• Closed • Knock-Knock-Knockin' (Graded)

[Kasoria]

47th Trial, Vhalar, 718a
South Etzos, Southwood River
Just after Midnight

Set immediately after this





The skies had darkened by the time the wounded man staggered back into the Oh'Pee, and the clouds pissed lazily on him as he made his way. It wasn't the deluge of the early arc, nor the freezing downpour of the last season, but it was enough. To plaster his hair to his face and dribble down his back and mingle with the blood as it went down to soaking his underwear. To make every heavy step a drenched, messy, toe-drenching squelch. To blind him every few bits as he was forced to wipe the hair from his eyes, then the water... then endure a fresh waterfall of the stuff falling down his unguarded face.

Good fucking night for it.

The little man was almost grateful for the rain, though. Kept people off the streets. He may have been the Raggedy Man, but he didn't want to mix it with a knot of cut-purses or drunk-rollers tonight. Not with his back flayed open, his shoulder almost bit through, and half the bones and muscles in his body bent or battered or just... weak.

It wasn't just the obvious wounds, either. It was the trail he'd been leaving. Washed away by the rain now, but at this rate, it took a few bits for that to happen. Looking behind him, even in the starless, moonless night, he could see wrinkling rubies in the shadows behind him. Like a deer pegged with an arrow by an amateur hunter, enough to bleed and agonize, but not kill. Now the prey had to stagger and suffer, until lack of blood and exhaustion killed it.

Not this fucking stag. Not tonight.

"One... foot... one... foot..."

It was his voice, faint and watery, but his ears heard Tantos. Then Drix. Then a squad of exhausted, determined young men, tramping around the training yards in rain so thick and heavy it made this look like a Saun day. Clothes soaked so they protected nothing and simply added weight. Thin boots useless in the mud. Heads capped by helmets that only made them more uncomfortable, more tired, freezing and burning with sweat all at once.

"One foot, one foot, one foot!"

The recruits cried it out, over and over. One foot in front of the other, that's all they focused on. One action at a time, not the thousands of repetitions. Just do one step, at a run. Okay, now another. And another. One, and one, and one, and one, over and over. Until your mind was scraped clean of everything else, save your feet moving and your lungs heaving. Pain left you. Fatigue flew far away. Hunger and thirst became forgotten friends.

Now the recruit was an old man, torn up bloody and barebacked in the slums of the South Side. But still the mantra spat from his lips, matching his steps. Sloshing through the puddles and looking up when he hand found a plaque on the corner of the street-

This is it.

"You a'right, mate?"

Oh, if ever there was ill-intent so badly hidden, it came oozing out in the tone Kasoria heard a moment later. Two wraiths, bareheaded and made plump by cheap ponchos, drifted from the alley and sized him up like wolfs would a lamb. He met their eyes and even they seemed not to believe their concerned-sounding words. Their eyes glittered hungrily and this bloody morsel was a present from the Fates. They stood in his path, like gatekeepers expecting a toll, and Kasoria knew a coin for passage and wagon cargo was hardly all they'd ask.

Kasoria didn't have time for this. He pushed himself off the wall and went to move between them, keeping his eyes straight ahead-

"Oi!" A rough hand from Rightie stopped him dead. His free hand hand a blade, and brought it up almost level with Kasoria's eyes. "Asked youse a qu-"

He was tired, and wounded, and he'd lost a lot of blood. But he was far from helpless, and this was hardly his first time. Rightie's grip was shit. Leftie was too close, leaning in and leering as if he wanted to see Kasoria's throat open and gushing. Rain spattered off their faces and Kasoria waited until the second sentence was half-said and a droplet caused Rightie to blink and-

-his hands shot up and grabbed the knife-hand by the wrist and fist, pulling and jerking it hard to the side-

THUNK

-straight into Leftie's shoulder, burying it deep and as the man screamed-

-he let go and burst a step forward, arms reaching out to grasp the stunned, disarmed, friend-wounding Rightie by the throat and side of the head-

CRUNCH

-grunting out a savage breath as he smashed his shaven head into the wall, then again, and again, as the man tried to grip his rain-and-blood-slick arms and Leftie fell onto his back screeching and then-

CRACK

-Kasoria felt something break in the man's skull. Felt the ripples of the fracture wobble into his hands. Thank Fates he could still feel them, at least. Rightie's eyes glazed over and Kasoria let go. The big man slid down the wall, face still pressed against it, half of it that wasn't a pulped, ruined, burst and bloodied mess curled up into a dead-eyed grin as he went.

Leftie was whimpering at his feet. Trying to pull out the blade. Getting some purchase, too. But he was so focused on the task that he barely noticed Kasoria over him, hidden by the falling rain and darkened skies, until something fast and flat was headed for his face-

-and Kasoria's boot stomped down hard onto him. Hard enough to break his nose and perhaps more besides. Bounce the back of his head off the cobbles and then he was as still as his partner. Probably still alive, though. Kasoria was in a hurry, after all, and tried to avoid killing when he wasn't getting paid for it. And speaking of payment-

A fresh swell of agony bloomed in him as he started to walk away again. Nothing came without cost when a man was this wounded. That burst of savage, efficient violence had bled out even more energy from him. Quite literally. A fresh pool was already running into the gutter along with the rain, and the assassin fell onto his knees as the searing, stunning pain seized his limbs.

"One... foot..."

One foot. Then the other. Then he was upright, and... walking... somehow. Every step took an age. Passing each house and business seemed to take a century or two. The cobbles started to shift and move under his feet, like the scales of some sleeping monster he'd awakened with his injuries. He swayed and staggered across the path, walking into the road a few times, until finally numbers on a door flashed at him-

Lightning in the sky. Heralding fresh blessings, and torments. Lighting his way for that moment, as he saw the numbers nailed into the door.

This is the one. The one he told us about.

He didn't so much knock at the door as hurl himself against it, then pound at it with hands barely capable of making fists. He kept pounding until he started to hear a voice from inside. Kasoria inhaled and beyond the coppery blood and dried mud caking him, he could make our... perfume. Stew. Soap. The scent of candles. He frowned and wondered if this truly was the place, then he heard-

"Lucille, my honeyed dove, I know our last rendezvous was a joy beyond the divine for you, bu honestly, at this bre-"

With Vri clutching his shoulder and two newly-battered bodies just down the street, Kasoria still took the moment to roll his eyes and shake his shaggy head. Oh, of course it was. Who else would have his mind living in his balls at this fucking time? The door was flung open and Oberan's lecherous grin was obliterated as-

"Holy shitsticks what in the fucking hells are-"

-Kasoria fell into his arms, and then onto his floor, the godling unprepared to properly catch him. Oberan wouldn't have time to take stock of all his injuries yet, but he could tell in an instant the man was badly hurt. The clothes on his back were torn up and exposed deep, animal slashes. His bare shoulder bore the sight of a chainmail vest gnawed through and the skin under it pierced in over a dozen places. The man was breathing shallow and painfully, coughing up rain and phlegm and blood and still trying ti hang on to Oberan as he fell.

"Healer... need a... fer the... bleedin'..."

They used to joke that plenty of things happened after you died; they just happened without you. A black little joke told among sellswords and killers, to take the sting away from the fate they knew they all had hanging over them. Kasoria saw Oberan's tidy little house grow small and dim in his vision. No amount of blinking brought it back. he kept mumbling about healing and blood and lizard and bastards and Fozzie until he could not feel the lips making the words. Until the words themselves were just echoes and all he knew was he was alive, a soul trapped in a body, and whatever happened next, it would be without him.

[Oberan]

Unexpected visitors on a break as late as this one was not a common occurrence.

Even less so when said visitor turned out to be an assassin bleeding to death on his doorstep.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been quite so flabbergasted by the unwelcome sight (and rather aggressively intrusive scent now mixed with that characteristic coppery one of blood), Oberan might have caught the little killer on pure reactionary stimulus alone. As things stood however, the Mortalborn only sheepishly started moving his arms the moment Kasoria hit the floor with a wet smack.

“What in the actual fuck?”

Whatever had been going on before Vorund’s hunting hound had come here, it probably hadn’t been pretty. Appearance of a filthy beggar aside, the assassin was clever enough to wear chainmail beneath his clothes, but it hadn’t mattered. For all his opponent cared about, Kasoria had been wearing a slice of cheese over his skin. Clothes in tatters, soaked and bloody, concealing the extent to which the wearer had been injured.

And the man just kept coughing up more and more blood and mucus, all the while muttering about needing a healer for his wounds, to stop his bleeding. No shit, if this continued, he’d be dead in… well, shortly. The problem, however, was finding a healer in the first place, especially one that was opened at this time of night. Didn’t Vorund have some contacts around the city that Kasoria could freely use if necessary? Why’d he come here for? It wasn’t unthinkable that Vorund wouldn’t have any people in the North, now was it?

That wasn’t important now! It wasn’t like Oberan knew where those guys were located anyway. He needed to do something about this situation, if only to stop the guy from bleeding all over his floor. Maybe get a favor in from big boss Vorund himself. Save him a lot of money and trouble having to seek out a new high-quality killer.

Where to take him though?

“Bleedin’… need… healer… Damn Fozzie…”

“Would you shut up? I’m trying to think.”

But the man was ultimately right. He’d been wasting too much time already. Time Kasoria didn’t have.

“I’m going to regret this in the morning, so this better be worth the trouble, you hear me?”

First point of business was to assess the situation. Oberan crouched down next to the killer, placing his hands on the man’s clothes, and the very next moment they were gone, appearing on the floor about half a meter to the right. Next was the chainmail, then the man’s weapons and sheaths and the belts and buckles that kept them bound to his person.

It looked even worse when the wounds were clearly visible. Something had torn into him like an animal would have, ripping flesh and skin and muscle apart with tooth and claw. It was a bloody mess that would certainly need needle and thread to be kept together. Blood continued to leak far to quickly to be good for the man. Seeing no alternative, Oberan focused and sapped the killer’s thrill, absorbing it into himself. Kasoria’s breathing slowed, his heartrate went down, the blood was pumped around unnaturally slow, Oberan forcing it slower still, as slow as he could make it go. Except for the loss of consciousness, there were no negative effects bound to it, and it bought some time.

New problem: Oberan’s whole body was now trembling. Primed and ready for fight or flight, body tense, physical ability pushed to the limit and beyond. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to sew up the wounds at all. But what he could do was summon a bottle of clear liquor to his hand, using it to clean the gashes and lacerations as well as he could. If there was anything he’d been beaten over the head with, it was that alcohol was good for wounds.

Then he tore the already destroyed beggar outfit into strips, binding most major cuts as tightly as he thought was necessary –and probably a little tighter. First aid done, now onto the most important part; finding someone who could fix the scratcher.

Hoisting the little man onto his back wasn’t a problem at all with his strength amplified, feeling only as if he was wearing a particularly large backpack. A smelly one too. He closed the door, locked it, and set off into the darkness and the drizzle, destination in mind.

Progress was fast, all things considered. Oberan knew these streets, navigating easily, avoiding the shadier ones now he wasn’t as nimble as usual –he was in fact more nimble, even with the added weight, but attempting anything he would normally do would probably tear his body apart even if he wouldn’t immediately feel it. Thus he stuck to running tirelessly, using thrill as his fuel, keeping his body going despite it not being able to. He kept himself topped up by siphoning from passers-by, knowing full well he could not allow to fall back to normal levels anymore without consequence.

He ran and ran and ran.

Until he reached a door. Shifting the assassin’s weight on his back, he knocked on the door, hard, quick, feeling the whole thing rattle under the impact of his knuckles. Knocking, knocking, knocking until someone opened up. A sleepy face holding a bedside candle going from annoyed to shocked in just under a trill. Gone sleepiness, she was wide awake now.

“Holy shit--”

“He needs help, can I come in?” He didn’t wait for an answer, pushing past her, to place Kasoria down on the floor in the living room.

“Hold up, time out, what the fuck are you doing?”

“He needs help.”

“I can see that, but--”

“No doctors in anywhere.” This wasn’t his first stop, after all. “You’ll have to do. You can sew, right?”

“Well…I mean… in my free time…” she stuttered, still not certain this was happening.

“Good, then sew him up.”

“But I’m not—I have never—That’s a person--”

“Clothes, fabric, people, flesh, all the same.” He grabbed her hands, depositing some items into them. “Here’s needle and thread. I would do it myself, but--” The Mortalborn kept his own hands level. They shook like the body of a newborn deer.

She stared for a moment, eyes flicking from Oberan to the killer on her floor, to the needle and thread in her hands. A lump was forced down her throat, then she finally nodded and kneeled down beside the unconscious man. Her hands shook as she removed the makeshift bandages, then more when she actually saw his wounds. No, this wasn’t going to go well. She couldn’t even thread the needle, fingers fumbling helplessly—

And then all of a sudden her nerves died down, her hands stopped trembling, and if anything, she felt a little lethargic despite the situation. She paused for just a moment, too unnaturally calm to rationalize this sudden shift in mental state, but the she furrowed her brow and got to work.

Oberan meanwhile plopped down into a chair, mentally preparing for the time when Kasoria would be all stitched up and properly bandaged, for when Mathilda was done with her work, when he needn’t interfere anymore. For the time he’d be coming down from the high he was on now, something he wasn’t looking forwards to at all.

At least Kasoria would be patched up though. Mathilda was probably going to do just fine.

Priests, surgeons, whores…

Spiritual, physical, and sexual healers respectively.

But a healer was a healer, wasn’t it?

[Kasoria]

There was a reason Kasoria had been so fond of intoxication in the past, and why he avoided the sensation in the present. The obliteration of control. Yes, even Kasoria had once craved the sense of controlled, deliberate helplessness that a dozen or so bottles and mugs of spoon-cleaning-strong alcohol could induce in a man. The feeling of your own body being alien from you; the notion that your mind was unshackled and detached from the affairs of the body and the waking world around it, a separate being that could simply observe the rest of you... most likely doing something stupid like vomiting in an alley.

But the feeling was often welcome, for it came without care. Without angst. Without the appreciation of the fears of the future or the regrets of the past. He'd craved that, once. Living in such a fug had seemed enviable, even necessary. To keep himself comfortably numb at all times, and never face himself... but he couldn't do that forever. A man could not run forever, and now Kasoria did not dull his senses to such insulting degrees. Now he kept himself aware, for only with proper awareness could one properly react.

Kasoria recognized the sensation as he felt the clothes and armor and weapons stripped off his back. The remembered the otherness that had marked such drunkenness. Oberan tended to him as best he could, grumbling like a woman the whole time, and Kasoria was far away, experiencing all of this like a man being told a story of another. With interest, but not real investment. Aside from when the splashing alcohol soaked his scars, then-

The little man stiffened and his back arched as Oberan did the best with what he had. He hissed like a snake and his eyes popped open without actually seeing. His nails scraped across the wooden floor until a couple of them broke and his mind was sent howling back into desperate insensitivity. But there was no avoiding this kind of pain. Even with so much blood already evacuated from him, even with his own arcs of brutality girding himself against injury, even with with what he knew would be Oberan's wyrd helping him...

Still he choked and grunted on the man's floor, and screwed his eyes shut against the shards of glass forced into his mind.

Don't die here. Don't fall asleep. His body was somewhere else, but his mind was still his own. Still untouched, despite the agony. Still under his control, despite the confusion.You need to live. You need to see him again.

Think of your son.

It seemed to Kasoria like the thought of Martyn was enough to swell his spirit into flight; lift his battered form off the ground and give him his legs back, stealing the pain away and restoring himself. Of course, he objectively knew that was because Oberan was carrying him, but in such an addled frame, it was easy for a man to imagine reality being another way. He saw his son as the Mortalborn trudged the streets, Raggedy Man tossed over his shoulder like a sack of meal. He didn't see the cobbles, didn't feel the drizzle, didn't hear the grunting, reluctant breathing of the man under him.

He saw his boy. His little boy already so anxious to become a man. So sure of the life he had ahead of him. So eager to leave behind the boy and become the soldier, the warrior, the knight, the hero. Mind already filled with the dreams and legends his father had told him, of heroics and nobility that his wretched sire had never even been close to. Martyn would never knew his true pedigree; Kasoria would die before he allowed that to happen. Already he was on a different path. One of violence and blood, for sure, and part of Kasoria mourned that for the dark potential it represented... but he was also proud of the boy.

He remembered the earnest, dedicated look in those young eyes, the will to be part of the grand, glorious legacy that was the Etzori Army. Not simply for his own glory, or the excitement it afforded him, but because it was the right thing. On the hill a season ago, he could still see him... still hear him...

"Mar... yn... Mar... My..."

Damnit, never speak his name!

The words boomed harshly in his skull, and at their sound Kasoria was thrown back into his body. It was no sleep, and not waking, this feeling. He could hear two voices chattering above him - one female and refusing, another Oberan's and insistent - but they dipped and rose in and out of his comprehension. He was... drowning... submerged in dark water and then coming up for air. Battered on the waves and refusing to fall beneath them, but when he did reach out above the surface and cling to air-

-the little man heaved as unsteady yet determined hands gouged sewing needles into his flesh and started to knit back together the ugly, weeping rends in his body. Strong hands pushed him back into the bed he was absolutely fucking ruining with his scarred body. The assassin's eyes shot open and yet he was not seeing, not really there. He was below the waves and above them and swimming between the Waking and the Dreaming and the Next Place.

Don't die here. Not yet. Not tonight.

"Nud... Nud now..." He muttered into the pillow under him and felt the cold metal slice in and out of him like it was happening to someone else. Not a good sign. Too much blood loss. But when he tried to move... no... he was at their mercy. "Nod... unil..."

The waves crashed and the tide dragged him under. His eyes rolled back into his head and the assassin reached out blindly-

Finding some warm and living anchor to grasp onto. Held onto it until the foreign gouging ceased, and the obliteration became the deep, vivid, unwelcome sleep of memory.

[Oberan]

It felt like ages until Kasoria’s wounds were sewed tight, blood flow stemmed, all bandaged up. The bed was ruined, the man was still unconscious, and Oberan could finally relax a little, falling back against the back of the chair he sat in, knowing fully well what would come next. As soon as his body went back to normal—

“—You listening?”

“Wha? No. I wasn’t.”

“I said you’ll have to pay me for this.”

He nodded and made a vague gesture with his hand. “Sure, sure. I owe you one. No problem.”

“None of that ‘owing me’ shit. Pay me. In coin. Look at this--” she pointed to the bed, drenched in drying blood. “—my sheets are ruined. My mattress might also be. It’s the middle of the night, he’s looking like a man’s worth of minced meat, and I’m not gonna ask any questions. But he’s in my house, and I don’t want trouble knocking at my door.”

“Fair enough. Discuss it with him when he’s awake. I’m not involved.”

“He can pay?” she asked, looking him over, from the dirty beard and hair to the tattered rags covering his legs. The smell he brought with him was one she knew all to well. The prostitute raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, he can. Don’t worry about it.”

“He’d better. Else it’ll be you who’s paying.”

She left, then, and Oberan let a sigh escape. It’ll be a few bits longer before he could actually try to sleep. As things were he simply wasn’t capable of it yet. The more thrill was filtered out, though, the more his body felt exhausted, the more his muscles ached. When all had left him, Oberan too was seized by slumber.

He woke a couple breaks later, by his estimation. Two, maybe three. He didn’t bother trying to move, having felt his whole body protest when he’d shifted a little when exited the world of his dreams. His limbs and his core all ached with something akin to muscle cramps and post-workout stiffness.

To Oberan’s left, Kasoria was still on the bed, breathing steadily. For all it was worth, he looked better than the trial before, but not exactly great. His bandages were stained again, though they appeared to be dry, so at least the bleeding had stopped.

Footsteps were coming up the stairs, and before long, Mathilda entered the bedroom, already dressed. Her brown hair was still damp.

“Ah, you’re awake. I’ll be making breakfast, do you want some?”

“Only if you’ll feed me,” Oberan grinned.

She rolled her eyes in response.

“I’ll feed him if he can’t do it himself. You can eat on your own.”

The Mortalborn shrugged without shrugging., instead making a little humming noise. “Then I’ll skip breakfast. Thanks for the offer though.”

She frowned, but didn’t say anything.

“If he wakes up, give a yell. I’ll have to redo the bandages.”

“Sure.”

His eyes drifted to the man on the bed as the woman descended the stairs. Depending on how much he needed it, Kasoria probably wouldn’t be sleeping that much longer, Oberan figured. Not with two dozen or more injuries decorating his body, and at least ten times the amount of stitches keeping his flesh from falling apart.

[Kasoria]

It was no place he knew, but it was a place he'd been many times before.

He could tell from the smell of fresh rain on the cobbles. The effluence flowing under his feet, untrammeled by rock and stone and dirt. The cries in the night and the shadows, running the gamut from quarrelsome and guttural to high and happy. He could feel the wind rushing through the crooked alleys between the perfect rings that made up the grand old city. He looked up and saw the impenetrable walls surrounding him, only this time he knew he was on the wrong side of them.

Wrong side. Because for him, the Right had always been the Oh'Pee. Where he was born and raised and struggled and damned. Where he'd loved his family and buried all of them, one after another, like lost souls perishing as they crossed a desert without provision. Now he was all that was left.

Except for-

The hooded man heard laughter and didn't need to be told whom it came from. He'd know it anywhere. It bounced off the brick and rattled through the thatch and he was chasing after it before he gave the order to his feet. Gliding across the cobbles with unseemly haste, for that was a laugh that should have been heard across grassy hills and fields far from this place. So why was he here? What had happened?

What went wrong?

The laugh followed him and ran from him with equal vigor. He slid around corners and flew across streets. He never questioned why the Comm'See was deserted, save for the odd flash of feline eyes on the eaves of buildings. He never noticed that there was no moon, no stars, just a hazy smudge of atmosphere that was neither mist nor fog. As if the grand Creator of this place had never got around to finishing it.

He thought none of these things. He thought of nothing but to find the form that voice belonged to.

Are you not wounded? Are you not dead?

No, no, he could not stop to answer. A wisp of cloak around a corner; a tease of brown hair vanishing just before he cried out.

You were cleaved, were you not? Draining and dying into the stones. So is this where you go? Is this all the future you have to know?

He ran but could not catch him. He tried to cry out and the wind stole his voice. He saw enough to burn his muscles and flay his lungs with exertion, but he never got close.

Is this judgement for you? Is this hell?

Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away and-

-and he was-

-and it was-

-and everything was-

-real, and awake.

There was a hiss of air as the man opened his eyes. A single beat of blessed, blissful numbness as his mind outpaced his body. He was awake and knowing, if not comprehending of where he lay and who it was around him. He was on a lumpy mattress and had a thin blanket covering a body that he knew to be naked and there was Oberan and everything itched and-

Ah. That's when his body chimed in.

Kasoria groaned like the old man he was as every wound he suffered the night before struck him at once. Every twitch and flex of his muscles seemed to birth fresh agonies. His shoulder, his back, his sides, all of them growled and shook his bones all the way to his brain. As he stiffened and screwed his eyes shut he was aware of someone shuffling to his side.

A presence. A shadow. Street instincts kicked in and though it nearly split open a dozen stitches his arm struck out as his eyes snapped open-

-grabbing Oberan by the collar with about as much strength as a newborn kitten. The gambler grimaced and shook the fist off him, in no mood to be manhandled by the gross little bastard that had come to him, after all. Kasoria grunted and tried to remember how to make his arm come back up... and failed.

"Wh... Where'm I?"

"About bloody time." Even turning his head fucking hurt, although doing so did reward him with the sight of two wonderful things: a pretty girl, and a plateful of food. "Right. Payment for stitching, cleaning, bandaging and a new bloody mattress. And then-" She waggled the plate like one would before a hungry dog. "-din-dins."

Kasoria's gaze slid from her and over to Oberan like the aim of a crossbowman. A look that said "I will make you pay for this" flew from his eyes... and then he gestured weakly to the bundle of rags that looked like a the wreckage of a rat orgy, but was in fact his cloak and breeches.

"Godda... Godda purse in there," he swallowed down sand and dried blood until his voice was normal again. "Take... what I owe ya..."

The trembling gesture became nothing more than an arm flopping down to the ground again. Fates, but he was fucking weak. Everything hurt and complained and the cacaphpny of it drowned out everything else he tried to think and do. Finally the assassin just rested his head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Food. Dressings. Water. Aid. All of it would come in due time.

For now, he just enjoyed the novelty of being alive, when he should be anything but.

[Oberan]

He heard the assassin groan; a weak and pained noise barely above a whisper, but it was there nonetheless. Oberan shifted in his seat so he could get a better view of the waking man. This wasn’t a gentle rousing though, not a slow and peaceful opening of the eyes after near death. Instead, the killer’s eyelids snapped open, gaze fixed on the Mortalborn while an arm sped forward to grab him by the shirt.

Well, that was what he got for sitting close to the bed. He should have realized that Kasoria was more wild gutter-inhabiting animal than civilized man. Not that he could be blamed for it.

“Get your hand off me, ungrateful cretin,” the Mortalborn growled, bringing his arm up as naturally as possible, stifling upcoming groans with deep breaths. With what little strength he could muster he grabbed the man’s wrist to pluck it off his clothes, and thankfully it was more than enough to deal with a weakened assassin.

“The underworld is dealing with an overpopulation issue at the moment, so they returned you to sender. Came with a polite note to please wait a couple more arcs before dying again, and to also stop making their problem worse, thank you very much.”

He rolled his eyes.

Mathilda, who’d entered the room just then did too, but her eyeroll was directed at a different person. Then she immediately got into the payment talk. Workplace habit, no doubt.

“Din-dins? At this time of the trial? Wouldn’t that be brekkie or something instead?” he corrected, pointedly ignoring the look Kasoria was giving him. Ungrateful cretin indeed.

She waved his comment away, setting the plate on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. The sight of it made Oberan feel the empty pit of hunger in his stomach. Perhaps he should have asked for some after all.

Two more breaks, give or take, and he’d go get something in the tavern a few blocks away. No injured assassins on the opposite side of the table, nagging about whatever that gaze had been about. Payment? Din-dins? This not being a doctor’s office? Who even knew with this guy.

Anyone fearing the Raggedy Man’s visit would be able to sleep a couple dozen trials longer. Able to wake up too. In his current state, Kasoria wasn’t going to be up and about for quite a while. Not if he wanted the wounds to close. It might be a problem for Mathilda, but in the end, that wasn’t one of Oberan’s worries. He’d done his part, the assassin didn’t give two shits, and thus Oberan wouldn’t stick around.

Let him choke on his din-dins.

The heap of ragged fabric indeed contained a small purse with enough gold nels within it to cover the cost of the trouble caused, much to Mathilda’s surprise. Of course, Oberan had sounded quite sure of himself when he’d told her the beggar-looking fellow could pay, but what the grin-happy man said usually had to be taken with a pile of salt. Tall tales and made-up nonsense, like that one time she’d asked about his accent, wondering what a Rynmerian bloke was doing here. After the ridiculous claim that he was nobility, stripped of his family name and chased out of Rymere for siding with the wrong party during a civil war, she’d concluded the man was full of shit. There was nothing distinguished about him.

But for once, it seemed he hadn’t been bullshitting her. The carefully counted gold nels she slid into her purse clinked with undeniable fact.

“Alright,” she said, rising back up from her crouch. “Time for--” and her eyes shifted to Oberan then, eyebrow quirked, “--din-dins. Can you sit up a little? Guess not, don’t force yourself. Just raise your head a bit –yeah, thanks.” She moved the pillows around so they formed a cushion for the assassin’s back, and then carefully maneuvered him closer so he could lean against them. Once he was more or less comfortable, she grabbed the tray with his food off the nightstand and placed it on her lap as she sat down.

“Open wide,” she commanded with a motherly sort of authority, despite not having any children herself. Mathilda sliced the bacon and eggs in smaller pieces, stuck them on a fork and moved it to Kasoria’s lips. “C’mon, eat. No, you can’t do it yourself. Do you know how much work it was to stitch you up? You came in looking like that--” she pointed at Kasoria’s rags, then to Oberan’s clothes, visibly mended more than just a couple times. “Now you’re like that. Don’t undo my work, cause I’m not going to redo it. Got that? Now open wide.”

“Yes, open wide. One for mommy--”

“And you be quiet.”

[Kasoria]

Never did he think it would have been better to die, but he skirted so close to the thought that his feet were kicking pebbles into the chasm beyond it. What was death, after all, compared to helplessness in the face of Oberan's endless blather? Only now, he could not shut him up with a quick head-to-wood rejoinder, like back in the bar.

Suffer what must be suffered, he thought, dredging up an old cadence from his Cadet trials. Endure what must be endured. When the choices are suffer and death, endure and death, life or death, there is no choice. Just the strength to continue.

Then Kasoria opened up his mouth with a wet click like a suckling babe, and he seriously considered if dying would be preferable.

The taste of food was probably what changed his mind. He doubted crispy bacon and scrambled eggs would taste as good in the place he was likely to go. He chewed with his eyes closed, enjoying the crunch, the flavor, the sensation of having a pretty girl feed him when he should be picked over by gutter vultures in some alley instead. Between the two of them, Oberan and Mathilda had saved him.

The assassin sighed and they both assumed it was in pleasure. It was not.

Fuck it. You've had worse debts.

"How... bad wuzzit?"

Mathilda rolled her eyes from floor to ceiling, yet didn't pause in shoveling food into her patient's mouth.

"Why do you two keep assuming I know answers to questions like that? Do I look like a healer? A doctor? A surgeon? No. I'm a... well..."

"Lady of commercial affections?"

Killer and Whore both turned the full wrath of their expressions on the grinning Gambler lounging against one wall. Said grin faded incrementally as the inferno sroched it away, until he finally put up both hands in silent surrender.

"... anyway, as I was saying, I don't know. You have a bunch of cuts and slashes, you lost a lot of blood. And I'm pretty sure this-"

She jabbed a finger into a patch of Kasoria's torso that should have been a solid rib, but felt instead like week-old porridge. He growled and his body spasmed atop the mattress, but she'd been smart enough to move the plate out of his way before his flailing could knock the food anywhere.

"-isn't a good sign. I knew a man once, got in a brawl, someone smashed him in the chest with a club. Not a drop of blood spilled, but he choked to death right there on the ground. Ribs caved in, apparently." Mathilda huffed again and frowned, taking in the full breadth of the little man she's wasted a night and a whole spool of spool stitching back together. "Slashes on your back, like a bloody wolf had tried to open you up. Bite marks on the shoulder, from what I'm guessing is the same."

For a moment her purely professional facade slipped, and she had to ask, "What in the hell attacked you, anyway?"

Kasoria knew that it might be thought of as churlish, even self-defeating, to be evasive about his work. Half the point of last night was to send a message, but at the same time... he didn't brag. He didn't boast. It simply wasn't his way. He'd known too many men who'd swung from a gibbet or been banished from the city, just because they'd let slip too much to the wrong set of ears. So instead he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"How... How much... Did yeh take out... outta the purse?"

"Excuse me, I asked you a-"

"Whatever that was, plus three gold nel a day to-"

"Five."

Kasoria blinked as Mathilda's curiosity and then annoyance was brutally usurped by pure greed. Well, that was to be expected. Even if she wasn't a whore and an associate of Oberan - whom he doubted held many virtuous folk as comrades - this was Etzos. Always coin to be made, somewhere. Five gold nels, though? That was coin enough for the most luxurious hotel in the city. Half-dead and still a product of his city, Kasoria's eyes narrowed.

"Three."

"Four."

"Deal."

They even shook on it... or, to put it more accurately, Mathilda picked up his near-useless hand and shook it in mid-air, then let go to see it thud onto the mattress. Then she went back to feeding him and Kasoria went back to eating. Nothing much else to be done, after all. He waited a few more bits, until his belly was full and the plate near scraped, before he spoke again.

"Ten... Ten trials. That's forty nels. More... More coin than y'could make... on yer back in that time, I'd wager." The woman bristled briefly, but did not deny him. "Thought so. Ten... then I'll be gone." He waved vaguely towards his purse and felt the blackness start to intrude around his eyes again. "Take... the first... five... noaaww..."

Pillows and cushions and oceans and starless skies all descended on him at once. His limbs twitched for weapons he knew were no longer there, were no longer anywhere he could guess, and still his instincts tried to arm himself. He failed. The assassin's head rolled to one side as his weary body decided it was time to sleep. The world went dark, and his physical form became nothing but a memory of his mind... which stayed awake long enough to hear words float into it, as if whispered across a gulf of shadows.

"So... brekkie for two, hmm?"

"Oh, shut up, Ran."

Yes, please do that.

Receipt

-40gn for 20 trials at Mathilda's, and -25gn for her work the night he arrived

[Oberan]

With Kasoria once more drifting into unconsciousness, Oberan knew it was about time for him to take his leave. Mathilda would take care of him (for a price) and the killer himself really had had no other choice. Oberan didn’t believe he was too disgruntled about it, to be honest. Sure, it did cost a pretty penny, but the assassin got paid more than enough to afford it. No doubt Mathilda had put two and two together, kicking her Etzori business instinct into high gear.

Either way, Oberan’s job was done.

Still, he stuck around for a bit, engaging in mostly one-sided idle conversation to buy some time for his body to recover. Half a break was all he managed, but it was enough. Neither the pain nor the stiffness when he moved were as bad as they had been before, and with a groan did he finally –much to the lady of pleasure’s delight—get up and prepare to leave.

Not without first slipping one of Kasoria’s karambits under the assassin’s pillow though, just in case he would need it. With luck he’d find it before Mathilda did, else she’d surely get it out of the hands of a wounded man she knew enough about to know she shouldn’t let him near anything sharp or pointy.

The Mortalborn did tell Mathilda that he’d be holding onto “his friend’s” stuff until he was back on his feet, requesting she told him should he ask about it.

And then he simply left, traversing the smaller streets of the Outer Perimeter by daylight this time, heading for a tavern a couple blocks away. Since he hadn’t gotten to eat breakfast together, now he’d be eating it by himself.

There were a couple minor hiccups that needed his undivided attention anyway.

[Yrmellyn Cole]

Thread Rewards

KASORIA

Overview

You always tell a story. I confess that I’m a fan of your writing and your PC. “Endure what must be endured. When the choices are suffer and death, endure and death, life or death, there is no choice. Just the strength to continue.” In short, I love this. Have to stop myself from rambling on about a thousand delicious details ...

Points

15

Loot, Renown, Injuries

Recognition that Kasoria's wounds in the aforementioned stories have been staunched and he's taking it easy until he heals

Knowledge

Knowledge:
Detection: Recognizing a Couple of No-Goods (probably from personal experience)
Discipline: NEVER Speak Martyn's Name Aloud
Endurance: Focusing on Moving, Not Feeling
Endurance: Bursts of Energy, Even When Wounded
Endurance: Expecting and Preparing for The Cost of Exertion
Endurance: Refusing to Fall into the Dark (or the Light)
Endurance: Remaining Cogent Even When in Pain
Negotiation: Securing Shelter
Tactics: Striking When Your Opponent is Blinded By Rain

Non-Skill Knowledge:
NPC Mathilda: North Side Whore and Healer (kind of)
PC Oberan: Reluctant Savior, Even More Reluctant "Friend"

OBERAN

Overview

Oh Bran ... Oberan is a coldhearted bastard, it seems, but he still helped Kasoria. The part where he refuses to pay for the healing he so boldly ordered for the man and points to the patient as the one who is responsible for paying the bill is ... priceless. No need for sentimental generosity there. The mortalborn is terrible, and terribly fun and well written.

Points

15

Loot, Renown, Injuries

Knowledge

Knowledge:
Strength: carrying an injured man
Strength: piggyback
Strength: hysterical strength provided by Thrill Control
Running: running over wet cobblestones
Running: running with a man on your back
Running: running for an extended period of time
Medicine: First Aid
Medicine: Large cuts need stitches

Non-Skill Knowledge:
Thrill Control: Hysterical Strength turned to 11
Thrill Control: The consequences of using too much
Thrill Control: Aftereffects

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