The 10th of Saun 718
Oberan thought of doing many things, but didn’t act on any idea that popped into his mind. Sure, he could resist and make a scene, he could even escape, but the result would be the same. The merchant was going to frame him for a crime he didn’t commit –though he very well could have—and he’d either be chased around the city for the rest of his days there, or he’d be caught and put in jail. If there was any place Oberan didn’t want to go just yet, it was prison.
No, there was a time and place for everything, and here he’d play defeat up until he was out of sight. Logic dictated that the merchant didn’t want to be linked to any beatings that took place in shady alleyways. That was bad for his clientele. No, he’d be leaving, trusting in his hired help to complete their job in a satisfying manner.
And thus Oberan cooperated as the men locked their hands around his biceps, and began dragging him away from the busier streets. He walked in the direction they wanted, not even needing to pretend as if he wasn’t concerned or distraught. The mercenaries didn’t complain, after all, he made their work easier, and if the jester believed that cooperation would lessen the beating he’d receive, he was dead wrong.
Nothing changed.
However, once they had found a good spot and changed their hold on the captive so one would restrain him and the other would deliver a solid beating, the Mortalborn sprang into action. He quickly stomped on the foot of the man restraining him, pushing forward to yank himself free at the same time. The man grunted, but vice grip on Oberan’s left arm didn’t weaken.
A key in the mercenary’s pocket heated up and deformed, and the fingers released the Mortalborn’s arm, much to the chagrin of the other thug.
Stepping back to avoid a powerful hook, Oberan’s back hit the wall behind him, a curse leaving his lips. Three walls around him, two blockheads in front of him. He’d have easily been able to get up and over the obstacle behind him if not for the danger the two mercenaries presented.
Another punch came his way, and he ducked underneath it, dashing forwards only to be blocked by the second mercenary. He feinted left and went right, but a well-aimed kick made him jump back. The man smirked down at him, and Oberan became acutely aware he was now caught between the two men.
There was no other option but to dodge as the two mercs attacked simultaneously, switching up punches with kicks and attempts to catch his clothes so they could restrain him properly. Oberan wasn’t planning to let them. He ducked and bobbed and weaved, sidestepping and twisting out of the way, hoping to maneuver himself in a more favorable position, to slip away from between the barrage coming from both sides.
They made it impossible for him to create some distance, to get in his own rhythm. He needed a moment to reverse the flow, to stop their momentum. He tried to counterattack more than once, but each attempt made was promptly interrupted by the remaining mercenary. He was limited to evasion, and any quick and sharp movements of his hands and arms.
He got hit more than once, taking a blow to the face, a stomp to the stomach, a kick in the ribs… Oberan didn’t resist impact, instead moving with it in order to limit the damage done. Still, he was well aware that he wouldn’t last this way. That he was still skittering about was largely attributed to his flexible body and aptitude for acrobatics, not his combat capabilities. There was very little he could do: he was outnumbered and outmatched. They had the advantage in strength and range, and determined the ebb and flow of the battle. Perhaps that would change if he could outlast them, but he doubted he would.
Oberan changed tactics instead, no longer trying to get in close in order to counter. That was a futile effort anyway, so instead he targeted what he could reach. Elbows and knees, the limbs coming close to strike. He struck them in the crooks of their elbows, intercepted the kicks he could by driving his knee into their thigh. The Mortalborn did not possess a whole lot of strength, but he didn’t rely on that to win his fights either. Damage piled up over time. He’d outlast his opponents by evading their strikes while hitting them with his own. A little bit each time, same spot, slowly and sneakily inflicting more and more damage.
While he couldn’t out of his opponents’ reach, the core tenets of his fighting style remained adhered to.
It didn’t take very long before the results of his stings were felt. Enough blows to the elbow would numb the arm, and enough to the thigh would hobble an opponent. While not crippling in any way, it did hinder them, rendering them slower and less precise.
Perhaps he could have taken them down if he’d continued fighting, but Oberan did not have the stamina for that. Instead he leapt into the air, using one foot to both push himself off on one of the thugs’ chests while also driving him back. His other foot found a shoulder to use as a stepping stone, and he launched himself a second time. Hands found a second story windowsill, feet scrambled against the wall to find purchase, and before they knew what was happening, Oberan had disappeared over the rooftops.
The jester watched as they tried to give chase from below, though as they didn’t know which direction he’d gone in, their efforts would be wasted. He smirked, then flinched when it sent a jolt of pain into his skull. One of his eye sockets felt swollen and sore. He’d be sporting bruises within a couple breaks, but he didn’t really care all that much. The only thing that troubled him was that he didn’t know how Solomon would retaliate.
Worries for another trial, he supposed. He prepared to leave, but stopped mid-step.
Perhaps it was best to be informed.
