• Mature • Desperate Times [Westguard] (Graded)

[Llyr Llywelyn]

“Not from what I understand,” answered Llyr simply about the house’s family, who’d left the minor estate behind. “I thought the entire family must have fled during the evacuation but there are still people around. That is new to me, so maybe they were elsewhere before. I don’t know. There was an inquiry earlier totrial, about the house, but I wasn’t the one to speak with that person. Mister… My companion had.”

She fidgeted with the cigarette, then asked him about his business – whether he was a swordsman or… she wondered how he saw himself and soon got the answer in terms of a mercenary. Llyr nodded and glanced at the Gladius. A slight smile was the only thing that gave away that she might be teasing when she asked in a flat tone of voice, “Are you any good? With the blade, that is.”

The conversation turned to other matters soon enough, onto the plagues that corroded the countryside and made its way into Etzos itself. Llyr shook her head, bangs flipping over her brow. “It’s no exaggeration. You see Westguard, yes? You saw… my daughter. It’s like this everywhere, only worse and it’s spreading, worse and worse. Last I gathered word, Etzos had become so burdened by the dead that they are setting fire to entire sections of neighborhoods in desperation to contain the outbreaks.”

She didn’t know if it was true or not, but she had heard it. Llyr diverted her attention to preparing the tea. A quiet mirthless laugh escaped her at his question about Westguard’s evacuation. “The plagues spread farther outward, the pestilent armies come to slaughter without mercy and to overrun the towns. People are running… in all directions, and not often to Etzos from what I understand.”

Once Duncan had the mug of tea in his hands, Llyr brought a chair over and settled neaby. She fixed the skirt of her dress, then crossed her legs neatly. He was alone. The woman glanced over him. Should she tell him about the other children? She gnawed on her lower lip. It felt too soon, but… with what he had said, it seemed poor of her not to. Instead, she simply responded to what sounded like he had lost someone too. “Sorry.”

Llyr set her own mug of tea on the floor beside the chair. She rolled the hem of the skirt up to reveal her crystalline legs. The biqaj angled the calf with the crack so she could look at it. Gingerly, she traced her fingertips over the spot. It felt like smooth stone or even glass, the jagged second layer of odd skin exposed to the air. Still, a faint sting ran through the muscle underneath. She’d have to clean it out and wrap it like any other wound. She continued to run her fingers over it, her gaze cast down.

Silence lingered between them. It was no good. She needed distraction as her thoughts started to centralize around the recent loss of her companion and daughter.

“S-so,” she began hesitantly. “You lived in Etzos before. I’ve never been but have heard lots about it by now. I come from the south, though I’m certain that much is obvious. Where have you been, if no longer in Etzos?”

With a slight gesture to her own lips, upon mention of the south, Llyr referenced her accent. She weakly smiled. Her skirt remained up around her thighs, slender legs exposed. The firelight refracted from the crystalline quality of the limbs. From them, iridescence shimmered on the floor around her like the surface of a clear lake under a midtrial sun.

[Duncan Oisin]

Duncan grinned at Llyr’s little dig, mood lightening somewhat, if only for a moment. ”I like to think I do alright.” he chuckled back, “Been at it long enough, haven’t been killed yet. And what is it you do for a living then, Miss? A pretty little homemaker?” He shoot back automatically, his grin faltering some when he realised that no, she’d not be a homemaker anymore, not without her daughter. Duncan cleared his throat and dropped his gaze back down at his tea.

“I’ve heard similar rumours.” He grunted, brow furrowed as he thought it all over. “If not to Etzos then, where? Foster’s Bay, and then take a boat I suppose?” But from there, where? He wondered to himself, rubbing a hand over his face, only then beginning to feel the strain of the day, and all his previous days of travel. A whole season of travel, just to go back to Rynmere? No, I’d rather die in Etzos. Duncan tapped his chin, brows drawn together. “There’s always Rharne.”

They lapsed into silence then, and Duncan blew lightly on his tea, watching as Llyr pulled her dress up to her knee, exposing her peculiar legs once more. Though they were still entirely human in shape, the texture of the skin was anything but, as though she’d been cut off at the knees and refitted with the legs of a statue. ”Why do they look like that?” He asked finally, paying no mind to how rude the question may have been. He watched as she touched the injured calf carefully, her fingers ghosting over the cracks and lines. ”Does it hurt like a normal wound?”

“I was born in Etzos.” Duncan admitted with a shrug, “Left when I was still a teen, so I’ve no idea how well I’ll still know it now.” Duncan’s childhood in Etzos had revolved around the slums for the most part in anycase, and he only knew of the most basic of the city's layout. ”I lived in Rynmere for many years, worked for some noble families.” Duncan sipped his tea finally, a satisfied sigh escaping him at the fresh, minty flavour. “Then moved on to Viden, Ne’haer for a while after that.” He shrugged, quiet once more. He studied Llyr, doing his best to think over her accent, despite the fact that Duncan had never had the best ear for them. “Are you from Ne’haer then? Why did you come North?”

[Maltruism]

MOD BOMB!!

It was a common enough thing to swell quickly. But this was not a referral to a damaged or infected body part. In times of such fear and anarchy, many would feel justified in doing whatever it took to survive. One person might see another, one clearly stricken with plague, about to enter the locked shop of a merchant in desperate need to provide for his family, and strike him down from a sense that he was protecting the rest of the town by keeping infection away from goods that were needed by all, taking up the call of The Greater Good.

Another may see this act and condone it as a terrible necessity brought on by the will of a heartless invader. Perhaps a third joins this pair. Perhaps this one takes things to a slightly less justifiable extreme, but those with him rationalize his deeds, laying blame for this as well at the feet of the invading horde of plaguebearers.

Soon others join this squad of what are soon to become thugs; the bar of their justifications sinking with each new addition. In most cases, it is the most aggressive that takes over the command of such a group. Those that began in the belief of having to take it upon themselves to make the "hard choice" now realize they are passing beyond redemption for what they have allowed to be committed by their fellows, yet still desire survival, so they look the other way.

It escalates in their minds, this rationalization, as their hearts strive to deny. Soon those that they would have seen as justifiably defending their own property are labelled as hoarding what should be available to all, and their attempts to fight off these looters is branded as selfish aggression, likely to end in death for one side or the other. Thuggish numbers prevail over what is usually no more than a single man and wife, protecting their equally doomed children. In such cases, it is only the threat of the plague itself that keeps them at safe distance, so long as no faces are shown that might betray the health of those hiding behind these locked doors.

Thus, the streets of Westguard take on an abandoned appearance. Upstairs drapes seem to ride gentle drafts as slivers of visibility allow eyes to scan the street below. The gang of thugs, now numbering nearly a dozen, take only the precaution to knock on doors and demand entrance or acknowledgment of sickness within. And soon enough, they fall upon making the threat of having the building 'decontaminated' by fire if someone does not come to the door to confirm one story or the other. There is already the smell of smoke on the air, so it is a threat that must be weighed carefully.

Such a knock now sounds at the door of the home where Duncan and Llyr take shelter with the group of children upstairs.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Whether the sensitivity of mentioning her being a pretty little homemaker bothered her or not, Llyr forced a display of rolled eyes and a thin smile. It was an attempt to make the comment a little less awkward for the both of them. Though the young mage was doing her best, she still wasn’t entirely composed and so she muttered, “My former husband would have preferred that.” Now it was her turn to clear her throat and drop her gaze.

It wasn’t meant to continue the conversation in that direction and she quickly moved on to more important subjects like the state of Etzos. She shook her head and answered, “Not Foster’s. All the boats are already gone, or exorbitant in price. We came through that way, trials ago, and it was full of people from the southern areas. It’s just as likely to head north into the wilderness than hitch a boat ride somewhere.”

“Rharne?” She repeated. The biqaj sighed and mentioned, “If only Emea was still… graspable.” Her gaze glanced over him; the green of her eyes turned blue for moments before returned to the emerald hue.

Llyr drew up her dress to examine the crack on her leg. She traced her fingers over it, with only a glance toward the man when he asked about the unusual quality of the limbs’ skin. She smiled slightly, sincerely, at the follow-up question included. “I suppose so, they can hurt especially if wounded deep enough and aren’t as resistant as would likely be useful. It’s uh…” she hesitated, then simply shared in her persistent honesty with the man she barely knew. “Magic. I’m an… etherist, if that wasn’t obvious to you. Not that I can do much currently in that regard. My connection to what empowers me has faltered since the start of the season and I am like an archer with a bow but an empty quiver.”

She turned the conversation back around, to focus on the man instead in a trade of information – an exchange of superficial trust. Llyr smiled again, genuine in the expression, and she made a mental note that Duncan was an Etzori then. Her eyes widened slightly upon hearing Rynmere mentioned, but she said nothing more on the subject. He offered her an opportunity to lie, then. To claim she was from Ne’haer… it could be better to do so. Certainly, she suspected that to say she was from Ne’haer would be the smartest course but then if the man had lived there, he could easily catch her in the lie. She knew little of the city beyond what her sisters had told her.

“Well, I… I’ve been to Ne’haer,” she began, but a knock at the door interrupted her. She seemed almost relieved by this, then her eagerness swiftly faded. It was thundering outside, though the rain had let up, and the sun had set in the past breaks… and the city was mostly evacuated. Who could it be? For a brief moment, a wild idea occurred to the griever. Perhaps Mister Kiwi had reformed himself together and returned. Sure, he’d be missing the pieces that were still stuck in portions of her skin – waiting to be removed – but she could return them to him and help him rest to full health, to care for him and...

Llyr had stood. She barely even realized it. Her skirt fell around her legs and the hem dangerously brushed against her untouched mug of tea. She’d forgotten almost entirely about Duncan in the moment and it was obvious as she didn’t even glance his way. She headed through the hall, toward the door where the knock had come from. Her eyes were bright with hope, and her heart raced with the subconscious knowledge that such a thing was unlikely if not impossible. She wanted to believe, though. Maybe if she believed hard enough, by the time she reached the door and opened it, Mister Kiwi would be the one on the other side – even if he hadn’t been the one who knocked. Maybe he’d even have Hazel with him.

[Duncan Oisin]

The revelation that Llyr was a mage of some description didn’t particularly surprise Duncan, and his features only hardened in response. Duncan generally did his best to avoid mage’s, especially after the events of the previous few arcs, but he supposed there was little to be done in some cases. There was no point in storming out on the woman, when he’d already been mostly aware of the fact that she was clearly a magic user in some way, and accompanied her to her home anyway. Regardless, he was at a loss of what to say, the majority of what she said raised more questions than answers, and so he let the subject pass.

Duncan’s attention left Llyr entirely at the sound of the knock, and he straightened in his chair, going stiff and observant in an instant, like a dog set to guard. Llyr stood in a hurry and left the kitchen, Duncan following to stand much slower, his eyes snapping from the kitchen window to the hall that led to the door. He hesitated as Llyr took off down the hall, stopping by his pack to fish the womans small knife out of the front on his bag.

He shoved the small blade through the back of his belt, pulling his shirt down over the top of it as he caught up with her at the door, reaching a hand out to stop her from opening it. "Wait a tic." He grunted, voice low as his gaze slid from the door to fix on the petite woman. “Do you have other friends out there?” He asked, brows knitting in light concern. From what he’d gathered during their brief conversation, the companions that had died in that alley had been it, and to have at such a time during such poor weather instantly set Duncan’s skin prickling, hackles raised on instinct. Another insistent knock sounded at the door, and Duncan relented after a moment, gently maneuvering Llyr to the side; still in reach of the lock, but so that he would be the first seen as the door swung open. “Go on, unlock it.”

A group of men stood outside, some holding weapons, others holding flaming torches, all with grim and dark expressions. Duncan’s fingers itched to reach for the knife, or at least to push Llyr further back, perhaps tell her to go upstairs, but he kept carefully still instead, attempting to present himself as non-threatening as possible, and to keep his voice low and even. “Evening. What brings you by at this break?”

[Llyr Llywelyn]

"Wait a tic."

Duncan’s voice interrupted Llyr’s momentary hopeful delusion. Her steps slowed, then she stopped a short distance away from the door. She looked at him, then to the door and answered, “Not that I know of. I don’t have…” another thought occurred to her. “I suppose there is one. Unlikely but…” more likely than Mister Kiwi rising up from the dead, perhaps.

The knock sounded again. Llyr stepped aside when Duncan moved her there. She didn’t resist his guidance. When he told her to unlock the door, she nodded. She knelt and undid a tripwire, then stuck the wire’s pin into the rudimentary device she’d built onto the door several trials ago. The lock sprung, then the door opened inward with a simple pull of the handle.

Llyr got to her bare feet. The biqaj woman stepped away from the door, behind Duncan, and peered over his shoulder at the group of men. She could smell burgeoning smoke in the distance. The glint of fire rose from one of the houses.

When Duncan greeted the men, she recalled the children upstairs, and she hadn’t told the mercenary about their presence. She felt a sudden need to inform him, to let him know that it wasn’t just them in the house – in the case the fire reached them, and she was somehow indisposed.

She swiftly moved behind the merc and gently held onto his bicep. Llyr went to her tiptoes, strained to reach him, and cupped her hand to block her lips from view. She whispered in his ear, “I'm sorry, Duncan. I should have told you. Upstairs, there are three children, a girl and two boys.”

Lowered again to her petite height, she glanced at the group, with their torches and weapons, from around the taller human. Llyr added a question of her own. “Has a new bonfire for the dead been started?”

[Duncan Oisin]

Duncan shot an incredulous glance at Llyr as she pulled her hand away from his ear. Really? He wanted to demand, Now you tell me!? He schooled his expression instead, calm once more as he turned back to the men before him, despite the flurry of thoughts and plans that were rushing through his mind.

His attention returned to the men before them, and for the first time Duncan notices the glow of a house burning, less than a block away. These weren't the type to care about killing women and children. They were the lowest of the low, no doubt eager to get back at the world by looting their neighbours, and burning families in their homes that did not comply. Duncan scowled at the thought. A little chaos and all hell broke loose, mobs forming in the streets to torment those they'd once waved at in passing. "What do you want?" He snapped to the man at the forefront, a greasy, skinny man with a sly grin on his face. “Nice house you got there.” He slurred, glancing up at the outside of the building. "We don't take kindly to squatters though, we think its real low." He laughed, and the men behind him chuckled along. "You're gonna let us in now, and we're gonna take what we want."

A noise down the street seemed to distract some of the men, and after a moment part of the group broke off to go and investigate, leaving five men at their doorstep, their leader looking unconcerned. Duncan found he agreed with the sentiment, swordsman or no, five against one with nothing but a dagger in hand was hardly promising odds. Better than a dozen, but still not good. Children upstairs though. He reminded himself. If i can hold them up here long enough, maybe Llyr can get them out.

"Maybe you should go back to the kitchen, check on our tea?" Duncan murmured to Llyr, before leaning in to whisper in her ear, angling himself to hide the action as a kiss to her cheek. "Bring me my sword and then get upst--" He was cut off as the leader grabbed at his shoulder, tugging him back around. "Oi! Don't you fucking speak, I'm in charge here!" He snapped, spittle flying, and before Duncan could help himself he'd grabbed the back of the man's neck, swinging him bodily around and driving his face into the edge of the door, his nose breaking with a sickening crunch of cartilage and a gurgling scream.

All holds dropped, the man behind him shouted and leapt forward, brandishing a chair leg spiked with nails, and Duncan swore. He shoved at Llyr roughly, not sparing the woman a glance as he drew the knife from the back of his belt and lurched forward to meet the oncoming blow, ducking under the makeshift mace to drive his shoulder into the man's chest, slamming them both into the wall. His knife came up in three quick jabs, biting deep into the looters unprotected belly and spewing blood over the both of them. Duncan twisted the last blow for good measure, stumbling back as the other three pulled their leader back to his feet and started towards him.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Llyr glanced away from the incredulous look thrown at her. A faint blush rose to her cheeks. She tried to focus on the men waiting at the doorstep instead. The leader at the forefront completely ignored her like she didn’t even exist. She softly exhaled and glanced at the noise down the street but couldn’t see anything through the dark.

"Maybe you should go back to the kitchen…"

The biqaj’s attention returned to Duncan. She hesitantly smiled, then nodded – about to do so – except he leaned to kiss her cheek. The whisper tickled her pointed ear. Before he could get far with any further instructions, the mercenary was interrupted by the man at the door.

Everything changed course in a bone-snapping trill. Duncan slammed the man into the door. Llyr swore at the suddenness of it and took a small step away. With their leader’s nose broken, any semblance of hope for negotiation had gotten smashed in along with the cartilage. The mercenary shoved her aside to avoid the oncoming man with the gruesomely weaponized chair-leg-mace. She followed the guidance with ease.

Llyr lifted the skirt of her dress, hem to knees, turned on heel and sprinted to the kitchen. She slid past the door frame, without a glance back to the foyer though she heard the vaguely familiar sounds of flesh being violently punctured.

The young mage went to the chair where Duncan had been seated, picked up the weapons belt, and hurriedly slid the gladius out of its sheath.

The kitchen door flew open. It had been left unlocked; the extra bit of security forgotten while taking pails out to gather the rainwater. Llyr looked over to see a trio of looters. It was obvious from the torch one held and the weapons the other two had, they were part of the same band. The torchbearer, a stocky woman in coarse leather, glanced over her with a gleam of greed in her beady eyes. She spoke in a gruff Etzori accent. “You ain’t the lady of this house, what you doing wearing her dress?”

There didn’t seem much point in conversing with them. Llyr took a few steps backward, raised the gladius though she had absolutely no idea how to wield a sword. One of the two men at the stocky woman’s side snickered. He twirled his own sword, a thin affair but razor-sharp metal all the same, and nudged the other man who held onto a pitchfork. “Look at that, ma. Y’ thinks she’s challenging me to a duel?”

“Might be a pirate,” mentioned the larger man who held the pitchfork, at the other side. Though his build was different than the other man’s, they both had the same squat nose as the woman between them. “With them ears and eyes. Stealing the missus’ things and all like they do.”

“Duncan?” called Llyr from the kitchen, her voice slightly strained in pitch though she didn’t scream or make it sound like she was in any immediate danger – just the tenuous situation she found herself in. She took another step toward the hall, then raised the sword up when the first man approached.

He held out his own sword, in a stance she barely recognized, then grinned in a manner that showed a mouth mostly of gums rather than the hints of little yellow-stained teeth. “Who you calling? Don’t you wanna duel? Honor’s stakes, honest.”

The man jumped forward and swiped his sword in an arch above her. By mere fortune’s luck and a rush of adrenaline, Llyr held strong to the hilt of the gladius. The blades clanged loudly. Tremors shot through her arms. She wordlessly shouted, tilted forward, and parried the strike.

Whether his swipe had been meant as a mere taunt or a true attack, she recognized the fury of humiliation in the Etzori’s eyes. His supposed brother laughed boisterously.

“Wa-wait,” she said. Another slash of the sword came, this time harder, and it glinted off her second attempt to block. Balance thrown off, she stumbled from the skirt, and fell to her knees. Warm light swayed from the crackle of the hearth’s fire in the kitchen room. Llyr held onto the gladius but couldn’t evade the kick that came next. His boot landed directly at the center of her stomach, her petite body thrown against the nearest wall. She coughed from the impact.

[Mauro]

Reviewer’s note: This post is only meant to provide a jumping-off point for a spinoff thread here and can be skipped in the review. This is a one-off post, no further posts from me will follow in this thread.

Mauro stood half-hidden in shadow, his head leaned against the wall and he stared past the thin, torn curtains out the grimy window. How long had it been since Llyr had gone? A break? Maybe two? He’d taken Hazel along for some reason even though she was still coughing and sneezing and shivering... He’d watched them walk out together into the odd sepia dusk that had fallen, the small girl cocooned in clothes, struggling to keep up with Llyr’s big steps. It was hard to tell what time of day it had been, or what time it was now.

His eyes flicked away from the lonely streets and landed in the semi-dark of the room. Foyle sat in one corner, covered by a blanket that boredom compelled him to pick apart. The girl, Oceta, was cooped up with them though she hardly seemed to mind. She did as Llyr instructed, no more and no less. It almost seemed compelling to live like that, to have all the hard decisions made for you. Decisions like whether to stay or…

There was movement on the streets below. Hurried footsteps. Mauro lightly held up the curtain with his hand to have a better look. Two shapes approached, one large and plodding with the weight of armour, the other small, feminine and…

He squinted his eyes. There was someting in the woman’s walk that reminded him of Llyr, but Llyr wasn’t a woman. It had to be someone else. “Foyle!” Mauro hissed through his teeth, urging him to come forward. “...look, who’s that you think?”

The Etzori boy brushed dark strands from his forehead and peered through the slit between the window and the curtain. “Who?” And then a trill later, “… who are they?”

Mauro chewed on his lips. “I don’t know, but they’re coming this way.”

--

Not much later the Biqaj woman they’d seen outside stepped through the door that marked the border between safe and dangerous, permitted and disallowed. Mauro gawked at her, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. The woman’s browned skin was splattered with red and silver blood, it couldn’t be Llyr, but who else knew about them? Who else knew that the only working entrance was at the side? And yet it still couldn’t be Llyr. Llyr had left with Hazel in tow and knowing the two of them, even if only for a handful of trials, they were practically inseparable. Llyr would never leave Hazel behind, even though he had to know she wasn’t getting better.

Mauro’s eyes roved over her body, scarcely listening to what he -she was saying. Another possibility dawned on him, one far more gruesome than he’d dared to imagine. Hazel was gone and this woman, claiming to be Llyr, had returned alone and bloodsoaked. He exchanged a quick look with Foyle, but the Etzori boy kept his face still as stone.

Mauro’s eyes widened further at the mention of the stranger she’d brought along. Did she mean the man with the blade he’d spotted through the window? What if he was here to finish what she’d started… they were a burden, he’d known it all along. Not just Foyle and him, but the slave girl too. They couldn’t keep up the pace with the adults, they couldn’t scavenge without putting themselves in insurmountable danger....They were burdens and whoever Llyr was or had pretended to be had now decided to rid herself of them.

But if she had decided to kill them, she didn’t make her move just yet. She spoke softly and hurriedly, encouraging them to be quiet and stay put. Then she turned on her heel and left with a limp in her gait.

The door fell into its lock behind Llyr and after a trill of breathless silence, Foyle jumped up and made a beeline for the window. There wasn’t a trill to waste. Gritting his teeth he hooked his stubby fingers under the sliding window and pushed it up and open. A bout of cool air greeted him, tousling his dark hair as he leaned over the edge assessing the distance to the ground. A direct drop would hurt, bruise his ankles most likely, but if he climbed a little way down it wouldn’t be so bad. Satisfied with his assessment he pulled his head back through the window and turned straight to Mauro. “Get the bag, we’re leaving.”

[Duncan Oisin]

The leader had snatched up his fallen comrades mace, and he swung it in a swift arc, missing Duncan by a hair as the mercenary ducked. Llyr calling for him from the kitchen distracted him however, and the second blow took him in the ribs, with enough force to beat the breath out of him, the nails and spikes biting into his side and ripping free. Duncan grunted, the force of the blow unbalancing him and shoving him into the wall, the thug following him to press his advantage, raising the mace overhead. Duncan caught the blow against his forearm, biting down on a yell of pain as it bit in deep. He pressed forward, the nails twisting and grinding deeper as he grabbed a hold of the handle and the thugs hand, using it to tug him forward, plunging the dagger into the side of his neck with a growl.

Duncan dropped the man and tugged the mace free, flipping it quickly and swinging it at the next of the attackers, a younger man who leapt out of the way. He and the other two were still in the doorway, Duncan and the two bodies blocking the hallway. Taking the short reprieve as they all paused to size each other up, Duncan strained his hearing, searching for any sign of Llyr further into the house. A few muffled sounds reached his ears, but nothing particularly discernable, and Duncan pulled his attention away as the larger of the three before him made his move, charging the short distance down the hall, his own wicked dagger held tight in his fist. Duncan shifted his stance forward, swinging his body back and to the side to dodge the mans first jab, and returning with a swipe of his own, blocked by the man's much longer dagger, a weapon far better suited to such a fight.

Sincerely missing his gladius, Duncan pressed forward regardless, getting in close to make it more difficult for the thug to wield his longer dagger, and easier for his own to be at its most effective. They grappled with one another for a long moment, and finally Duncan was able to secure the man's weapon hand, twisting his wrist back with as much force as he could muster while the man howled. A punch from the thugs free hand had duncan blinking at stars for a moment, but he followed through with the blow he'd drawn back for, embedding Llyrs knife in yet another eye socket.

He tugged the knife free, and let the screaming man fall back, stomping his booted foot down on his throat as he thrashed in pain on the floor, the screaming turning to weezing gasps as he asphyxiated, windpipe crushed by the force.

"Llyr!?" He called loudly, waiting a tic for a reply. "You okay!?" If an answer came Duncan missed it, as the largest of the two remaining thugs slammed into him at full force, knocking him back and off his feet. The knife clattered across the floor, and the man slammed his fist down into Duncans mouth, the bitter taste of blood flooding his taste buds. The thug got his hands around his throat and squeezed, Duncan bucking beneath him. He clawed at him in instinct, his fingers going straight to his eyes and digging in ruthlessly, the thugs hands tightening for a moment before Duncan felt a pop, and his finger slipped into the socket, painfully disturbing the eye, but not fully dislodging it. It was enough however, and Duncan surged up as his grip loosened, animal panic and adrenaline at the close call fueling him as he shoved the man off and pinned him in turn, finding the others throat and slamming his head back into the floor with all his strength. Each of his shaky, gasped breaths was followed by the man's head pounded into the floor, until the heavy thuds began to sound wet and slick, the man's face contourting and body going strangely rigid. Duncan choked and feel back, scrambling off the shaking and seizing body, the black spots in his vision clearing some with each big breath.

By the time he stood the last had fled, his torch the only visible sign as he sprinted down the dark street. Duncan groaned and spat blood, sweeping his tongue through his mouth to check that his teeth were all still where they should have been. "Llyr!?" He called, voice hoarse and painful. He coughed, snatching up the knife as he lurched down the hall in search of the young woman, his steps uneven and pained as he went.