There was a roaring, thudding, shrilling that filled his brain and somehow the lump in his throat hadn't yet been fully swallowed. His ear, the one on the mangled side of his face, was ringing and it took a moment for him to realize that it was that blistering woman, high-strung barkeep, Methilda, yammering away at it. It almost reminded him of his wife; the fourth one. It was a shame she was now dead but she deserved it for making his hair so grey.
With a quick dart of his stormy eyes from the glistening pool of blood on the stairs, to the limp body that gushed the stuff like a fountain, to the boy whose back muscles; seeming scrawled with old scars, unwound as he prepared himself for anything; to Axehand – whose hands were still visibly shaking, armour chattering loudly, the look of terror, of guilt, still fresh on his face – and to Methilda, stout, cheeks puffed angrily, skin flushed and otherwise just exuding an aura of contempt. The old man sighed heavily, especially after watching the final exchange between the Avirel and Grinder, who now lay a writhing, pleading mess at her feet.
The rest of the men, besides, Grinder and Axehand (who was eyeing Rocan murderously now) and the third man, named Quill, had scampered off and left the tavern gawking, miserable spectacle.
Somehow the old man seemed to hide face in his palm and shake his head disapprovingly. “A bunch of disappointing shits, the whole lot of them.” he hissed into his hand, the boisterous, chesty demeanour, dropping to reveal the dark mood that had now absorbed him. He still feel Methilda's castrating eyes on him and the light of the tavern had now become a disgustingly palpable warmth he could feel on his face.
An eye went to the bloated pouch on the table and he saw the nels flooding out the mouth of the fabric glitter mockingly at him. Each flash of golden light, a whimsically berating gibber! His fingers twitched and his grey hair stood on end as he expelled a disappointed breath. With a snort, he stood, looking at the woman. My, how she reminded him of his wife, the fourth one; who always gave him that look whenever she didn't approve of anything he did. Dead now, she was, by his very own hands. Like a twig, the neck had snapped.
'She deserved it, the gibbering, yammering, high-strung bitch!' he thought as he shot the woman a smirk. His eyes took on a dark, perverted glare he was sure would make anyone uneasy. But Methilda seemed unfazed by the look and it only made his blood boil, the good way, the amorous kind of way that he enjoyed. A small, dainty bow from the man's frame saw him wheeze, almost mockingly, a tasteless apology.
“Aye, aye... yer right. My boys and I were totally out of bounds here and I know when I'm beat, an old dog of war knows when to tuck his tail between his legs if he must. So, as agreed upon, yer prize is yers to keep.” he said between his teeth, a hand gesturing toward the coins of the table.
He bowed again, his eyes never truly leaving Methilda's frame; “It would be unwise of us, outsiders,” he stressed the last word with a leer of pride, “To disrupt the evening with bodies and blood. This is a child-friendly environment after all.” he finished with a jab at her paltry policies he made sure not hide. “Please, forgive us, barbaric types for not valuing the treasured reality of life.” this one was a jab at the Avirel.
He broke gazes with Methilda and took a step forward, his eyes immediately locked with those of Rocan, whose body was visibly beginning to show signs of fatigue. The boy hid it well, he knew how to feign with the best of them, the old man mused. A sardonic grin touched the man's features but his eyes told Rocan an entirely different story. There was a vile anger in those smouldering orbs and Rocan knew instantly that he had made an unwanted enemy.
He would have flinched if he could but he held out, especially as he watched the old man's hand come up and pat him on the cheek. It was more of a soft slap really but Rocan hardly complained, there was no need to cause a scene now. The air was a mire of blistery, suffocating tension, edging closely to a volcanic eruption of unwanted violence. They just need to hold up the act; it was politics now and even the thickest block-head in tavern knew it.
“Yer fight well boy, very well. What's yer name?” he asked with a crack of a smile. His eyes however, were demanding to know who it was whose intestines he'd spill on floor someday soon.
“Rocan,” the latter replied. His eyes, cold and unwavering, as if he accepted the challenge for what it was. The old man raised a brow, as if the name was familiar to him, “Rocan, eh? Did you ever work under Borin Ironhand?” he asked, though what he was really asking was: so that's who you are, you bastard! I'll make you pay for this!
“Once, tracked some bandits and some upstarts up around the area there once when I first started out.” Rocan replied, slipping almost naturally into the kind of brute jargon freelancers were commonly associated with. Though what he truly meant was: On your head, old man.
The old man smiled, “Ah, good, good. It's good to know someone around knows some names from home. I could use a man like yers among my boys, seeing how I'm now one short.” he said. And translated, that meant, I've lost my money and a good man, you've messed with the wrong men, boy!
“Really?” Rocan quirked a brow, “I'm always looking for work. Who's hiring?” Who are you old man?, that one was really on the nose. The old man smirked, tossed Rocan a glare and looked at Axehand then the dead body, and back at the youth again.
“Just an old man and his boys. We aren't known much but those that do know me, well before the Arcs caught up to my name, do and did call me, Grey Dog. And my boys here...”
“The Iron Hounds,” Rocan finished a little too quickly, his expression wavering just the slightest. It also didn't help that he was thirsty and he gulped said the name. The Iron Hounds... it couldn't be!
The old man, Grey Dog, grinned, patted Rocan on the back and nodded before decided to step forward. Surprising, the gesture sent a shiver up the mercenary's spine and his features hardened when he realized his façade might break. Shit! Rocan thought to himself. He watched as Grey Dog inclined his head just a little, eyed him again and say: “Consider it.” before he stepped down the small step. And Rocan, who knew a threat when he heard one, heard that one, and his features only turned dark as he realized what the words truly meant.
I'll be watching you, boy. Be ready.
Grey Dog, who's doleful expression turned to Axehand and Quill, looked down at the crumpled body on the floor and spat on it. “Quill, pick Sawtooth up. Axehand, get Grinder. We never make a mess, especially when we're guests. Get on, the both of yers! And where are those two block-headed cowards?!” he snarled with dark fury. Quill bolted to the head-blasted corpse of the one once called Sawtooth and began collecting him. And besides the bits of grey matter on the floor, he did a reasonably good job of cleaning up.
Axehand, who weaved cautiously around the midnight-winged Avirel, manoeuvred around her and began pulling the armoured Grinder slowly from under her gaze. Grinder, who was sobbing, only looked at her. Half-abashed, half-angry but wholly defeated. He, an Iron Hound, taken down by some blighted abomination so easily, it was shameful beyond all reason. And for that, Grinder knew that Grey Dog would do what she chose not to do. And suddenly that look of defeat, turned into one of desperation.
“Pl.. please...” Grinder whimpered urgently, but it was hopeless Axehand had already pulled him away and they already out the door with Quill and the once-living Sawtooth.
Grey Dog, who took his time to exit, walked in the gaze of the Avirel, frowned and shook his head just a little to show his dislike of how. Though before he left, he was enough courteous to bow and gesture toward the table and say: “Glad yers spared Grinder, he never learns to not to reach too far, and for that, I'm glad, yers earned yer winnings.”
And with that, Grey Dog and The Iron Hounds, with their legs tucked neatly between their legs , left.
Rocan however, knew that would not the last time he'd see them and they, him. He was certain that nobody in Etzos knew who Grey Dog was and for that he more than glad, as for himself, he was not. He knew that man, knew him quite well. He wasn't relatively famous or well known, but Rocan knew who he was. That there was Grey Dog of The Iron Hounds, the man who scattered Borin Ironhand's brains to the four corners of the earth and beyond just an Arc after Rocan had worked with the young man. The details to what led up to skirmish were miry at best but Rocan knew it had happened. He was there, at Borin's funeral and had seen what what the old man had done to him – or better yet, what remained of him.
Rocan, who had to compose him turned and looked at Methilda, his whole body was aching but was still able to stand up straight and bow curtly. “Lady Methilda, please, do accept my apology for causing this. I would like to take the blame for my actions, if you would permit, I'd like to use some of the earnings to pay for damages. I'd also like to volunteer and clean up this mess.” he gestured to the wrecked furnishings. He slumped forward bit from vertigo and hissed just lowly enough to contain the pain in his body.
He was mind was rush of a million thoughts however, through all that calm. Each time he blinked he couldn't help by remember Grey Dog and Borin's mangled body. Shit, shit, shit! Rocan thought dismally, straightening. His muscles tensed uncomfortably and his eyes kept moving to the gaping maw of the door. Where just a moment ago, walking out of there was Borin Ironhand's killer, Grey Dog of the Iron Hounds, his name, his real name though, was Drakoven Ironhand... Borin's own father!
Shit... Rocan furrowed, a bead of sweat ringing his forehead.
