was shoved over his mouth as she forced him to sit down next to her.

The woman, however, let out a small, irritated sigh, glancing back at Max's defiant glare. Still, she seemed a bit swayed by the child's statement and shrugged, ignoring the muffled groans that came from behind all of them as the dazed young man began to come to and deal with the rosy current that flowed with a steady drip from his fracture nose. "The boy's not wrong, Ser. It was... Frighteningly one-sided."

Though the discussion was about him, no one seemed particularly intent on the actual subject it revolved around, and so Oli let his hand fall back to the ground, lolling his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva before he was able to push himself with shaking arms into a seated position, his back bent so that his aching ribs did not have to work so hard to let his chest expand as he took shallow breathes. Focusing his gaze on the stones beneath him, he tried to shake his head in apology, though all he really managed was a hissing wince as the quickly swelling, flushed features of his face kept him from any motion more than a slight jerk. "E-emsury." Enunciation was too much work for his split lips. "R-Rulsury."

[Yvan]

The teen managed to squeeze Yvan's hand. Good, the knight thought, that meant he was conscious enough to hear and understand. He searched the young man for any visible signs of weapons, broken bones, or lacerations that might need immediate attention. A woman, the one Yvan had asked to remain, slowly approached the knight from behind and the sun at their backs saw her shadow his. She informed the knight that just because the young man in front of him hadn't come out on top, didn't mean he was the innocent party in this scuffle. Yvan’s grip on the boy's hand loosened before he finally pulled his hand away, "someone should have stepped in," Yvan looked over his shoulder at the woman, "there were plenty of people here."

It was one of the two children then that found the courage to approach Yvan only to be quickly berated by his sister for speaking out of turn. The girl apologised to the knight on her brother's behalf.

"What's your name?" Yvan asked the woman who assured him the boy with the broken nose had dominated the fight.
"Jone, Ser."
"Thank you, Jone, you're free to go," he told her, believing that he would get the truth from the children, as children were often painfully truthful in their observations, while adults liked to interpreted things a certain way, in Yvan's experience, children didn't quite developed the appropriate social filters until they reached a certain age; if he couldn't get any information from the girl, he knew her younger brother would be more forthcoming.

Jone departed and from where Yvan knelt beside the wounded teen, he struggled to detect the presence of alcohol on the boy's breath or clothing, even as the young man moved and found the strength to sit up.
"Hello," Yvan pointed to the child and summoned him forth with a wave of his finger, "you know it's unfitting to lie to a knight."
The boy nodded quickly before his sister protested, "he won't!"
"Sit," Yvan looked at the girl before pointing to a low spot on the stone wall outside the local tavern, "name?" Yvan inquired.
"Max, Ser, and that's my sister, Page."
"Max, do you know this man's name?"
"Yes, Ser, it's Oli."
"And that man over there?" Yvan pointed to the groaning teen with his face pressed to the cobblestone road.
"No, Ser."
"Tell me what happened, Max, from the very beginning," Yvan requested of the boy as he slipped his burly fingers back into the leather of his glove. He watched the boy like a hawk, eyes narrowed while his body language remained neutral.

[Oli Guillory]

Max frowned, his pale grey eyes slipping from the knights as concern knit his brow, an expression belonging to one years older than the one who wore it. "Yes, Ser." With a nod, he turned back to face the knight, his own eyes suggesting that whatever he'd been looking for in Oli's hunched, mumbling form had been found, though the older boy had made no indication that he had noticed, let alone gave any signal or other form of communication. "Oli likes to fight." Jone rolled her eyes, though it was a motion meant more for herself than anyone else, and Max carried on without missing a beat. "He gets into a lot of brawls, Ser, but it's always outside the walls." Every man, woman, and child was fully aware that exchanging blows within the city was a dangerous past time, and while it was frowned upon, altercations that could only be solved by fists were to be conducted away from the general populace. "And well..."

Oli groaned, the pounding of his head subsiding just enough to catch where Max's story was headed. He tried to add his own narration, his mind still addled from the blows he'd sustained, but all that managed to part from his lips was "Damvagik."

A little grin crept into Max's face, but he continued, picking up where he had trailed off. "Well, Oli likes to get people worked up, Ser. He says... He says..." With a frown, Max turned back towards Oli, "What's it again?"

Keeping his head hung and clouded gaze focused on the ground before him to help steady some of the throbbing pain that continually beckoned him back towards unconsciousness, he tried to reply, his split lip cracking as he did so to let a fresh trickle of blood dribble down his chin as he couldn't help himself from grimacing a pained smile. "S'nota fight'll somun's muterinvoled."

Max nodded, utterly serious in tone as he translated, Oli serving his purpose as far as the young boy was concerned for the time being. "That's right: It's not a fight until someone's mother is involved." The boy shrugged at that, shaking his head a little as he admitted his confusion. "He always gets people real mad at him, Ser." The frown returned, though this time the boy's gaze fell on the bloody mess to his left, the figure of the aggressor having since quieted. "But I never saw someone get so angry before." Bright eyes turned up to meet the knight's, Max's earnest expression that same mature concern that one might look to find in the face of a mother or guardian, not a passing boy who could not have been eight or more years of age. "He just... He just snapped, Ser. He lit into Oli like a... A beast. Started screaming about respect. It was scary."

Finally working up enough strength to raise his head, Oli's face turned to offer the boy a weak smile, the action more than enough for him to immediately regret it as the bruises and swelling aches all rose in a unified chorus, alerting him that his stupidity knew no bounds. The boy returned the smile, though there was a sort of sadness in his eyes as he turned back to the knight. His voice was quieter then, meant more for just the one he spoke to than anyone else. "He's... He's a nice man, Ser. I don't know why he fights so much, but he never wins. I think he's sad." He faltered, uncertainty crossing his features as the frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, his thoughts working their way across his face. "But no one stopped him. The other man. They just watched, Ser, and he hit him over and over and over again."

Oli offered a consolatory, "S'ok Ma-" to which Jone's shushing hiss sounded in a sharp rasp of wind through her lips and a fiery gaze that forced him back into silence.

"Is Oli in trouble, Ser?" The question didn't seem to hold indication as to whether Max thought Oli should or shouldn't be in such a state. There was a familiar sort of awe in his eyes that often followed in the wake of the Order, and the boy was no different. The knights were the law, and the boy had been taught as much since he could remember. Whatever the verdict, he simply wanted to know what was right.

[Yvan]

Max seemed an honest boy, though it frustrated Yvan to see him look for reassurance from this Oli character, who by the boy's explanation, was very fond of starting trouble and rubbing people up the wrong way; still, Yvan thought, at least he had not spit in the wrong face today, an action his counterpart would be punished for, and all would know when not three days later the youth stepped out of his mother's home with a missing ear.

Yvan let the boy speak until the story he had been dying to tell was out and only his lingering question still remained; was Oli in trouble?
"Yes," the knight said truthfully, "The law doesn’t tolerate people fighting in the street, to keep the peace, and young boys like you safe," Yvan explained, "that is why we have rules, to keep everyone safe; do you understand?"
"Yes, Ser," Max nodded, "what will you do with him?"
"That which the law suggests," Yvan spoke up, "now run along home with your sister, I'm sure your mother will be wondering what's kept the two of you."

Page got to feet and took her younger brother's hand to hurry him along. As the knight watched the two children disappear around the bend, he almost smiled as Max paused and looked back, instead the left side of his mouth twitched and he got to his feet, helping Oli to his own by the scruff of his shirt.
"Go home," Yvan scolded, "and don't you ever start another fight within these walls again," he slapped the back of the young man's head lightly with a gloved hand, just as his patron knight had always done to him, "if I ever catch you in another brawl I'll cut out your tongue; that's a promise, you hear me?"

The knight then looked over his shoulder at the boy with the crippled nose and turned to slowly stalk towards him, standing over the kid who lay on the street sobbing, "to your feet!" Yvan hissed, taking the teen by his bound hands to force him up.
Blood ran down the kid's chin and neck, staining his white tunic, "I didn't do nothing but defend myself!"
"What's your name?"
"David..."
"Well David, I'll be the judge of that," Yvan informed the boy and took up his horse's reins before leading David away.

[Konrad Venger]

Nice job! Your work has pleased The Sloth! Yvan XP: Riding - 1 Gladius - 1 Observation - 3 Leadership - 2 Rhetoric - 2 Intimidation - 1 Lore: Syliran Knights: Protect the Defenseless Syliras: Harsh Punishments for Disrespecting Knights Rhetoric: Conducting Interviews Intimidation: No Empty Threats Additional: +3 Shield Points for breaking up a brawl Click Me! : Oli, once you've got your Seasonal Expenses sorted, lemme know and I'll reward you, too. Well, this was short, sweet, and I liked it! I thought it was a good mix of altruism and order, which are not always the same things: Yvan wants to protect the defenseless BUT once it's clear Oli started the fight, he doesn't hesitate to amend his judgement. Very shrewd character building. Oh, and please make sure you go back and edit your post in the Request Thread to reflect the fact this one is now done and dusted. PM me with any questions and later 'tater!