Dare So. Come Here Often?

The Captain's eyes softened at the sight of the runes. Ah, enhanced assets had their unique charm. Pick a thing, become really good with it to cut away the weaknesses of specialization. He could almost feel his age, for a fleeting moment, the change of faces, the accumulated thickness of every time he'd hit the mud on his hide. No such luck as a dwarven gift, though.
He had a healthy respect for rare toys, but no envy. Toys came and went, sooner or later.

He liked his sword just fine. It didn't have enchantments like erupting into flames, or cleaving soul from body to use as fuel, or drinking up the blood from the wounds it rendered to an enemy.
It's function was very simple. To cut when bid. And cut it did. Through most things, magical or not.
Mastery of battle and wielding styles, alchemy and love for tinkering upheld that simplicity. Ferocity, relentlessness and cunning brought it unending glory. Something failed? Half a dozen other things still held. Vincent liked to call it fail-safe.

Her next comment must have been meant to hit him right in the ego, stab the frail pride and twist it where it hurt.
Instead, the Captain erupted in laughter - loud, sharp barks. It was sincere, though his eyes never closed to savor joy, never left hers as he laughed in her face and tapped the table with his free hand. Oh, mercy, mercy, funny woman.
"I see your' eyes ar'e still vorkeeng! Oui, mon cheri, on both accounts!" He declared. Snickered, coughed to clear his throat, and leered, "And oh so leetl challenge did ze Pits pr'ovide. It iz a r'are sing zat zey do, but vone kan 'ope."

Omar glanced at the bar and sighed, tensing up just a touch, but looking almost expectant as he was in no hurry to stand or move or declare his thoughts.

Vincent, still snickering under his breath, picked up the tankard of Hogsblood.
"'E izn't goeeng to tattle to ze law, zat's for' cer'tain. About a dozen folks iz about to make zeir' vay 'ere. Bar'elee two veaver's betveen zem. I 'ave time to fineesh my dr'ink. After' ve ar'e done, ve vill collect ze coin. Vhy? Fir'st time?" The last chuckle resonated in the tankard.

"Oui. I also choose my battles. It's a good time." He didn't chug Hogsblood, either way. Took another gut-burning mouthful, deliberated, cast a side-glance to her. "Zey ar'e ze local, er, alter'nateev law kind ov gazer'eeng. Small like a r'at nest, and stinks vor'se. I 'now vone ov ze bigveegs, br'oke 'is face, so 'e r'emember's me fondlee. I sink 'e's goeeng to show up 'imself."
"No chance," Omar drawled. "Not after that crawl of shame he did the first time he tried to accost us."
"Five silver' says 'e vill."
"Five says he won't."
Vincent left his tankard on the table long enough to shake hands, his eyes flicking at the dehvani opposite. His face, through the smirk, somehow conveyed with the relaxing and slightly lowering eyelids, the relaxing curve of the mouth - 'for shame'.
"A few? Oh cherie, I 'ave all ov ze tr'icks. Veaver's, to par'aphrase our' devahni poet r'ight 'ere, ain't sheet vhen ze tr'icks ar'e just r'ight."

Mercy glanced at Xenovia, too. The question evident a beat before he asked it.
"Where are you going? Sit down, sister, relax. Want us to keep the bodies away from your table?"
"Oh if ze voman iz goeeng, let 'er go, Mer'cee." Vincent snickered, already up on his feet and affixing the sword back to his belt. "One ov zese unchosen fighting pits, ve'll meet again."

The dehvani didn't get less mean with a smirk of approval entering his brick-heavy face.
"Hmh."
As Mercy stood, the bench-boards straightened out. His tail tip flicked against a nearby stool, made the thing start and wobble for a bit. The ceilings were tall enough for him to even jump, with the open space and roof supports angling up about another storey and a half. He'd have more issues getting through the door than fighting in here - so he simply moved from under the narrow mezzanine, to the edge of the comfortable swinging space.

"Oh oui, 'ave at eet, might vant to get ze bag out ov ze vay." Vincent checked something between the glove and the armguard, then put two fingers behind the neck guard to adjust it - loosen it a little more. Then, reached to the small of his back, rolled a shoulder, popped the dagger out of the sheathe and pushed it back.

With the mercenaries standing, and the tender absent from the bar, the other patrons caught up quickly. Smiles came off even from the drunken faces, and within seconds some were just leaving - some, in a more hurry, perhaps making sure they didn't need to pay tonight. Some were making their excuses quick and fake, with an impromptu levity that didn't stick. The few that stayed - stayed far from where they thought the fight was going to be. Oh, the disappointment that awaited them.

Omar winked at Xenovia with his good eye, and moved between the swiftly emptied tables. Snagged a chair, turned it, left it facing the doorway, pulled an amber-colored bottle of the hardest thing that the Hetmans didn't snag. A mocking rattle of a couple coins landing under the bar, and Omar walked to the stairs up, casual almost, bottle in one hand, repeater crossbow in the other, tucking himself around a bannister to keep an eye on the event horizon.

Behind him, Vincent kicked the table away and closer to the wall, cheerfully chiming in to the description,
"'E vaz smaller' ven I misplaced 'alf 'is jaw," To be fair, fat, robed and coverred in bling could be anyone's description. "Vat, did 'e set it back in gold? I shur'e 'ope 'is nose is set in gold as vell - I'm goeeng to take it viz me zis time."
He leaned to the bar, grin wide in anticipation.
"Vant to bet on if ze place goes up in flames in ze next 'alf 'our?"

*

They didn't set the drinkery on fire just to get ahead, and care for assets was their first disadvantage.
The bodyguards entered first, clocked Mercy, didn't find anyone checking upstairs at a glance, set their sights on Vincent.
Vincent's grin could not possibly be lazier. The sleet-color eyes followed the movements of three others, one most certainly a weaver with that bunch of beads in hand, entering.
The fat fuck would be last, no doubt, at least four more outside - left a door open for a through shot, thought he wouldn't notice.

He'd been through this kind of shit so many times he could count the steps before the fucker's mouth would open with some snappy remark. One, two...

Feet beat the floorboards as the taproom emptied itself out. Abandoned pints littered the tables, and one bloke even forgot to grab his coat. Not quite my size, thought Xenovia, a disappointed sigh escaping her lips as the last boozer jumped ship.

Throwing a two-fingered salute to Omar as he ghosted upstairs, Xen stepped away from the window, tail trailing her path to the bar, which she promptly hopped over.

'I'm gonna go check the back,' she told the Dogs. Odds were Mister Big had already sent men around to block off any escape, but it was worth looking all the same. Wading through the kitchen smog, the Deva cracked the backdoor, peeked through. Something heavy hit it from the other side, slamming the door shut in her face. More bangs followed. Barricading the damn thing, probably.

Well, there goes that idea!

'It appears your friend isn't a total fucking idiot,' said Xen, strolling out to tend the bar, since no-one else was. Her pack landed with a thud behind the counter; the greatsword she set down on the bar, slowly, reverentially. 'Don't suppose you want another drink?' She asked Vincent. 'Merc, you want another?'

Bodies in the doorway interrupted the moment. Guys and gals with iron and gnarled clubs decorating their hips. Simple gang toughs, they didn't worry Xenovia one bit. The three that followed were a different matter.

Weavers, she realised, fumbling in her purse for coins. Fuck me, I guess.

Manning the taps, she poured herself another Brevian Pale to calm her nerves as a shadow fell across the entrance, blotting out the Sun. 'Welf, welf, welf,' came a raspy voice, 'whaf do we 'ave 'ere? Traffed like rafs in a barrel.' The room darkened. The air grew heavy with impending violence.

Step by unsteady step, Mister Big made his entrance, rings and jewels glistening in the sunlight silhouetting him. Xen caught a flash of gold as he grinned, eyes burning with malice.

'Long time, no seef, Vinfent,' growled Mister Big. Xen still didn't know his true name. Odds were it wouldn't matter in five minutes. 'I'fe been waifin' for thif, the momenf you sliffed up.' A smile, or an attempt at one. His jaw wasn't working properly. Xen would've felt sorry for the guy, if he wasn't such a piece of shit.

Kinda reminds me of someone, she mused, glancing at Vincent sidelong, an arm folded on the bar next to her steel.

"Vould 'ave 'ad to succeed enough to get fat and ringed, eh?" Vincent mused. "Set a mug of Hogblood out for me." Let's get to tricks.
His eyes raked through the people entering, the jovial grin narrowing to a sharp sort of leer, one with just a touch too much fang - especially when he stared dead at the man in robes. Fucking purple robes with ridiculous arrangement of gold thread and excessively bejeweled trinkets - Vincent would gladly bet most weren't magical.

He sniffed the air, sulfur and a sort of lightning freshness - someone was carrying reagents, and he could bet it was the scraggly one in slim charcoal clothes with a lot of pouches on him. The other weaver with steel-toed boots was toying with a crystal orb - an easy fix. Third one... were those knuckle dusters and a loose sweaty odor of body weaving? Oh, how precious.

The heavy hitters weren't half as fancy, crude weapons and basic studded, cured leather armaments, worn and on about two out of four of them - incomplete. He knew how those opened up, so the prawns wouldn't have to suffer much.
Oh. Wait a moment, one of them had a proper chainmail on.

His posture did not change, smile plastered on his features as he felt the thirst make his tastebuds shrink, make his throat run coarse. Yes. Yes. The fireworks about to start, and the match was in his hands.

He spread his empty hands, detaching from the bar. As he took half a step forward, it was on casual instinct born of repetition that he kept the Big Fellow between himself and the open doorframe. Not very hard to do.
"Ivan! Mon ami, zere you ar'e! Addeeng mor'e cause for' celebr'ashon. Vere zose your' r'igged fights? Let it not be said I don't know 'ow to issue an invitashon."
"Ah yes, how kind of you, to invite me t'ho your funeral."
"Ve should liven it up, zen! And don't vor'ree, your-"

Vincent's part of the stand-off theatrics, as well as another quarter-step forward, was quite rudely interrupted by a zapping, crackling lightning whip being thrown toward his face. Perhaps, to test for any hidden defenders. But, like clockwork, Vincent hooked his hand into the chair he'd dragged earlier, and with an admirably powerful move for how quick it was - hurled the chair into the offending weaver.

The lightning whip slapped and zapped against the bar, leaving the smoking charred mesh for an outline.

Omar's bolt had found the war-weaver's skull in the same heartbeat.

The fight had begun with a jolt of inertia from the unspoken but heartfelt desire to finish that phrase.

"Kill f'he ratf!" Fat Ivan ordered, belatedly, as all of his people were already engaging, spreading through the building to keep the doorway open. But while he was backing towards the exit, he wasn't running. And for how vicious he sounded for the performance, there was a bit of genuine dark joy as he slurred with that fucked up jaw, "Let's part wif a gif'th."

One of Ivan's rings, one with an absurdly large garnet that must have been sold as a ruby, started glowing, rising in intensity.
It needed maybe three seconds to get to whatever it was about to do.

Vincent fucking hated the glowy shit. Luckily, he had some of his own. He cracked a tiny vial in his hand, let the three or four drops hit his tongue with a numbing alchemical bitterness, then grabbed Hogsblood from the bartop, took a mouthful and spat it out directionally with a degree of skill that must have taken some serious training.

Alcohol ignited into a cloudy ark, straight into the face of a bruiser that was going for him with a sweeping swing of a club.

Mercy was keeping two busy.
The lightning whipper was still getting up from the floor.
Omar and the orb-wielding croney were in a cat and mouse of playing dodge and cover.

A bolt hit near Xenovia, all the way from outside. Another got Mercy in the thigh, allowing one attacker to try and help his buddy with a heavy club get the dehvanni at the bar.

The gem hummed. Two seconds.

Shadows obstructed the doorway, more were about to pour in, or shoot in, and make the mess bigger.

Mercy threw one opponent into the other, and slammed them with the longer table, muscles rippling on the tree-like arms and a loud growl rolling with the force that made the bottles tremble and the floorboards vibrate. His foot landed on top of the two, stomped through the table broken, and one didn't need to hear the wet crush or the hissed screams to know.

Omar's bolt ran through Ivan's arm, then redirected to finish off the burnt-face bruiser staggering away from Vincent.

One.

Vincent cleaved the ring clean off, with the rest of the fingers. The arc upward continued some, the sword turned to open the 'big boss' throat in the single motion. Vincent let go of the grip with one hand at the tail end of it, plucked a small stone rectangle from behind his collar, tore it off the cord.
"BRACE!"

The gem still triggered, speedily releasing a wave of necrotic energy stored within. It reached the dead ones under the broken table on the floor first. Flesh sloughed off, stench filled the air as bones poked through, eyes and insides melting. The broken wood dried, crackled and filled in with pockmarks of rot, the floor turned a greyish sort of black that was no longer safe to step on.
Within half a beat, like a springloaded wildfire, the necrotized shroudweave took over half the space.

One of Vincent's throwing knives ran through the garnet, shattered it, but the sheer pressure of the Shroud weave already released would take over the place and then grab outside some before it would stop spreading.

Everyone still living - felt the energy drain from the limbs, thoughts turning muddy as the heart would start dropping the pace. Blood already spilled curdled like spoiled milk, flesh of the fallen rotted and grew together in black clumps of something like a mold.
No, wait. The dead parts were actually moving.

Vincent didn't spare a glance to Ivan choking on his own blood, rushing through instead to push Mercy further back, point to the stairs. The pendant in his hand hummed, a single symbol on it soaking some of the weave up, so long as it was held.

The stench from oxidized ale, rot and mold filled the air as the mass of greyish-black stirred alive. To eat the rest, Vincent assumed as he hitched up table remains to protect from a bolt volley that finally erupted into the building.

The floor was deteriorating, and there most certainly was a basement to speak of where they hosted the fights - not a small portion of the revenue. Well, shit.
"Anyvone 'eavee, get r'eady to dr'op! Faces!"
One, two, three archers at the door joined the bodies falling down. Joined the mold, too. But whatever was forming, was unlikely adaptive enough to shoot solid steel. Like the one that tore through his side, Brezat realized.
"Got it!" Omar was about to start using ammo with a bit more boom and spark to it. Who didn't like fireworks inside?

"Shit." Mercy groaned behind him. Had enough time to put the clotting powder on that bad leg, the necrotic wave must have made it worse. But if he was going down for the count, he'd call out to him, not curse. The big man was still fine enough.

"He does." Mercy looked at her like she was soft in the head questioning whether the sky was blue. And maybe, a little bit taken aback by her being so tense - for a brief moment, all three seemed to have taken her as her own, and there was a clear teetering outside what was expected.

This might have been when Xenovia could notice their faces.

Omar looked positively giddy, tracing symbols in the air that lingered, smelling like charred wood and burning tar. One symbol, another, crudely like scratching on a board with chalk before he put a red-feathered bolt on the crossbow and drew. Tongue lingered over the yellow teeth, but the look on him - the look on him was one gets when it's go time, when he's about to reach for victory on fingertips. His fingertip was steady on the trigger of the crossbow, despite the hunger.

Mercy, grimacing and groaning, was pouring clot powder on the wound in the leg. But there was no dulling of the intent, no slowing down. If anything, the warpaint on his skin was rippling with excitement, and eyes fixated much more willingly on the mass that pulled the dead bodies in. Like he couldn't believe their luck. Like the weight was shifting not because of the wound, but because it was just hard to stay put - his fists were right here, and that thing was right there.
"That's an oggloy, Captain."

"I know!" Vincent beamed, teeth in a wide grin, though color had crept some from his face to an uncomfortable degree and left it an unpleasant shade of yellowish. He remained unfaltering, one hand almost nonchalantly pushing some intensely iron-smelling goop into the hole the bolt went through. The sound from the wound was an odd wet sizzling. "'Ang in a beat, don't star't vizout me." A hoarse inhale, and a half-restrained cackle escaped him.

Pain was part of it. Fear did not have to be. You just had to shift your mind to the precipice where calculation met disregard, and ride the lightning without losing touch. Vincent raised a finger to point at the mound of mold slowly lurching closer. The floorboards on the ground were creaking and screeching with utmost tension, about to send it crashing a level lower. The man's eyes were on Xenovia, though.

"Oggloy's zat sing. It's goeeng to pull ze bodies up into eetself, and zen star't moveeng. No 'ands, but long str'eengs ov its moldee sheet zat eats through sings. Ver'ee bur'nable, cauter'izes its bodee fr'om mor'phing any mor'e pedipalds out ov zat sur'face. 'Ighly toxeec, zough. Slaps an open vound - you're fucked, vill star't eating avay ze feeling like r'ot. Vonce it dr'ops, gir'l, ve're dr'inkeeng some poshons and jumpeeng after' eet. You viz for' a coin, or' goeeng to seet 'ere and scr'eech like an 'arpy?"
Almost a magician's gesture, he flipped a silver coin in the air and caught it with two fingers, to show off its strange design to Xenovia. Maldizia.

Her exclamations was music to his ears, the witnessing of his dogma in action.
Omar's bolt plunged into the blob-shape of oggloy, and then from the murky surface an orange pustule of flame emerged and burst, violently, through the slime. Dead bits from half-metabolized corpses flew everywhere, but most importantly - the area where the flames burst turned ashen-grey. The spot could crease and fold, but not change shape.

"Fir'e at vill,"
And with an expression of utter delight, and a rusty-red tint of a swallowed potion, Vincent leapt over the bannister, sword-mid-swing, to drop all the way to the cellar.
The thing's mass, burgeoning with corpses and bristling with stuck and slower-absorbed debris, struck back by rapidly morphing. Tendrils of dirty brackish color, opaque at the edges, shot out, sharpening, to the intruder that proceeded to exhale a plume of flame then cut off the scorching bits.

Seeing the flashes and glancing at Omar enthusiastically reloading, Mercy put weight on the leg, clearly bracing to jump, as well.
"Can take the stairs." he huffed at Xenovia, nodding to the half-collapsed staircase.

This was how he came alive. Through the decades and battlefields and rage. Oh, sweet song of cut open living beasts, the sizzle of fried flesh, leaking grime of vitality. The hunger was unquenchable before he met his Dame, and after...

He was used to downplaying skill, gadgets and trinkets, potions and charms on him like accidents. For his enemies, he was unfortunately lucky, nonchalant, the threat open and wholehearted, and always sincere. Hard to kill, quick to adapt, gleeful for the exchange of blows like a wild animal - a power like a force of nature that many feared.

...She molded him into a perfect war dog, and he was happy to burn that way. One day, in gratitude as great as the reach of her spear, he would murder her, tear her throat out in the only way entities such as them could measure, meet, and worship at the same altar. Not today. Not soon.

*

Vincent landed, the potion's brief effect gaining him alacrity to dodge the immediate lurch of the mass. He did not stop moving, cutting off tendrils that reached for him, eyes sharp on target, assessing for the weaknesses. He laughed, as he did the footwork, however, manic, keeping those adrenalized juices flowing gingerly despite the stench that would have made a leaden stomach turn.
The reckless dive was driven by a hunter's keen appetite, yes, and - boredom.
Things with skeletons could only move so much in so many ways, even the most flexible ones - which were far and few between. Perhaps, an angry quintessence of decay and death that had just been fed would prove a challenge?
Something honest to itself. Something true.

A hardening on the ooze's surface, a bump popped, then, through a hole, a jet of fluid shooting his direction.
Vincent was out of the way before the stream hit the stone wall of the arena, now two steps to his right.
Maybe.

*

Behind Xenovia, a noise like a bull snorting before a charge resonated. Stomp, went the wounded leg. Stomp, rake. Ink blared in a bright red, not a light, but a color that drifted in eye-tangling ribbons.

Mercy landed with a thud that left a thing crack on the floor slab below him, but his knees and ankles did not appear to have suffered. Air rippled hot around the fists that unfolded into palms. Elongated into blades, as the devahni's form shifted, growing larger half-way. An ooze spike shot towards his gut just as the growl met it, low and guttural.

Something about it, the vibration too low for the ear to catch, was rattling to whatever it was directed against, slamming against it like a wall before a triangular blade of air split it in half, seemingly affixed ahead of the palm.

"Let's fry it up."

Omar's next explosive blasted against the top of the towering mold, met the almost-massive swing of several tendrils. A shockwave and splatters of sizzling black rained down.