Just moments before, the spacious back room of the Snapped Thread tailor shop had been filled with a completely different mood and atmosphere. Aided by copious amounts of freely flowing beer, the thugs gathered celebrated as if hangovers did not exist. They sang, they drank, they gambled. They told tales and joked and laughed. They toasted and cheered and pounded a crude rhythm into the wooden floorboards with stomping feet, making up for lack of musicality with sheer enthusiasm.
Not anymore. In but a couple moments, all the revelry and merriment had bled out, evaporating as if it were a drop of water on the hottest day of Saun.
A corpse lied face-up on the floor, framed in crimson. Surprise on his face, stab wound in his belly.
Two men blocked the sight of it. One huge and wide, massive in his bulk. Towering over everyone present, glowering down from underneath a heavy brow. Everyone else had to look up, and up and even further up, until their gazes finally found the head and face attached to the enormous body. Feeling like toddlers staring up at a full-grown adult.
The other was tiny next to him, but then again, just about everyone was. But even when compared to the other men in the room, this man was of smaller stature. Not by a lot, perhaps a hand-width at most. He wielded a bloodied knife and gave off an air of danger, in the same way a frothing dog did. It made sure he wasn’t overlooked, that at least half an eye was kept on him, even though most of the attention and wariness was focused on the giant.
Ponderous as a moving mountain, the huge man shrugged off his cloak, let it fall on the floor. Unveiled the body underneath, showing not skin but a layer of coarse soil of various colors. Greys and blacks and brown and beige. Patterned in waves, like a cross section of the ground in a particular spot. Studded with the odd pebble and fragment of stone.
There followed no introduction, and no-one needed one. Everyone present knew Milaq the Shanker, and they were familiar with the distinct appearance of his companion, even if this was the first time they witnessed it in person. While the giant man did not enjoy notoriety on the same level as people like the Prince of Eternal Mercies or the Raggedy Man, the thugs knew the rumors, and his reputation. After all, their new boss constantly bragged about having killed him a few seasons ago. About tossing him into the Southwood with a millstone around his ankles and a shard of Livlos in his side.
Yet here he stood, in the flesh.
Unmistakably alive underneath the layer of dirt and soil covering his body.
Larger than expected, both in height and bulk.
Face blank with disinterest, eyes focused on the door leading to the stairwell and up to the second floor, where Daggett had retired to.
Shock from the sight of the dead Charlie and the sight of the towering mage slowly lost its grip on Daggett’s men. Clawed fingers slipping as confusion gave way to the anger of a threatened beast.
Tension thickened the air, charged it with static electricity to the point it became palpable. Tingling on skin and weighing on shoulders. It seeped into the gleam of knives and into the crimson dripping from Milaq’s dagger. It wrapped around tense muscles and taut tendons, coaxed hearts into thumping fast. It transferred thoughts between Daggett’s thugs, uniting them, suppressing fears and doubts with strength in numbers.
Fists were balled, fingers gripped knives a little tighter. Feet shifted, shuffled into position. Ready. Focused. Unified in purpose and intent. Waiting for a signal to begin their attack, to descend upon the two intruders and extract bloody vengeance for killing one of their own.
And it did come.
Taking the form of a single person roaring a battle cry and charging for the two intruders. Several of their comrades followed suit, breaking into a reckless sprint to surround and overwhelm. Though they didn’t make it very far.
Water lurched forward, a knee-heigh wave at first, then breaking up, forming tendrils that jettisoned out and coiled around ankles. They writhed then, yanking at the limbs and sending the charging thugs to the floor, some barely able to catch themselves and prevent hitting their head. Not all were as lucky.
An older man stepped forward, though not in violence. Darted around the others, waving his hands in placating gestures, he motioned to calm the heated emotions and avoid a similar fate as his fellows. He grimaced, approached until he stood a little more than an arm’s reach away, and glanced from Milaq to Rokas to Charlie’s corpse and back.
“Want t’ volunteer fer second corpse t’night, Behnolt?”
“Killing Charlie wasn’t part of the deal, Milaq,” he hissed back, voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I didn’t hear about the Ogre either! This isn’t what we agreed upon!”
Milaq shrugged and said nothing. Simply met Behnolt’s eyes unblinking, and bared his teeth in what resembled a smile.
“Please, there’s no need for us to fight!” Behnolt said, loud, wringing his hands. Behind him, his comrades protested and spat, calling him a coward and traitor. “Why don’t we settle this like gentlemen? You’re here for Daggett, yes? I’m sure we can come to an agree--”
Milaq’s knife flashed. Slashed Behnolt’s throat from ear to ear.
Blood splattered on the floorboards like a waterfall, the greying thug coughing and stumbling, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. He collapsed a moment later, face first in a growing red pool. Garling and sputtering, coughing and choking. Blowing red bubbles through the tear in his throat.
Water flowed back to Rokas, swirling around his feet and mingling with the blood on the floorboards. The thugs had rallied in the meantime, picking themselves up and assuming fighting stances, though none made a move just yet. Despite looking none too pleased with a second casualty of their own –regardless of the names they’d called Behnolt just moments before—wariness overpowered recklessness. For now.
Milaq smirked, taunting them with rude and beckoning gestures both. Rokas motioned for him to cut it out, then spoke up for the first time since entering the room, voice rumbling like a distant quake. “Right… I’ll keep this brief.”
A breeze picked up inside the room, cold and biting as if carrying the frigid breath of Cylus and Zi’da, and seemed capable of streaking inside clothes and across the body parts most sensitive to it. Likewise, water took action as well, slithering small streams up limbs, dodging outer layers of fabric to soak the innerwear instead. Only Rokas remained unaffected.
“You know who I am, you know why I am here,” he said, “I’m here for Daggett, not you. Those who fancy the opportunity to walk away and sell their services to an employer with a more substantial lifespan ahead of them, I do suggest you leave now.”
Rokas let his gaze drift across the faces of those gathered, took note of the anger and rage blazing behind their pupils as they glanced at the corpses and blood and Milaq’s knife. Saw doubts play out in the changing expressions of some, considering the offer and any tricks hidden within. Shook his head at those who outright refused to think about it, thoughts too clouded by drink or pride or fury, or all the above. Nevertheless, they all weighed their options, came to a decision.
He added an ultimatum. “You have ten seconds to step out the door.”
Milaq scowled, his expression one of unhidden displeasure and frustration as he attempted to shake off tiny currents of water running up and into his boots. HIs focus was fixed squarely on Rokas, however.
“Of course, those of you who value Daggett’s coin in their pocket more than their life are welcome to stay,” Rokas finished.
At first, nobody moved. Shooting glances between each other, waiting for one to take the lead before following. Finally someone did, gingerly stepping past Rokas –keeping him between her and Milaq—then faster when he made no attempts to attack. Ignoring the jeers of her peers, she left the building quick. About half of the thugs followed, notably the older and more sober members who wanted no part in what would no doubt follow, though a few that were too drunk to walk without stumbling were dragged along too.
Two stragglers nodded towards one another and hastily headed for the door as well, dodging the still-gagging body of the dying Behnolt. But as soon as they left Rokas’s peripheral vision, the pool of reddened water gurgled. Rokas pivoted, barely avoiding the knife aimed for his abdomen, though it did catch his shirt.
Clamping a hand around their shoulder, Rokas yanked them off balance, first breaking their stance to then break their face on his knee. They hit the ground hard and did not move, bleeding from the nose and mouth.
The remaining thugs charged now as well, some with their sights set on Rokas, some on Milaq –who removed his blade from between the ribs of the fool trying to catch him off guard. The defier whispered to the elements, slipped a pair of brass knuckles around his fingers, and kicked Behnolt’s limp body into the path of the attackers.
Out of the front three, two dodged to the side and were immediately blasted back with a torrent of water. The third jumped over the corpse, realizing too late it put him in a vulnerable position. Rokas caught him by the shirt in mid-air, spun, roared, and used the momentum to fling him back to where he’d come from. Wood creaked, snapped and screamed as he smashed into the stack of empty beer kegs.
Four more appeared in the space he’d just cleared. One scarred woman with a knife, the others men with bludgeons –two using the legs of a broken stool as clubs, the last wielding a sock stuffed to bursting with clattering coins.
Water rallied, flowing back like ebbing tides as Rokas caught one of the rudimentary bludgeons mid-strike and hammered the wielder’s jaw with a mighty haymaker. It rose up like a waterfall in reverse, curving around Rokas to shield him from the blows of the other thugs. Killed the momentum of the club and sock, but the knife sliced right through.
Until it didn’t.
Fully submerged within water’s barrier, the blade found itself gripped tight. As much as its wielder pushed and pulled, the liquid refused to budge, pinching the blade with a pressure it should not possess. The other thugs struck the wall of water again, accomplishing little other than a splash on its surface.
The element retaliated, shooting out thick streams which blew the thugs back. Rokas followed its lead, rushing up to the closest foe, and rained down a barrage of blows. Clad in metal knuckledusters, his fists wreaked havoc on the man’s face, splitting skin and breaking bone with each hit.
As his comrade collapsed, the thug with the sock charged back in, weapon poised to strike. Water and Rokas moved in tandem, the element flowing into a new position to bat away the improvised weapon, and the defier slamming him to the ground with a shoulder throw, then stomping down on his skull.
But the other three had recovered already, all of them approaching once more. Water danced, flowing from one position to another, always in motion, always shifting. Protective shield one moment, punishing lash the next. Intercepting attacks and knocking thugs back.
Rokas threw punch after punch, kick after kick. Blocked and dodged and weathered whatever slipped past water’s guard. Retreated a couple steps, then forced the thugs back with a writhing mass of tendrils lashing out, until water lost shape, collapsed to the floor. He backed away quick until he could go no further, his back was against the wall.
He panted, chest rising and falling. The world seemed to slightly rock and tilt like the deck of a ship on a calm ocean, messing with his balance, nausea burgeoning. He leaned back further against the clay wall, letting the increased contact ground him, counteracting the irregular shifting of the floor. Rubbing a painful bruise on one shoulder, and ignoring the shallow cuts on his thighs and abdomen, Rokas stared down his approaching opponents from underneath his heavy brow.
They bared their teeth in triumphant grins, confidence bolstered by the successful hits they got in, pleased to see even a mage could be brought down by numbers. The loathsome water barrier now an inert pool by their feet. They stepped closer, boots splashing in the puddle, one of them flourishing his makeshift club. But Rokas met theirs with a smirk of his own, and halted their advance with a whisper.
No matter how hard they tried, not one of them could lift their feet off the ground, out of the water. Suction kept them glued in place, water’s grip deceptively firm. The smartest among the thugs didn’t fight it, instead pushing off and sliding backwards, hoping to get out of the puddle quick.
A fruitless attempt, for the water followed, spreading itself and molding into whatever shape it needed to keep them trapped.
But even if it hadn’t, it already was too late.
The wall trembled, masonry rocking, mortar powdering into dust. Individual bricks launched out at incredible speed, aimed straight for the pack of thugs gathered close together. Mowed them down without mercy, shattering bone with every impact, spraying blood and stone shards everywhere. When it stopped, only broken bodies were left, along with a gaping hole leading into the tailor shop itself.
On the opposite side of the room, Milaq the Shanker dealt with two opponents of his own. Three already lied motionless on the floor, bleeding from lacerations and stab wounds. One had shards of bone stick out the skin of her left arm and calf, a couple broken bricks lying nearby.
While before Milaq had danced around the thugs, making use of his stature to evade attacks and slip in a few quick slashes of his own, targeting vital spots whenever possible, he still found himself cornered. There was only so much space in the chamber; between the pressure of Daggett’s men and having to get out of the trajectory of Rokas’s brick barrage, the Shanker had run out of room to run to.
Rokas watched him fend of his attackers for a few moments, intercepting their blades with his own, lashing out to drive one man back to immediately return to the defensive, parrying the stab from the other thug. Then the defier fixed his attention to the door to the stairwell, turning his back on Milaq.
Wind whistled warnings as he opened the door, a boot catching him in the chest, forcing the air out and sending him staggering backwards. A large figure entered the back room. Tall and wide, thick trunk, arms and legs. Barrel-chested. Hairy. Bearded. Armed with a dented metal bat.
Daggett’s right hand. Arun.
The Lotharro didn’t wait for Rokas to recover, instead closing the distance and swinging his bat immediately. Water rose up to fend off the first few blows, scattering droplets everywhere. Despite a flare-up of nausea, Rokas regained his balance and moved out of the path of the next swipe.
He made a grab for the weapon not a moment later, clutching its hilt to try and pry it out Arun’s hand, and incidentally preventing the Lotharro from attacking with it. They struggled, wrestling for control. Each using their free hand to batter the other into loosening their grip. Rokas reached for his magic, calling for fire, but couldn't attain the necessary focus to bring the element into existence. It slowed his movements, allowing Arun to pummel his face, the flares of pain breaking his concentration, stifling his shouts for assistance. After a couple times the defier saw the futility of the effort, decided to rely on brute strength instead.
The tug of war continued for a while, neither side giving in, rolling with the punches and doling out their own. Until Arun’s knee connected with Rokas’s groin. Bright flashes of red, yellow and green shot across the defier’s vision as his knees buckled and his hand slipped off the bat to cup his manhood.
As Rokas crumpled, Arun gripped his metal club with both hands and wound up for a crippling blow. Yet water interfered, blasting him off his feet. On reflex, he stopped his fall with both hands on the floor, weapon clattering a few feet to his side. He reached for it as he got back to his feet, and cussed when a tendril of water flicked it away. For but a fraction of a second debating whether it was worth chasing it.
A single moment of hesitation that cost him the advantage. It allowed Rokas to bite though the continuous screaming of his testes, as well as the echoes bouncing off the lower portion of his abdomen. Still, while he did rise up from the floor, his fighting stance looked noticeably more knock-kneed and pigeon-toed than before.
They circled each other for a few paces, observing, studying. Analyzing the state of their opponent and considering the best way to take them down. Arun moved first, knowing full well the debilitating effect of a kick to the groin, and Rokas had little choice but to charge as well. Both men threw fists, heavy haymakers mixed with fast jabs and deceptive feints. Stepping closer and closer, until their toes nearly touched, and they could press their foreheads together. They slugged it out, throwing blow after blow on the other’s guard, hoping to break through. The other countered whenever a chance presented itself, and the roles reversed.
A few moments passed, seconds ticking away agonizingly slow, feeling like an eternity. Filled with hurt and pain and exertion. With knuckles digging into flesh and striking hard bone, gritted teeth, burgeoning bruises, haggard breaths, and the slight swelling of parts of the face. And in the brief exchange, Rokas won out, the metal ‘dusters on his fists lending his strikes more impact than Arun could guard against.
The Lotharro withdrew –or tried to—backing away with his battered forearms protecting his head and face while Rokas hammered his abdomen relentlessly. He bore it, even though every hit forced the air out of his lungs and brought bile and blood into his mouth, knowing the moment he tried protecting his lower half, the Defier would go ham on his head instead.
His boots splashed as he retreated, but Arun barely noticed, too much of his attention on the flares of pain in his stomach, on keeping his abs tense and hard as a sheet of iron, on searching for a moment –however brief—to interrupt Rokas’s barrage. Another step back, another splash. Several sledgehammer strikes into his belly, the taste of metal on his tongue. Knees shaking, ready to buckle. But he wouldn’t fall! He was Jessom’s trusty shield, the last line of defense. He should not fall, he could not fall. He would. Not. Fall!
But his arms twitched, giving in to the reflex for but a moment—too great an opening.
Rokas struck at his face next, giant fist racing towards his eye. Arun heaved his guard back up, knew he was going to be too late, jerked his head to the left instead. Barely out of harm’s way. Wind whooshed past, as did the Defier’s arm.
A moment of reprieve, a break in Rokas's relentless assault. Exactly what he’d waited for, what he hoped would come. Without hesitation he launched a counterattack. Stepping a little to the side, fist shooting out towards Rokas’s jaw—or that was his intention. Instead his foot hit something soft and heavy, and he toppled. Eyes flitting to the corpse of one of the mercenaries as he turned and twisted to try to catch himself. Rokas was already upon him, ready to end the skirmish right then and there.
His body moved on its own, instinct and muscle memory taking over. Both hands found Rokas’s clothes, a leg hooked behind the Defier’s to pull him down with him. Taking advantage of his momentum, Arun rolled backwards as he hit the floor, a foot on Rokas’s chest, and launched him through the hole in the wall, into the shop beyond.
There was no need for a breather, no time either. Best not to let a dangerous foe recover. Arun got back on his feet before he knew it, rushing towards the next room, aches and hurts forgotten. He barreled through the hole in the wall, and was immediately smacked in the head with a large bolt of fabric. He staggered to the side, into a set of sewing dummies. Another swing, Rokas wielding the bolt as an oversized club. Thanks to the size and weight, its hits were substantial, yes, but it made it cumbersome and slow too. Arun easily ducked underneath, threw a dummy at the defier, and capitalized on his need to dodge –and drop the bolt—to get in close once more.
Arun threw a punch but Rokas caught his wrist before his fist could reach. The defier smirked and countered with a hook, though Arun weaved out of the way, and when Rokas withdrew his fist, he intercepted, trapping Rokas's forearm in a vice grip. A stalemate, one both men hoped to twist into their favor.
Pitting raw strength against raw strength, they pushed and pressed, digging their feet in the ground and squaring their backs. Legs tense, knees slightly bent, becoming solid and immovable fortresses of muscle and willpower. Clenching every part of their body at once, channeling strength from their feet into their shoulders and arms. Trembling, sweating, snarling, scowling. Refusing to give in to the other trying to overpower them.
Rokas had the edge in height, weight and bulk, was trained by the Black Guard. But he’d been fighting for a while now, and found exhaustion creeping up, the burn licking his muscles. Defiance too had taken a toll; balance slightly off, the floor roiling like the ocean. He could smell salt and the scent of coming rain, and his head spun like a ship caught in a storm. Meanwhile, Arun was fresh by comparison, and while he possessed no spark, he was one of the Lotharro whereas Rokas was but a human. A human as tall and bulky as the largest of savage men, yes, but human nonetheless.
Fierce and enraged, with adrenaline coursing through his veins, Arun barely felt the pummeling he’d received earlier, shrugged off any attempts of tiredness to shackle him. He wrestled Rokas, muscles rippling and refusing to budge, strength not waning, lungs not burning. Centimeter by centimeter he won ground, forcing the defier closer to the floor, knees almost on the wooden boards. Rokas growled and grimaced, teeth bared in a rictus grin, but it did not help balance the scales.
“Milaq!” he roared, “Milaq!”
But the stab-happy thug did not respond, even though the ruckus in the other room had died out. Wind swooped in, circled clockwise a few times, then rushed back to Rokas, whispers on its breath. Apart from the bodies on the floor, the room was empty.
Rokas rumbled, kneeling now, Arun looming heavy above, doubling his efforts. Strength would not get him out of this situation, he knew. Tired as he was, he could not win on his own. Good thing he wasn’t alone. He never was.
If he wanted help, he just had to ask.
And he did, feverishly voicing a muttered plea. Brow furrowed in concentration, no abrupt stabs of pain to interrupt.
Flame blossomed, sparking to life between his shoulder blades, quickly engulfing the whole of his body. Flames spreading in an instant, enveloping all, flowing along every curve and bend, leaving no gaps, no space uncovered.
Arun roared in pain and surprise, flinching back, but held in place by Rokas, grip tightening even as the man tugged and struggled to get away. Fire swallowed him too, but he wasn’t a friend of the elements, and the orange tongues denied him the care extended to Rokas. It bit deep into the Lotharro’s flesh, blackening and scorching at the touch. Arun flailed, kicking wild and striking Rokas in the jaw, finally breaking free. He threw himself at the floor, rolling to try and douse himself, to no avail. He thrashed and writhed, screamed and wailed, then fell silent as smoke filled his lungs and robbed him of his consciousness.
Rokas let go of the Embrace and thanked fire for its assistance. He panted, wiping sweat off his brow, taking note of the heat radiating off his skin, of the beads of sweat wetting the layer of earth. Yet, he felt cold, even this close to the flames. Together with the rocking floor and increasing nausea, Rokas felt as if struck by a sudden onset of illness. It wasn't though. Inhaling deep to combat the vertigo, Rokas adressed fire, asked it to eat the body first. The flames crackled with disappointment, but the tongues consuming the floorboards and bolts of fabric leapt onto the burning Lotharro anyway. Within moments it forgot its protests and tore into the corpse with gusto, realizing it could eat the shop and everything in it afterwards.
Leaving the flames to their meal, Rokas staggered through the hole in the wall into the back room. Like wind had said, no-one alive could be found there, only corpses. Daggett’s thugs aplenty, but no Milaq. He scanned the room briefly, then eyed the door leading to the stairs. It hung slightly ajar, bloody handprints on the knob, dark red footprints heading through. Rokas frowned for a moment, but wasted no time dwelling on it. Better to move to the second floor now, where revenge awaited.
