Ai, razminku yershikom provodim my

[wizzardly]

WHO: Rincewind & Ser Jorah Mormont
WHERE: A back-alley in Maurtia Falls
WHEN: The tail-end of September
WHAT: Three newly-minted "supervillains" (thanks, Tony) look to make a name for themselves by killing an imPort. It doesn't work out.
WARNINGS: violence, language, NPC death
-

The speedster was the problem. Granted, she wasn't the one who'd pinned Rincewind to a dirty wall with a hand around his throat (no, that was the bastard fire-breather with lank hair and teeth in desperate need of dentistry), but Rincewind absolutely blamed the speedster the most of the three of them. While the singed edges on his hat weren't welcome, they were hardly novel. He could have outrun fire. The flying one, too, the little one perched in the air above them, filming - Rincewind could have dodged that one too. Run through a space crowded enough with trees or pipes or criss-crossed wires that they'd get tripped up or tangled. Easy with enough practice, and Rincewind had an unfortunate amount of that.

No, he silently assured himself, shooting the smirking woman over his captor's shoulder a withering look through a black eye, no, she was the real culprit of this bloody ridiculous mess. She was the reason they were able to snag him before he could outrun them or the Luggage could catch up. Super-speed. Ye gods but he'd be forever bitter the Porter denied him that one. Absolute bastard of a machine.

"You've got it, right?" This from the greasy young man whose mouth smelled of ash and poor life choices. Rincewind grimaced and turned his head away as best he could. "You've got the angle? Just tell me when, man, I'm fucking amped."

His flying (currently floating) companion nodded. "Yeah... yeah, I've got it, just, uh, we're sure about this, right? I mean, shit, Rick, you've never - "

"Fucking Napalm, man, Napalm. We're not supposed to use our real goddamn names, Fly Boy."

"- Hey. Hey, I told you I hated that one, I want to be 'Rokket'! Two K's!"

Leaned against the brick wall, the woman (her ridiculous fake name, as the wizard understood it, was 'Flicker') huffed an impatient breath. "Jesus, let's go, we've already talked about this. ImPorts regenerate anyway, Rokket."

(Rincewind might have argued that point if there weren't fingers in his windpipe.)

"And it has to be an imPort," added Napalm, returning a leer back to his captive. "We kill an imPort and people see it? We're fucking in. Absolutely legit, man, fucking primo supervillains for sure. Viral."

It should have been impossible for someone floating to sulk, but Rokket managed it, lifting his phone again to start filming. "Yeah, I know, I got it, I was just making sure... start your speech, man."

A speech Rincewind mostly missed, distracted as he was by his own racing thoughts and the decreased amount of oxygen reaching his lungs. His eyes darted around the alley, planning, because it wouldn't be enough to struggle free, not with three on one again, not if -

"So, any last words for your audience, Z-tard?" Napalm grinned with easy menace, smoke starting to curl from between his teeth. He eased his fingers enough for Rincewind to swallow, to get air enough to speak. Desperate fear and adrenaline coursed twin rivers through his veins.

"I only - only want to say - " Rincewind's eyes widened suddenly, then sharpened slowly to a point, carefully returning to hold his captor's gaze. "...I only want to say - this is it."

Napalm's receding hairline furrowed. "Yeah, no shit."

"Right now, in fact," Rincewind repeated over him, not listening. "This moment. ...This moment right now, if you bloody well don't mind!"

Which was when the full weight of the Luggage's murderous, wooden bulk charged into Napalm's side. The young man shouted, the vociferation accompanied by a burst of flame which shot up and thankfully away from the wizard, who had wrenched himself to the side quickly enough to dodge even as he shot a sharp, two-heeled kick into his prior captor's middle. The spout of flame died along with the rush of air from Napalm's lungs in the same moment he tumbled back - and into the Luggage's gaping maw.

The lid snapped shut. A tongue swiped out briefly over the chest's gold-lined sides.

"- Rick!" Rokket was the first to recover from his shock, swooping down in some panicked, belated attempt to save his companion. He veered off as the Luggage leapt up in open-mouthed pursuit, its hundred feet thundering in chase as the flying accomplice fled through the air, screaming.

Not one to waste his own opportunity to flee, Rincewind was already rolling onto his feet and running. Or would have been. If Flicker didn't choose that moment to zoom in front of him and deliver a kick to the head hard enough to dislodge his hat and send him sprawling. She seemed to be screaming some accusation of murder, which the wizard might have found humorously ironic if he weren't trying to keep the world from spinning in a bright, dizzied swirl of pain.

In all the commotion, neither of them noticed the man who'd joined them in the alley.

Comments

[khaleesipls]

There’s nothing especially stealthy about leather and steel, but there’s a lot of screaming going on to drown out the rustle and scrape. Jorah stands at the alley’s mouth for a moment to take stock of what he’s in for. The polish of his plate armor is already charred dull in places from a previous confrontation, soot black in his hair and around his neck.

The shape in his hands is hard to make out at a distance, dizzy and bright, but it doesn’t look like a sword.

It looks like a shotgun.

He watches The Luggage thunder through the background in hot pursuit of Rokket before he raises the barrel, takes aim, and squeezes the trigger. The gut-thumping chop of gunfire in a narrow alley echoes forwards and backwards, and a beanbag drills into Flicker’s turned shoulder with force enough to send her staggering over Rincewind’s corpus. Still creeching.

She’s on him before he has a chance to pump a second round into the chamber, and Jorah finds himself empty-handed, staring down the barrel of his own gun. Rabbit season, duck season.

But when she goes to pump in a fresh round herself, she does it at human speed. Flustered, she tries again, spending a fresh cartridge out onto the street. Suddenly, this end of the battlefield is very quiet.

Jorah reaches for his dagger; she fires into his breastplate.

A scuffle ensues.

He doesn’t hit her, but there are no very specific codes about slinging people into walls in chivalry. The shotgun drops. She scrambles for it. He rolls her away with his boot, and so on.

“Alright over there?” he calls, overloud, as if he suspects Rincewind is playing possum.

Turn her into a frog already.

[wizzardly]

"Just... peachy," is the wizard's muffled, wincing reply. Honestly, he's not even sure who he's speaking to. He lifts his head enough to regret the motion, fighting down a wave of nausea before more pressing matters take immediate hold of his sluggish synapses and shake them into action.

The first being: he's not wearing his hat.

Which means Jorah will get to deal with being absolutely ignored on top of everything else while the wizard forces himself up on all fours, scrambling in an absolute panic. The Luggage has gone, off chasing down its absolutely unfortunate quarry, but Rincewind doesn't notice. Doesn't even notice the skirmish going on behind him, neurotically fixated on locating his missing headgear. There's visible relief when he finds it slumped sorrowfully in a drainage puddle. He shakes it off, stands - puts it on. That makes him feel a little better.

He also, finally, registers that there's a familiar, shabby knight with a large weapon fighting his battle for him. While the surprise at that sight might have launched a more heroic figure into joining the fray, Rincewind's more immediate thought concerns how not to interfere with that. After all, he'd only get in the way, really, Jorah certainly seems to have this in hand, and he'd hate to be distracting in any way. Best leave them to it.

The chink in this (admittedly ignoble) plan, unfortunately, is the alley's narrow width; it would be near impossible to get past the struggling pair without getting entangled himself. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

...All right. Well. Next best plan, then.

"HEED ME!" is the sort of dramatic shit one yells to get someone's attention, and just to be sure, Rincewind's also paired the yell with two arms flung skyward, fingers splayed. He shakes one theatrically in the duo's direction, the ripped sleeve of his robe sliding back down his arm. He hopes the expression he's managed comes across as more 'thunderous and menacing' than 'distressed and vaguely sick', which unfortunately feels more accurate.

"I've already cast the spell to return my demonic familiar to this location in a bolt of lightning quick enough to fry you on the spot! One twitch of my finger -" he shakes a hand demonstratively "- and you're a patch of scorched soot! You've two seconds to flee before I bloody well rain down doom upon you!"

Although Jorah may notice (and Rincewind really, really hopes he does) that the eyes of the apparently battle-ready wizard keep darting from the discarded shotgun to the knight's face in a helpful, hinting suggestion.

[khaleesipls]

Rincewind has their attention.

Flicker staggers to her feet, holding her shoulder, seething through her teeth. Behind her, Jorah waits in a haze of morbid curiosity, brow intent, hands idle at his sides. Ready to see this woman flash boiled by lightning. Maybe. Not entirely confident he’s far enough away to avoid singeing his whiskers.

“You don’t have the nerve,” Flicker spits. “Fuckin’ cowards, stealing my powers--”

Still breathing hard, Jorah looks from her turned back to Rincewind to see what the holdup is, haggard, expectant. It takes two or three darts for him to catch on. He uses the fourth to be certain Rincewind can see how hard he’s looking at him.

Flicker rants on.

“It ate RICK!!” She’s ramping up into a curdling shout, rage and fear spiraling into an accusation that would sound deranged if Jorah was still listening.

Instead, he’s hooking the shotgun up by the strap, choking the barrel up in his grip. Careful. Quiet.

“IT ATE RIII--”

He claps her upside the back of her head with the stock. She drops like a wet sock.

“‘A patch of scorched soot,’” he says, the least impressed.

[wizzardly]

Rincewind watches her drop, looking more tired an inconvenienced than anything approaching an attempt at empathy.

"Don't you mean 'Napalm'?" he mutters to her crumpled form under his breath, before sniffling and swiping an arm across his nose. The beginning trickle of a nosebleed smears across his sleeve, and he makes a face at it. At least his robes are red. That's something.

Which just leaves his unexpected rescuer. Or, he thinks, anyway. Hopes. Rincewind has confused 'new captor' for 'rescuer' before. But the odds at least look to be marginally in his favor this time, as Jorah's alone and doesn't appear to be carrying any lengths of rope. Only that... gun thing. Whatever that is. Rincewind thought those normally did a better job of killing people than this one had. As an improvised club, however - not bad. Had to admit that.

"Seeing as it worked, I'd appreciate any further criticisms be saved for later," Rincewind finally replies, gingerly stepping around the woman-shaped heap on the ground. He looks down the alley, hoping for sight of the Luggage returning. No such luck yet. "Preferably after I've gone."

Good manners and gratitude feel a little beyond his energy reserves right now, but Rincewind musters his best attempt. Grudging or not, he has to admit Jorah's intervention saved him any further, literal headaches.

(Not, honestly, an effort he would have expected from someone on Petyr Baelish's payroll.)

"Anyway, good on you. With the - hitting. And... whatever that was about taking her powers. I assume." That claim had stood out to him, between the rest of her screeching. "Thanks for that. Happened to be in the area, did you?"

[khaleesipls]

“I was tracking them.”

This one won’t be out for long; Jorah rolls her over with his foot, tips her chin back with the butt of his gun like she’s a bandit he just ran through on his property. Which -- really. Isn’t too far off from the shape of things.

“They were with a firestarter.”

Not anymore, obviously. He marks charred bricking along the alley’s walls without remarking on it as he slings the shotgun back over his shoulder (thunk). The look in itself is probably enough. Seems Rincewind and Luggage may have saved him the trouble. There’s a cartridge with a beanbag still in it standing idle in a puddle and he stoops to recollect it, examining the blast cap with all the expertise of a gorilla investigating a battery.

“You should sit down.” Rest up. Let the heat die down, so to speak. He closes the cartridge in his hand, filthy water creeping dark through the leather wrapped round his palm. “Can I buy you a drink?”

It’s an earnest offer, if made with the sense he expects Rincewind may fall into an open manhole if left to his own devices.

This is Maurtia Falls. There’s a bar somewhere around here.

[wizzardly]

"What, for a bounty?" Rincewind casts the lump-formerly-known-as-Flicker a dubious look. The little group hadn't looked like they were worth much to him, but then who knows what the idiots found themselves up to before they decided to set their sights on public murder. Kids these days.

Oh, but if that offer doesn't perk the wizard's ears, nothing will.

"I'll need more than one, but I've no objection to you buying the first." A thirst just pressing enough for him to even graciously swallow back any suspicion concerning Baelish's bodyguard buying him alcohol. Times of crisis, and all; friends found on battlefields, or whatever. There's some phrase for it, Rincewind's sure.

Clearly he's an idea of where to go, too, since he's already walking them out of the alley, no mind given to the mess (or the unconscious body) they're leaving behind. He hops on one foot a moment in some vain attempt to adjust a sandal, only to give up in a huff when he realizes one of the straps was singed clean through. Between that, the rips to his robe and the flayed edge of his hat, it's going to be a long night of needlework, he can already tell.

Magically fixing clothing - another power he'd prefer to the one he's got. Rincewind adds that to the growing mental list.

"So, I suppose my Luggage and I technically took care of your 'firestarter' for you, right?" A glance over his shoulder, which lingers a moment too long on the barrel of Jorah's odd weapon before returning. He sniffs, pulling an already dirty cloth from his pocket for his bloody nose. "In that case, I wouldn't mind if you just... kept our little run-in to yourself. In return. As a sort of thanks for that.

"- Oh, good, I think we're actually near one of the better pubs in this district, they've got five dollar pitchers some nights, it's a bloody steal."

And hopefully a decent distraction from an otherwise suspect request.

[khaleesipls]

A bounty?

“The ones who breathe fire are more destructive than the others.” Jorah looks Rincewind up and down, as if it should be obvious. “Lord Ambassador Baelish owns property in Maurtia Falls.” Ergo -- Ser Jorah Mormont with a borrowed shotgun, worn down and sooty, in need of more than one drink himself.

He tucks the spare cartridge into a pouch on his belt as he follows, a grizzled, bristly old bear of a knight ranging easy in Rincewind’s shadow. The formal set to his shoulders doesn’t break for singed sandal hopping; he heels as a matter of course.

Naturally patient. Accustomed to following.

“It’s a gun,” he says, in blunt answer to confidentiality.

“Do you expect our friend in the alley to have the same care for your reputation, or will your Luggage tend to her as well?”

How near is near?

[wizzardly]

Lord Ambassador Baelish. Oh, that's a title that'll leave a sour taste in your mouth. Rincewind hunches his shoulders with a grunt of acknowledgement. He'd caught Jorah's sooty status, but hadn't put two and two together. To be fair, he'd been a bit busy for proper mathematics.

There's only a block between them and the bar, if he remembers right. A hop and a skip he wishes he'd been able to make before this whole bloody mess began in the first place- it's so much easier to lose a pursuer in a crowd or a kitchen. A dingy excuse for a drinking hole, but it has seats and alcohol and Rincewind has never asked for more than that for his patronage.

"- I've seen guns," he huffs over his shoulder, just this side of snippy. "I have been in this world a while, and they're hard to miss. Popular. Only, generally they leave more of a mess than yours did. Not as much lung capacity, you might say."

He lets his gait slow a moment, more to get Jorah back in line of sight than to offer any reprieve

"And it's not my reputation I care about." Hard to care about something that's never had value. As for whether she and the Luggage will have another meeting, well, that's hardly for him to say. If she's smart, Rincewind thinks, she'll use that ability she doesn't deserve to make herself scarce before it's no longer an option.

Their destination seems to be the next building up, a dubious brick structure with the name 'Tapped Out' painted in gaudy faux-gold lettering across its single window. A person might not even know it was open if it not for the godawful jukebox music that comes spilling out as someone stumbles out for a smoke break.

"...Baelish," Rincewind finally clarifies, casting Jorah a tired glance as they walk up. "Baelish is who I meant." An admission which really kills the sense of subtlety he was trying for, but that was probably doomed from the start.

"I'm only saying I feel we both helped each other out back there, no reason that can't stay between us. Right?"

[khaleesipls]

Does he think Baelish has never had someone killed?


Jorah stops with one hand on the door to look the wizard over again, with his flayed hat and his bloody cloth. Searching for evidence of brain damage. Possibly pre-existing.


Finding none, save for the hat itself, he nods his (muddled) agreement as he hauls the door open, and holds it for Rincewind to enter after him. Still thinking. What’s one more ridiculous secret in the scheme of things.


The patrons here have also seen guns before; heads turn as Mormont passes the bar.


He doesn’t pay them any mind.


There’s a host of open tables near the back, and he sinks into a seat at the one farthest out of earshot from the others, shifting the shotgun down off his shoulder as he goes. Someone’s left an old napkin ringed with condensation crumpled on the corner. He plucks it up and sets to rubbing some of the grime from between his fingers and under the leather braided around his wrist, “A pitcher,” ordered of the waiter who’s followed them over without glancing up. Rincewind’s welcome to be more specific.


Jorah waits for the waiter to break off again before he asks, “Why don’t you want him to know?”

[wizzardly]

"Er, something amber. Please," he quickly clarifies for their server, who couldn't look less pleased to have drawn their particular number in the table lottery. But they only nod and leave.

Rincewind manages a few surreptitious glances around the room, a quick, paranoid cataloguing of faces around them. Rough and day-drunk for the most part, thuggish and poor. Good. The normal sort, then, he gets on fine with those. Rincewind climbs into the booth and lets out something of a sigh once he sits, drawing his cloth away to see that he's finally stopped bleeding. He stuffs it back in his pocket.

"The less Petyr Baelish knows about my life, the less chance he has to ruin it," is the wizard's deadpan answer. He locks exhausted eyes with Jorah, searching the man's face. Probably, Jorah's going to do what he was always going to do anyway, and Rincewind requesting this or that won't have any bearing on it. You stick with the man paying you, until someone with a better offer comes along. That's how the world works.

There's a heavy thunk of glass as a beer pitcher is set between them, dark amber topped with white foam. The two men are given glasses and, pointedly, a mound of wet nap packets.

Rincewind opens his mouth to say something about that, thinks a moment, and then just takes a packet to open and use instead. He can't say the server doesn't have a point.

[khaleesipls]

“He didn’t force you to fight those men.” Men and women. Jorah is too distracted for diplomacy -- he knows what a wet nap is, if the look he sends after their server’s turned back is any indication.

Still.

He takes a packet from the top and splits it open. The cloth has gone grey before he’s managed to unfold it all the way, fingerprints smudged black at the edges. He rankles his nose, while he works, disgusted enough to reach for a second before he’s worn holes through the first.

“The fewer people you kill in his city, the fewer there'll be for him to know about.”

[wizzardly]

Between the both of them, there's sure to soon be a tiny cloth mountain. Rincewind looks up sharply from wiping his own fingers, agape.

"The fewer I - ?" he sputters, bristling in skinny, redheaded offense. There's so much insult to process that he's not sure where to start. "How can you even - !"

A dozen or so heads turn in a collective shift as the front door slams open, jostled bells nearly thrown off their knob. A multitude of angry feet stomp in heavy, disjointed time, and bar stools scrape across the floor as those familiar with the box (or who just know danger when they see it) move to offer wider berth. The set of the Luggage's lid suggests irritation; its every wooden fiber radiates a dark and storming temper.

Rincewind sees it immediately for what it really is: sulking.

"Oh no," the wizard balks, drawing himself up. "Don't tell me he got away after all that." No answer of course, but the Luggage does take a moment to shove over an empty table because it can. Rincewind glowers as the accessory pushes itself up under their booth, settling in a heavy thump of a huff at their feet.

"...He did, didn't he? I can't believe it, I really can't." He clucks his tongue, shaking his head. "You're getting soft."

The response to this accusation is the petulant snap of a gold-lined chest lid.