[Flashback] Ale brings out the best in all of us (Hawkins)

[Naama]

10th Spring 509AV Location: The Drunken Fish There was hardly a disruption at the sudden entrance of a wild-looking woman through the doors of the notorious tavern. The Drunken Fish was a caterer of all things pirate and ill-mannered, but Naama had little to fear. From her generally short stay here she found the repute of the Myrians enough to keep from being mugged or outright attacked, but that did not stop the leering eyes of lewd individuals from trailing after her wherever she went. And the Drunken Fish was no exception. The hungry eyes of the voracious and most likely drunken men followed the halfbreed as she walked up to the counter, slapping down two silver mizas onto the counter with a sly smile, "Your best ale," said Naama, laced with her thick Myrian accent. She was not misunderstood, and of course, twin hook swords pressed against the bartend's gut might have helped matters a little. When the jug was slid in front of her the halfbreed picked up her mug and poured herself a generous amount. Two solid gulps and the mug was slammed onto the counter. She could feel the stares. Perhaps not entirely at her face, but the exposed thighs and navel left by her rather amazonian garb. The jet black eyes did little to soothe the nerves, but drunken men were not known for their intelligence. Stupidity was the norm in these types of establishments, and tonight, one such man had decided to seal his fate. A rough hand squeezed her hips, followed by a gutteral laugh. Naama whipped her elbow around and slammed it into the man's face, hearing the sickening crunch of a broken nose and the spew of blood from his nostrils. He howled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, human. This body is off limits to the inferior." The halfbreed smiled charmingly then returned to her drink. "Petching wench!" The man growled, "You're in shyke for that!" He charged forward in an unsteady gait, fueled on by his alcohol-induced rage. Naama was swift, swifter when her gnosis surged through her veins and gave her the strength and speed needed to twirl her hook swords around and wrap the curled ends about the man's neck. She jerked him to the side until he collided with a group of other spectators, and a wave of curses and swears escaped them. "Go back to your whores and ale, men." She laughed, but as her back turned, four other men including the drunkard approached, "Or we can have even more fun."

[Hawkins]

"Oy. 'Awkins." The rude, little man prodded his companion. Once. Twice. Beneath his wide, black hat, the aptly named 'Awkins was asleep. Only his chin was exposed, his body faced toward the overlook that viewed the first floor from the second story balcony. He snored. A mug of something-or-another sat beside his limp right hand, that of which was poised so gracefully across the table while the other arm dandled down at his side. No doubt he forgot to go to his room the night prior. "''AWKINS. WAKE UP." Slam. "Petching shyke!" The man bolted up right, his knee slamming into the leg of the table. In response he doubled over from the pain only to introduce his face to the wooden surface. Flinging backward, the chair fell and Hawkins found himself on his back staring at the ceiling. Laughter followed. Not from him, the sheer amount of painful distress in his mind did not allow for such joviality, but the squat, fat bastard that was his partner in drink had a good old time of it. Shyke. Grumbling, Hawkins rolled over and pushed himself up, the headache already making itself a nuisance. Upright, he turned back to the table and grabbed his mug. The proceeding gulp made life just that much better. "What'n Tyveth's balls do ya want, Squig?" Hawkins' bass carried a tinge of irritation. He wanted to throw the idiot over the balcony. "Ya're gu'na miss th' figh'n! Looksit, s'a girl 'bout 'tagit slavered. Hah!" Between his hangover and the Sunberthian canter Hawkins had enough trouble trying to decipher what the little man said, but the exuberant jumping and pointing that followed got the message across. A quick gander brought the new comer to his attention. Whoa. Wow. What. An. Ass. From the looks of it she could fight. There was already one unconscious lout at her feet, but the numbers were not particularly even. Hm. By the time he got down there she'd already be out the door. And damn what a price she would fetch. He took another drink. "Squig?" "Ayah?" The fat man eyed his compaion. "You''re payin'." Clank. With a quick step Hawkins snatched the still half-full bottle of "whatsit" on the table and made his move. Forward. His feet hit the rail and he launched himself over the edge, body sailing through the air with a graceful - or really almost drunken - flourish. In those few moments the light hit him just right. His attire was not the best sort. A sailor's tunic, breeches, some thick leather boots and a dark overcoat with the buttons unfastened. The only real notable additions to his attire was the fancy hat that sat atop his head, the wide edges working to keep his long, unkept hair in some sort of fashion. Fuzz decorated his cheeks from an obvious lack of grooming, but in all he had a sort of a rugged handsome appeal. At least when he was standing. For now he just came off as nuts. The resulting crash was glorious. The unsuspecting drunkard has not expected death from above, let alone a sailor armed with a bottle, and thusly he unwittingly broke Hawkin's fall. A sickening snap accompanied the crush - somewhere around the arm or some such nonsense - and the queer man made an effort of stumbling off his target. The others stood in momentary shock. Hawkins, dazed from his act, nevertheless managed to stand for the second time in those few brief moments. His first act was to ensure his hat was still in place. Yes? Good. Second, he turned, took a quick draft from his bottle, and removed the cutlass from the sheath at his side. "Can I interest ya', madam, in a drink?"

[Naama]

The curvacious femme fatale didn't expect company, let alone that of a man who seemed to frequent this place just as much as the next unwashed, burly sailor 'round these parts. But her white grin was wild. Her fingers vibrated with the collective sound of men's harsh voices and the stomping of the floorboards, but Naama hardly needed to rely on her Chaktawe ability to help her in combat. With gnosis charged and her hook swords poised, she waited for them to approach. Only to be pleasantly surprised when one of the men was crushed beneath what she expected was another drunken fool fallen from the second story. He hardly seemed injured, even when he stood, took a swig then addressed Naama as if they were not already surrounded by men who wanted her head on a pike. She gave him a harmless smirk. "I didn't know gentlemen still existed in a lawless town." The conversation was cut short. The remainder of the three men charged forward, a knife clutched into a meaty fist and waved haphazardly in the air. He struck at Naama, who moved swiftly to the side and sent a kick toward the back of the man's knees, sending him to the floor. Her swords whipped down, only to leave a splatter of blood pooling on the grimy floorboards. She hadn't expected the fist aimed at her gut when she turned to address the other two, and she doubled over only to have another punch directed to her head, sending her crashing into a spectator's table. Naama spat out blood, wiping her chin. "You're going to regret that, ugly." The revelers exploded with a cacophony of cheers and shouts and curses, and Naama's collision with the now smashed table erupted in a fight between those that had once been seated there. The bronze-skinned woman, however, wove her way through the wrestling sailors and pirates to the man now waving an axe over his head. Dodging sluggish swings and wrapping the hooks around the thick wrists of her opponent. A jerk of her swords and soon the burly man was left without hands, and a hollering that followed a resounding crash on the floor. Oh and she didn't stop there, she crushed his throat beneath her boots, stomping viciously until all the man could do was gurgle blood, and choke on his tongue before death claimed him. The air soon reeked of a mixture of blood and ale.

[Hawkins]

Wow. Whoa. That. She was good. And not just good, but good. Hawkins found himself eying her movements a bit too closely, albeit the men had made a show of it to ignore his antics. Whatever those were. What did his leg hurt? D'aw well. His was content to return the lady's complement with a smile and a bow, but their banter, alas, was not to last. Not with all the fighting anyway. The initial exchange favored the woman. So did the second. Then someone died. Where the hell was Manowar? With a start Hawkins turned about, eying the rest of the tavern before it broke out in what was all-too common these days. Or really any days. A brawl. How in the hell was he being ignored? This was unacceptable. Hawkins leapt into action. He was not as graceful as Naama, nor was he as skilled, but he possessed his own tricks. As the woman dispatched her last opponent he moved in, turned, and slid up to her back, cutlass brought about as the last of the Drunken Quartet made for a stab at the woman's back. The tell-tall clang found its marks. With a grumble, Hawkins stepped forward and pushed his sword arm forward. He threw his opponent's weight off and followed up with a knee, his bone sinking into the fellow's crotch with a reckless sort of abandon. A hilt came next, the bottom impacting the back of the man's doubled-over head and sending him to the ground in a heap. Hah! Hawkins took a drink. "Now!" The man leaned over, his back dipping to get a better view of his lady-in-arms. "As I was say-" Thud! As the brawl expanded one of the participants peeled off and made Hawkins his next target. The tackle sent the man sailing away from his goal - such a vixen! - and into the counter. Snarling and snapping like a dog, the drunkard connected a fist with the sailor's face with little force to it. Dazed more so the in pain, Hawkins shook his head and glanced down at the fellow. He brought an arm up and bashed the bottle over the exposed head, the glass shattering and remaining alcohol adding to the already pungent stench that plagued the Fish. Damn it! Another grumble. Hawkins pushed the now unconscious fellow aside and stood back up. He turned, once more, to his goal only to find her missing. Where was she? Better question, where was he? "Squig! Get'down here!" Hawkins bellowed. In a quick manner he ducked away from the front assault a large, greasy fellow armed with an axe, his body withdrawn as he stepped back and away. What did he do?! Step! Hawkins moved, his form twisting around a second strike before he placed his own weapon in the path of the fool, blade slicing down along the offending arm and to the chest. Some kind of painful gurgle escaped the man, but it was short in the making. Hawkins continued, his sword sent up to an exposed neck and ending whatever sound he had intended on. With a sigh Hawkins moved about behind the bar and grabbed one of the bottles. The cork popped and he took a long, heavy draft. "There we go."

[Naama]

That man. What a riot. There was no escaping that unmistakable stench of pure, unadulterated wit. Wit that was mostly backed by luck. She smiled wickedly to herself, as she danced around the muscled bodies of men sending bloodied fists into bloodied faces covered in spit and grime. She had Myrian blood; she was notoriously stronger than the average human, but these men, for all she knew, were oblivious to that. But even the strongest have their moments of fault. It just so happened that the chaos of events unfolded far more quickly than Naama had anticipated. She had been swift to dispatch of an older gentleman who had a growing case of baldness, and she wiped away the blood from her sword using her elongated breechcloth. Wrong move. Her prying eyes distracted, a burly arm shot forward and wrapped around her neck, while the other tightened around her arms and torso. The big ruffian jerked her into a viselike grip, with an enraged halfbreed flailing and pushing with no avail. "Bitch can' do nuthin' now, can ye?" He spat, and Naama grimaced at the whiff of his breath. "If you're going to kill me just do it now to spare me your stench," She growled, only to be met with a rumbling laughter. "Kill ye? Naw, that'd be a waste, ye see. Can't kill ye when we can put ye to good use." As if to emphasise, the overly muscled brute trailed a nasty tongue up Naama's cheek. She would not have none of it. "Dare to touch me with that petching tongue again and I will make you swallow it, deyhan," She hissed, flailing anew, "Release me, you idiot." "'Ey, isn't tha' ol' man Barnacle's trinket?" Came the rattling voice of a fairly older patron beside the beast of a man. The bronze woman's eyes narrowed as he approached, fingering the boat-shaped silver trinket hanging from her belt. "I reckon she's a thief, ey?" "You can't steal from dead men, now can you?" "Yer a foreign woman, ye see. That don't bode well fer you." He cackled. Naama, nearly infuriated by the old man sent a vicious kick to the burly beast's groin in an attempt to make him release her, but it only further provoked him. He roared his animosity and slammed her into the counter of the bar, knocking the wind out of her, then quickly grabbed a fistful of hair and pressed a dirtied blade against halfbreed's throat.

[Hawkins]

"'Awkins, duck!" Hawkins ducked. The crash of a heavy chair meeting a wall followed. Stooped behind his chest-high wall the sailor made an ordeal of popping back up. Unscathed. Hah! He was untouchable! "Thank you, Squig, always a plea-" Crack. Was that pain? Definitely pain. Taken by surprise, Hawkins lurched forward, his head deposited on the bar counter without a fuss. Owe. Surprised by the ordeal, he was unsure of how to react as his head came back up all on its own, though he imagined the taunt, pulling sensation on his hair had something to do with it. Lifted, he caught a glance of the feisty woman from before, what was she doing? Ooh! Down. Slam! Ouch. When he came back up again his vision was blurred, but that was little concern. He was accustom to seeing while drunk. What was going on? Some old bastard had grabbed her. Hm. She was in trouble! Down again. Now that was plain irritating. Something broke. Hawkins felt the pressure leave his head and he was free to control his own body once more. Disoriented, he stumbled and scanned the immediate vicinity, his gaze latching onto his fat little companion, a broken bottle, and an unconscious lout. Oh. Incredulous, Hawkins eyed the fool with a sour look. "Wha' a waste, mate. Use the cheap stuff eh?" He spoke, saddened. "Ya, ah, gu'na dew sumfin' 'dar 'awkins?" The little bastard thumbed over his shoulder at the mess of folk making a riot of his lady. If she could be called his. He certainly hoped so. "Oh. Right." Somehow, through all the mess, Hawkins had managed to keep a hold of his bottle. The man was legendary. With a sweep he hopped over the bar, cutlass kept out as well, and made his way up to the duo that held Naama at their mercy. The second fellow was no fool. He guarded his companion, blade unsheathed and brought to bear on every fellow that came within reach. He was ugly. Mean. Dangerous. While he took the rear, the older, burly man appeared to enjoy himself far too much. The imagery was unsettling. Hawkins felt a chill. Nevertheless he approached. Dead forward was no way to start, he was only an amateur swordsmen at best and that sword looked very, very sharp. Instead he made a quick few observations and tipped his hat when he was close enough, head bowing in some form of mock respect. "Oy! Boys, wha' you intendin' to do with her, hm? To the Baron?" His voice was notably thick with the Sunberth Canter, albeit molded to be a might bit clearer. The influence was there, but it was clear he learned to enunciated at a young age. "Petch off, 'Awkins. 'Dis one is mine." "That's all well'n good, Mercer, but maybe, ah, you missed a few details of import." Another swig. Hawkins took a draft and stepped forward, his sword raised to point at the woman's cheek. "Those, my dear gentlemen, are Myrian." The tattoos. He traced one with the point. "Las' time I checked, Dastana didn't take too kindly to threads of one'a her own, eh? Now lads, I'd hazard a guess an' say takin' her might go step on some toes, some Kelvic toes. I s'pose the Baron wouldn't be inclined to interfere with a justified challenge." The man hesitated. Good! Hawkins had no idea what in the hell he was talking about. Dastana probably could not care less about some Myrian, let alone one that might threaten her, and the Baron would kill those Kelvic bastards if they set on foot in the Bay, but ignorance and idiocy were a blessing. And although his words sunk in, had some kind of affect, the man was only distracted. He seemed hardly wanting to be rid of such a fine prize. To be used and sold. He would make a fortune on the markets. "Bug off, 'Hawkins! She's mine!" The man smiled. And winked. The attention was all he really wanted.

[Naama]

Naama jerked her head away from the burly man's fist only to have her head yanked back and a yelp escape her lips. The knife at her throat cut dangerously close, and soon a trickle of blood trailed down the length of the blade. She hadn't, of course, suspected the sly gentleman from earlier to make his abrupt appearance between herself and the two fine men threatening to sell her into slavery. Her curses escaped in the Myrian tongue, and her onyx eyes remained trained on the one named Hawkins for the duration of his speech. The halfbreed nearly flinched when he brought his sword up to her cheek. What the petch was he doing? She struggled against it, flicking the blade away with a quick move of her head, leaving a light incision across her cheekbone. Naama didn't know whether or not he spoke the truth, but upon stepping foot in the city of anarchists she rarely had half the mind to trust anyone in these dirtied parts of town. What she wanted were answers, but even that seemed like it was worth both an arm and a leg. "For the love of-- Petching deyhan." Naama cursed under her breath at the burly man's proclemation. But it appeared that this Hawkins had a tongue to match his wit. The beastly thug's hold slackened for only a moment, but to the woman, freedom was unmistakeable. Naama struck his unprotected groin with a furious kick using her booted heel, and ducked once the man relenquished his hold on her hair. The hook swords were once again in her grasp, and the halfbreed wasted no time touching the mark on her thigh to surge the might bestowed upon her by the Goddess-Queen. She was swift, and she moved toward the bellowing man and hooked both swords around his ankles, jerking it with such force that he collapsed with a loud thud onto his back. In the momentary shock, Naama straddled his waist and delivered a devastating stab with the hilt of her swords, cutting a deep incision into his chest cavity. The burly man was still very much alive, as his heartwrenching screams attested to. The bronze-skinned woman, of course, didn't stop there. She dipped her hand into his chest and tore out the still beating, bloody heart of the man, raising it up above her as she rose to her feet. "Anyone care to join me in the feast?" There came the stares. It seemed far too quiet now. "If you don't want to end up like this male, I would suggest keeping your petching distance." She tossed the warm organ onto the grime-encrusted floorboards, grabbed her jug of ale and walked out.

[Hawkins]

That worked well. Distracted by his mate's plight, the fellow with the blade moved to intercept the woman before she tore out his more important insides. Why did everyone seem to forgot that Hawkins had a sword? A step and a twist brought the sailor about, his body thrown in the path as the weapon came after, most of the blade up into the stomach. The poor bastard never saw it coming. He gurgled, blinked, then died. Well. That wasn't so bad. Satisfied, the man turned, his gaze flicking back to Naama. Although Hawkins was not too sure of his own observations after that there was no questioning it. Myrian. The thought of another woman like Dastana running around Sunberth sent chills down his spine, but at this rate it was only a matter of time before she got herself killed. Manowar did not care about fights. He had spare tables and chairs in the back for just the occasion, but it was the rest of the city she had to worry about. When news got to the Den about another warrior woman treading about the Pack would be quick to find her. And what's worse was the Baron. Mercer was his man. And the Baron did not enjoy losing men. Not at all. Unless, that is, he got something better out of it. Petch! Was she leaving? "Squig, meet me at the Deadman's, eh? Got... an idea." Hawkins mock saluted the fat little man and made a swift departure from the Fish, his trail blazing past the dazed and confused brawlers. Most of them had stopped fighting, albeit the second floor had only just recently joined in. He caught up easily enough and sheathed his cutlass. A bottle remained in hand. Right bit of luck to no one noticing. Or caring. Hawkins fell in line with the woman as if they were old friends on their way to the park. His demeanor was easy, light, and he did not smell nearly as bad as the rest of the Fish's louts. If you could mind the alcohol that was. "Nice finish. Glad you didn' actually eat the thing, probably lost me lunch." He grinned and glanced about. No one following? Good. "Hope you don' mind me accompanyin' you madam, but you've manage'd'ta get yourself in a fine right mess." With a hop Hawkins stepped out in front of the halfbreed and made to stop her. He hopped she stopped. If not, he was more than happy to clear the way. "As I see it, you've jus' pissed in the Baron's breakfast. Once'ee hears Mercer there is dead you'll be settlin' the hearts of quite a few more men, if ya care to understand the fair bit of obfuscation eh? So! Now, from rumors and hearsay about - soddy little things - the only reel way to get such a fine fellow off your arse is to, well. Appease 'em. Tha' or run and hide. The latter, I say, easy'er then one such as yourself might believe." What the hell was he on about?

[Naama]

Naama downed the last of her ale and tossed the jug into the street. There were eyes on her, of course. There always seemed to be eyes on her. The savage woman, tattooed, garbed in barely anything but a bone breastplate and long cloth, with a myriad of trinkets, feathers and bones clinking this way and that about her wrists, neck and hair. Her onyx eyes did little to calm the nerves as well, so it was only a wonder the lunatic named Hawkins had the balls enough to follow her. And she was annoyed. “His heart was rotten. There was no nutrition to gain in eating it.” She answered, matter-of-factly, “No one in this pathetic town is worth eating.” She added, the words laced with revulsion. She would have ignored the man’s attempts at conversation had he not stupidly placed himself in her path, where her swords were still in her hand, and her temper was anything but simmered. She shoved him roughly aside, continuing her walk as he yammered away in her ear. Half of what the man said was simply disregarded, but his continued pursuit of her attention was grating on her nerves. After a chime, Naama paused abruptly and shoved the human roughly against a dilapidated wall. “Alright, deyhan, I’ll humor you. What is it that you want from me?” Her thick Myrian accent did little to hide her resentment. The woman would never admit she was in his debt, but it was only the debt that stayed her hand and kept Hawkins from having a sword lodged in his throat! “I don’t plan on staying here long enough for this “Baron’s” thugs to have another go at their deaths. And maybe if you thought with your brain instead of your shaft you would do well to remember what I can do.” She emphasized with a strike at his nether regions.

[Hawkins]

Wall! Owe. Make for another bump to the head. Hawkins could feel his body ache. Why, from the brawl and now this continued abuse his headache would never go away. Not today anyway. Somehow he seemed calm. Truth be told he was all-a-shiver on the side. Myrians scared the hell out of him. One was not raised in the Wolf Den without a sort of reverence for the species and an inborn fear of their power. Yet he remained firm. Or whatever is he was. He grinned at her. Grinned. Lips curled and all. He did not believe that she was going to kill him, after all he was her best bet at this moment. And he saved her ass. Twice. Did this woman know anything about Sunberth? What a stupid question. If she did she would have used her tongue instead of her fists in the Fish. A quick wit was always more useful then a quick blade. No matter what she thought, there was- OH. Strike. Pain. Hawkins blinked. Grunted. Then stared. He wanted to fall, to hold himself and whisper that it would be okay, but being stuck to a wall with an all-too-ready-to-slice sword at his throat was not helping anything. Why did she have to hit him? What a bitch! This almost was not worth the ass. Almost. "GAH." The call leapt from his throat like some primeval call to the gods of old. "Viku's balls, woman." After a great deal of squirming Hawkins did what he could to reign himself in. Jeez she was strong. What a feisty bitch. He liked that. "As'I was sayin', you're in shit, love. Baron or Dastanna'll pick ya off before you can even start runnin', eh? They won't be playin' fair, so cut the toddlewash and let me help ya. Otherwise you throw that lovely ass to the depths." Oh, he was serious. The grin vanished and a sincere countenance replaced it. He was definitely up to something. "We go to the Baron and apologize. You live, I get'ta stare at that pretty backside of yours a little longer and we all win." Somehow he brought his bottle to his lips and drank. One had to give the man credit for his dedication.