Moina Iasis

Moina Iasis

Boneknitter
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Blue eyes glance out the wavy panes of glass as the droplets of rain drip down the sides. A mug of something strong sits on the table nearby as the red haired woman relaxes on the bench. Loud shouts, cheers, and the occasional angry shout echo in the Patched Paw Tavern, one of the regular locations for Boneknitters to spend their days or evenings. It was Moina's preferred location anyways. More brightly lit then some of the others in the city of Fools, but she liked the name. Perhaps a bit to on the nose for some, humorous in her humble opinion.

The weather had turned dark and stormy quicker than than the thunder that rolled through the sky and she was glad to be indoors on an evening such as this. Yet, storms that gathered this quick only were portends that something else was coming. Whether it would be tonight or in the coming days would remain to be seen. It had been such a night that had forced her from the Empire. While in the end, the situation had worked out in her favor as she'd found a new home here in Crorefell and the Boneknitters with a steadily building reputation for her skillful hands. It could have turned out much worse. Really she'd gotten lucky.

Lips pressed against the wood mug as she took a drink, the taste burning down her throat before she sat the it down again. A rare erupted from a nearby table where a game of cards was being played. She was keeping an eye on that table, too often such games could turn as players were accused of cheating or were caught cheating. Good for her purse if weapons were drawn, but really tonight she just wanted a little time to relax.

The door to the tavern opens, rain blowing through the open door, before it's shut again closing out the stormy winds outside. Blue eyes turned toward the door, as the cool air that had rushed in caused a shiver despite the heavy green cloak that she was wearing. She glanced toward the newcomer, were they someone coming in to enjoy their own evening with a pint or someone coming in looking for help?​
 
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Spice laden ale spilled about thirsty lips as deep gulps drank it down. The amber drink ran down across scraggled chin, and drip dropped onto table and chest.

"He cannae do it! Cannae do it I says!" an elvish fellow egged on.

"Just a couple more gulps, lad, just a couple more!" another cheered. Wide eyed and wilde grinned.

Up and up the tankard tilt and the drink spilt the more.

"Half of it is down his shirt!"

The onlookers laughed, but none made to stop it.

The last gulp came, the tankard clacked onto the table. The Deva, cheeks full of drink held low to the table.

"He's gonna pop! Look at em!" a dwarf laughed and slapped him on the back.

Cheeks full of booze jiggled, the Deva groaned, but kept it all in. Gathered himself, drank it down with a hearty pass. Wiped wrist across his mouth, and bellowed a grunt as he stuck out his tongue between fanged teeth and pushed out hot breath.

"That's right," he said proudly. Hand shot up to the air with Tankard in grip. "I am the PUMPKIN KING!"

A mixture of laughter and groans as coins clattered across the table top in a shower of bright clinks and rings.
 
A shout, "I am the PUMPKIN KING!", echoed through the tavern and drew everyone's attentions. A Deva stood at the center of a table collecting coin from some kind of bet as his drink dripped from the short beard on his chin. She couldn't see cards about, but there was no surprise. People would bet on anything really. She sipped again at her mug.

The cloaked figure who'd entered moments ago left with another of the Knitters in tow, the story air rushing in again. This time the smell of wet stone filling the air as the storm grew stronger. The sound of a hand slapping on a wooden table behind her causing her to startle in her seat, turning to catch the grin of the winner of the hand. She thought that would be the end of it before angry voices rose behind her.

A heavy body bumped into her back, pushing the table forward and knocking her drink over. There was no apology, no acknowledgement as the body was yanked backward and the sound of fist against flesh sounded behind her. Well, there it was. The fight was that sure to happen. There was at least one per night. That was the only downside of the Patched Paw. Where other locations might hold a hard line about starting fights, the Paw patrons of the benefitted from them.

Standing slowly and wiping the liquid that had fallen to her lap to the floor, she moved out of the way so the fights could work it's way out. Heading to the bar, she leaned against the counter. "George, do you have a rag. Those idiots knocked over my drink." A rag was passed over and Moina swiped at the beaded liquid that remained as the sounds of the bar fight grew as other tables were pulled into the ruckus.​
 
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Scoop after scoop, Param tried to horde his winnings as fast as his clawed hands would let him. Shoveling dull and bright coin all the same.

"Win some you lose some, my handsome friends!" he said as he grinned the wider.

"Piss on that," one man stated as he reached up and grabbed the Deva by the scruff of his shirt. "I think you done cheated,"

Param hung from the grip. Laughed. Still held on to his commically large sack of coins. "Come on, mate, how am I going to go and cheat at a game like chug-a-lug?"

The big man squint. "I'm sure'n you found a way, ashblood," He gave.

Param's smile turned wild-cat sharp. "Ashblood," he growled beneath his wicked curl, dagger slit eyes wide and fat as pointed ears turned flat against his head, and hairs raised tall and to alert.

"I didnae-"

A crack. A smash. Fists flew. Knuckles dusted against bone, punched across chins and whomped into guts.

The Deva was hauled up over head, kicking and screaming, claws swiping. The Big Man bellowed and hurled him across the bar, he smashed into a table that turned to splinters and breaks.

Chaos consumed the Paw.

Param tasted something coppery and sweet in his mouth. blood poured down from his nose where he had caught a stray fist, and stars still spun about his head as he tilt and whirled, struggling to sit up.
 
Moina dropped the cloth that George had given her back on the bar as her eyes watched the swinging fists, the chairs broken across backs. She winced in sympathy, but remained where she was standing. She had no intention of getting in the middle of things. "Planning on stopping things?" She asked as she leaned against the bar. She could step in, but that would mean more work for herself in the end. Better to just wait it out. "Nah." George replied as he picked up a glass and began to polish it with a rag that had been tucked into his apron. "This is the third fight today."

The Boneknitter rolled her eyes. "Surely you have to be losing money at this point having to replace the tables and chairs as often as you do." One of the stools flew in the air cracking against the bar a few feet down. Moina looked in the direction of where the chair had come from, warning in her eyes. One of the combatants had the decency to look chastised. It was a well known rule that you didn't pick a fight with a knitter, not if you ever wanted to avail yourself of their services again.

"The percentage I get from the Boneknitters more than makes up for the lost furniture." George answers drawing her attention back toward him as the fight raged on. Her lip quirked up in the corner. Ah, of course, it all came down to profit. She couldn't begrudge him that, not when she ended up benefiting from these fights more often than not. A deva crashed through a nearby table, sitting with blood dripping from his nose as he waved back and forth on his seat.

"My turn now it seems." The woman pushed off from the bar and moved over to the deva. She heard a whispered warning Knitter! The fighting begun fading as she crouched in front of the horned man holding up two fingers. "How many fingers do you see?" She asked while peering into his eyes were her own blue ones checking if there might be a more concerning bleed in that hard head of his.​
 
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Bottles cracked as flesh thud against bone, and lungs pushed out breaths in low oofs and groans.

Param was lost to the stars. Twirling about his vision. Till something gave him a start. Rather, someone. He yelped at the sound of - "How many fingers do you see?" settled back in the sway of his seat.

"F-four?" he replied. As the edges of the violence about them blurred to and fro. "No no-" he corrected as he swayed. "Two," he said with a point of his finger.
 
The 'Knitter hummed in the back of her throat, switching to one finger and moving it back and forth watching the Deva's eyes follow it. "Do you remember your name? Where you are?" She asked gently, before her hands moved up slowly toward his face. "I'm a Boneknitter." She offered as if is was explanation enough before gentle hands grasped the Deva's cheeks, tilting his head forward instead of back to encourage the blood to flow out the nose instead of down the throat. Thumbs pressed lightly against the crooked flesh, prodding at the break. A simple fix, not even worth drawing on the shroud for. She was still unsure about the possible head injury however.

"Your nose is a simple break. There will be . . ." She started to explain, suddenly pressing with her thumbs to pop his nose back into place. Better than he didn't have time to tense before she had been able fix it. " a pinch. There good as new. Not even crooked." She rocked back on her heels as she waited a moment for him to adjust. The pain would have been sharp, but then would fade to a throbbing ache once fixed. She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket holding it out so he could wipe the blood from his face.

"I should take a look at your head. Make sure there's no unseen injuries." She'd seen men drop dead from uncheck and unseen injuries. She'd been a bit presumptuous in fixing the Deva's broken nose, but that was without shroud. She didn't want to force the Deva to accept that kind of assistance. It could get expensive after all.​
 
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"Name?" he asked, eyes following the lone finger that blurred and split and blurred back together. She went on. "Uh, Param," he said after a moment to think.

Boneknitter. He'd heard of them. From one tongue or the other. Maybe he had met one before. But it was all too- "Ow!" he sounded as his nose came back into place.

He gave his head a bit of a shake. "I'ts all just a bunch of hocus pocus," he muttered to himself. "Boneknitter, shmonelitter," he went on. Rubbed at the quick-swelling flesh about his broken nose. "My head?" he replied with uncertainty. "Why ever-" his eyes narrowed as a bottle flew passed his head and smashed against the wall beside him.

Flowers and fire. The scent splashed out in a sweet mist.

"You know, I think," he said as he worked himself up off the ground. Wobbled, stabled himself. "I think i'm good," he laughed. "Boneknitters," he said remembering. "Tell stories about you, we do," he said with shakey point and wag of clawed finger. "You, you lot heal for money," he said flatly. Lost his balance some as he stood. "No good thieving scoundrels, holding health ransom you do," he caught the back of a chair still miraculously in tact, and steadied himself.
 
On the plus side, at least he remembered his name, so perhaps there wasn't any damage there. Though concern shown briefly in her eyes as he lost his balance and caught his hand on a chair. It quickly passed at his words. Moina shrugged as he stood, denying service the want for service. "Suit yourself." He was in a city of mercenaries, not many here did things without pay. She wasn't bothered by the idea of tales being told. Good or bad, reputations still grew which brought in more contracts and more coin.

"I suppose you work for free then?" She questioned him, her lip curling up at the corner at the judgement in his words. There were always a few that didn't seem to understand or approve of the Boneknitters and their work. Yet, some held the expectation that she should so readily risk her own health for that of others without a second thought. She didn't let that bother her however, so many didn't understand how the connection with the shroud worked. That she pulled magic from inside herself or risked to pull it from the space around her. The more she healed, the more her own life became part of that price.

She was no longer a sacrificial lamb for anyone, not that she had left the Empire to join the forces of the Fools.​
 
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Param gave a laugh as he righted himself up. "Depends on the need now don't it?" he tilt and spun on a heel as a gnome careened overhead. Cracked against another ruffian's chest and planted on their back.

A rush of steps, an angry shout. Param's eyes went wide. He shoved the chair forward, its legs groaned across the earthen floor as it skate. It jammed into knees and gut. Stopped some guy from running forward.

"I see a sailor's ship downed in the reefs," he hopped, dipped and weaved away from another. Slapped his claws onto loose shirt and yanked him across to step away. "I save em!" he laughed. "Don't mean a 'chovies guts if I sell my services as a sailor or not!"

A thick arm snaked about his neck, and wrenched him down towards the ground with a twist over hip. Param kicked his legs out to try and keep balanced.
 
She stood as the Deva did, no longer needing to be at his level to examine his injuries. Crossing her arms, she watched the chaos that continued to unfold as the young man jumped back into the fight. Perhaps she had been too worried about his durability. He seemed hard headed enough that a little knock on the head wasn't slowing him down. A gnome flew through the air hitting another in the bar, tiny arms wrapping around his opponent's neck attempting to wrestle him to the ground.

A figure rushed toward the Deva, only to be stopped by a chair. The young man continued to try and lecture her and she listened impassively, having heard it all before. There was always someone who felt that the 'Knitter's should be altruistic. An arm snaked around his neck and the two wrestled. "If you rescuing them risks your own life or the life of others, then do you just run headlong into danger?" She didn't know what he'd say, but recklessness rarely worked out in someone's favor. The lucky ones might manage on occasion but more often than not, they ran out of their luck over time or others were lost in their place. Her skills had the chance to save someone from the icy grip of Death, but the question was everyone always worth saving? Or would she just end up costing more lives in the end?​
 
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A knuckled fist sank into his side. Bruised purple pain bloomed and spread the more with each hit. He grit his teeth. Flung his head back to let his skull smack against his assailant's nose. A crack. The rush of warm blood against his neck.

Param grinned as he felt the man's arms loosen, he dipped his hip into the man. Hooked arms under pit and dipped the big guy over his back to slam on the floor.

A hot breath pushed out of the Deva's lungs. He shook it off. "I want a world where you can escape your problems, miss Knitter," he flicked his nose and managed the twinge of pain he felt throb at his side. He sucked in a breath and tutted his tongue as he winced. "And not learn anything, aye?" his eyes went wide as he ducked a knife that'd been flung. It sank into the wall behind him with a wobble and low song from its metal. "But's, not so simple as that, is it? We do what we can when we can! A turn of kindness, with no promise for-"

A dwarf gored him with broad shoulder, knocking the wind right out of his lungs and sending him to the ground. The two scrambled on the ground amidst broken glass and shards of wood.

"Fiesty fucker, arent' ya," Param grumbled as meaty fists glanced off the bone and flesh of his guard.
 
"Aye and I'd like a world where finding food to eat didn't cost one several coppers, but that isn't likely to be the case. A woman can't eat on kindness." She said with a shrug, while pulling out a couple of coppers and handing them to the barkeep for another drink since hers was spilled earlier. That wasn't to say that she didn't take payment in other forms. She been paid for her abilities in everything from coin to eggs to hides to favors. Though the later came at a risk and she didn't know this Deva from the back end of a palgris.

The mug was placed into her hand and she nodded a thanks to George. Her eyes never left the fight and trained for the Legions as she had been, she had to admit the Deva was quite a good fighter. "You know, with skills like that, any of the Storied would hire you on." She didn't know if the Deva would be welcoming to mercenary work, he seemed a bit idealistic, but a contract was a contract whether it was protecting some pampered prince or transporting goods across the sea. In a way, at least to Moina, being a membered of one of the Storied meant freedom that she didn't have back in Arshakan.​
 
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A kick of the legs and a twist of the hips saw the Devah flip on top of the dwarfs, a smack across the brawlers mug, a splay of the palms and fingers to hold the mean bastard down as he swung his meaty hooks up in wild loops.

Param laughed at the compliment. "Hire me on for a spell would they?" He kept his smile bright and his arm stiff to keep the dwarf pinned down. "Fancy they have a ship needs a pilot?" He asked with a twinkle in his eye. A left hook to his ribs saw that turn to pained wince. " Oh, you're a right bastard you are," he grunt, and threw punch after punch, as a carpenter would take a hammer to a nail.
 
"Oh I'm sure someone might have a need for a pilot." The various Storied guilds took jobs of all kinds. She had no idea who was looking for what specifically, but there was likely a need out there somewhere. "Mostly I was referring to your fighting skills." He was a very scrappy fighter, knew how to hold himself in a fight and looked like he had experience if not training. Either way a good fighter was always needed in most of the Storied.

A squat human, that probably could have passed for a dwarf, came stumbling up to the bar sporting a split lip and a deep laceration above his eyebrow. He slid a silver toward the Boneknitter, the coin glinting in the light of the bar. Moina accepted it, reaching out to run a practiced finger over the cut on the lip and over the eyebrow. The skin knitting together easily. She pulled a few coppers from her belt pouch and slid them back to the man. His nodded his thanks before he stumbled out of the bar.​
 
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