Jourin Trouble

[Artemis Black]

Lynwood was speaking softly to Sir Francis and petting the mount when he heard the distinctly rough language of street thugs. He snapped his eyes up and spotted ten men, dressed to the part of a roving gang, walking into the yard with clubs and truncheons.

His eyes went wide with fear and he shouted, “To arms, defend the Hall!” He’d heard the watch say the same thing many times and he hoped it reached to the other hung over crew members still down below.

His shout caught the thugs attention and they moved forward with wicked grins. None of the crew were real fighters, sure a barside tussle or back alley beating weren’t uncommon on the docks, but nothing like the training to deal with this many attackers. Lynwood looked around for anything to defend himself with. He spotted a damaged board with a splintered end and a thought sprang to mind.

He grabbed the board and used the box steps to leap onto Sir Francis’ back with a shout. The mount snorted loudly and shook his head with a heaving breath. Lynwood aimed the splintered wood like a lance and urged the mount to crash forward. Sir Francis, trained for this very thing deep in the mountains of the Reaches, lowered his antlers and charged forward with a wild and terrifying bellow.

The thugs, frozen as they realized the creature with a massive set of weapons on its head wasn’t just a horse. Most clambered to the side, easily dodging the charge but losing their footing. One unlucky fellow took Lynwood’s makeshift lance to the shoulder and cried out in pain as the board snapped clean in two. Lynwood’s shoulder dislocated as the force of the strike fed back into him. He hissed in pain as Sir Francis wheeled around at the far end of the yard.

The rest of the crew was up and out of the bunk area, boards and hammers in their hands. The thugs, seeing an easier target rushed the loose grouping of workers and craftsmen. Lynwood made it back to the front of the hall and reached for the signaling bell with his good arm. He slammed the thing backwards and forwards, deafening himself in a desperate attempt to alert the watch, or anyone else to the trouble.

Artemis was sleeping like the dead when the alarm bell sounded just after dawn. He snapped awake and shot up, flailing as his entangled limbs got caught beneath and around the also suddenly awoken Dáire. It took him several moments to realize and rectify the issue, blushing furiously as he extricated himself from the man. With frantic speed he sprinted upstairs in just his trousers and boots, the crossbow held in his hands like a ward against evil.

The fight was going strangely. Lynwood was mounted behind the thugs, shouting and ringing the bell. Beneath him, Sir Francis’ imposing presence blocked the attackers retreat. Loosely arrayed around the top of the stairs the four remaining crew were wielding long boards of wood to force the attackers back. Kent was on the ground, a heavy bruise on his head, and Otis looked like he’d taken a gash. The rest of the crew had clearly taken a battering before they managed to ward off the thugs.

Artemis snapped his eyes around, judged the most likely leader, and snapped off a crossbow bolt at the man’s chest. He went down like a sack of bricks, clutching the bolt sticking from his lungs. ‘This is bad, Dáire, what’s taking so long,’ Artemis thought as he fumbled with reloading. The adrenaline spike mixed with the fog of his headache were doing him few favors.

[Dáire]

Dáire’s ascent back to conscious thought was swift and painful, flailing limbs cracked off various body parts multiple times before the other person managed to squirm away from his embrace. He pulled open heavy lids; a dark figure fumbled briefly before darting out of his range of focus. Groaning, Dáire heaved himself upright, the throb in his skull almost enough to cause dizziness as he fought to make sense of what was going on, the shrill noise of a bell, and the deep but agitated voices that cascaded through the now open doorway sent needles of pain through his head with each noise that rattled through it.

Hazy memories of the night had begun to drift back when he heard who he thought may have been Lynwood shouting above them. Almost compelled to respond, he rooted around the floor, locating his shirt and pants, both garments on in a matter of moments, his boots and the daggers concealed within them finding their way onto his feet as he staggered towards the door, the long hall and the stairs leading to the warehouse and the far end were empty, the noises only getting louder with each lumbering stride he took.

What met his gaze as he crested the last step leading from the hatch, made him wish desperately for his senses to clear; and for his trusted bow to be within grabbing distance. A number of nasty looking, thuggish humans surrounded them, two of the crew already looked in poor shape as he glanced around the small circle. The men in front sneered and smirked at the ill prepared labourers, malice and violence thickening the air in the lofty hall. Dáire looked across the warehouse, wondering if he could somehow get to his bow; but it seemed unlikely he’d make it past them without a very holes and slices being added to his person, his head to cloggy and limbs too heavy to perform any such feat.

He glanced to the half-dressed Artemis, solemn resolve on his face as he bent to retrieve the small daggers from his boots. They were far from ideal, but they would be better than nothing at all.

[Jourin Argall]

By the time the sun appeared on the horizon, most of the Fellsgardian working class had already started their day. The sky had barely begun to lighten and the longshoremen, farmers, butchers, bakers and scullery maids across the City of Three Beacons were hours into their various shifts. Compared to them, Jourin had nowhere she was supposed to be that early.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

Only recently arrived in the city, she had a small bed at a hostel near the wharf and no job to speak of. Nevertheless, she had been driven onto the cold, misty streets during the little hours of the morning, impelled by the same force that brought her to Fellsgard in the first place.

Jourin had thought being within the walls would bring some relief. At the very least she hoped to put an end to the prevailing sense of urgency that had been dogging her for the last hundred miles. Unfortunately, that was not the case. She was acutely aware of her listlessness; not as an immutable numbness, but as a ship drifting without moor or anchor.

Gulls searching for easy meals further inland wheeled overhead, stark white against an ever-lightening gray sky. Jourin was paying them no great attention as her plodding steps took her through the labyrinthine pathways between warehouses that comprised the industrial district. She had no particular destination in mind, and was not actively seeking anything when she heard the bell.

Jourin stopped in the street and turned her head towards the noise. The loud, clear clang of the bell reverberated in her skull, blending subtly into the pounding of her blood in her ears, and forced her into a momentary dissociative state as she slid into a familiar waking dream.

She stood on a great galleon. The prow rose and fell, cutting through roiling waters under an impenetrable black sky. She could make out nothing on the horizon except for three pin-pricks of light. They grew larger and more intense as her ship drifted nearer. Soon she was directly under them, and she realized suddenly that she stood in a large room.

A black cat with gold eyes darted by her, fleeing from danger she sensed but couldn't see. When she looked, there were other animals jostling about and screaming with the panicked voices of men and women. Adding to the sense of chaos was a loud, repetitive ringing sound she couldn't place, but which seemed to induce further panic.

Some part of her understood that she had to save the cat. She searched and eventually found him wedged in a corner, spitting and swiping the air in warning. The danger looming at her back prompted her to reach for him in spite of the claws and the teeth. She had just enough time to tuck him against her chest before the lights went out.

The vision -- or perhaps it was merely a vivid memory -- ended as abruptly as it always had. Jettisoned back into reality, Jourin opened her eyes, realizing only then that she had closed them. She knew now what the sound in her dream had been: a clarion call to action. With that knowledge came a certain surety of purpose.

Jourin rolled her shoulders and started up a street in the direction of the ruckus. By now it was gaining some attention, but most were more interested in standing on the street and craning their necks to watch matters unfold. She had no such reservations.

Within a few minutes, she rounded the corner and the whole scene stretched out before her. The erected skeleton of a building, a man astride a barrel-chested moose, a pack of soft-bodied louts facing off with a handful of red-eyed defenders...and a black cat, spitting and flashing its teeth.

Jourin reached up and thumbed the clasp of her cloak as she strode forward. Cloth and metal separated with a muted sigh and she swept the weight of it from her shoulders, depositing it on a crate of supplies in passing. The other hand rose higher, stretching beyond her shoulder to grasp the hilt of the broadsword protruding over it.

"The Winds of Iodrah guide my path, and I shall not falter." The blade came free of its sheath in one smooth motion and caught a shaft of early morning light during its descent to her side. She held it loosely, the tip angled down and slightly away from her body.

There was no attempt at deescalation, nor any request to parlay. Jourin's mind was made up; her path was clear. She did not call out, but quickened her pace, gliding wordlessly into the fray, and swung for the first thug she came across with every intention of catching his skull with the flat of her blade. It would be sufficiently hard to put him down swiftly; he would live, but only just.

[Artemis Black]

Artemis had just finished reloading a bolt when Dáire appeared beside him. The man looked as ragged as the thief felt. When the ranger removed his boot knives, Artemis cursed his own idiocy and reached down to pull a blade from his own boot. The knives he carried weren’t designed to block or parry. They were fine and flat, built to toss with deadly precision and good for quick slashing cuts not prolonged battle.

He snapped off his second shot, clipping an attacker in the shoulder and grimacing at the pained yelp. ‘We’re losing. Going to need Lynwood to charge. Give them an escape and scatter maybe,’ he thought after a moments struggle through the painful fog that oppressed his mind. Just as he prepared to shout for the charge a woman appeared at the door to the hall.

She was tall, armored for battle, and carrying a very deadly looking blade. She waded in without hesitation, knocking the furthest attacker with the flat of her weapon. The man crumpled with a shout of pain. “What the fuck-” Artemis snapped out before he realized this was the chance.

“Lynwood hold on!” he yelled and whistled a sharp tone over and over “{Charge}”. Sir Francis lowered his antlers and bellowed before charging towards the edge of the mob in front of Artemis. Lynwood was tossed to the ground, unable to grip the unsaddled mount with only one functioning arm. The moose propelled forward, clipping two men on the inner side of the attackers. The remainder turned with shouts to deal with the suddenly far more dangerous threat. When they also saw the new armored combatant their shouts turned to confusion.

The crew stepped in, swinging heavy boards and hammers at the now distracted thugs. Another man went down from a knock to the head. Seeing the moose wasn’t blocking their path, a new clearly skilled fighter was against them, and their numbers had dropped by four in the space of breaths they began to waver.

[Dáire]

Dáire stood, caught between a strange sort of fascination, and open admiration as the large, exceptionally trained moose mowed down several of the thugs like stalks of feeble grass. Useful fellow he thought to himself as he fidgeted with the daggers grasped in his palms. He thought the men that arrived, with intent to dispose of them had scattered, but through the fog in his mind, and the head-ache that made concentrating on anything for too long, he saw a figure striding into the melee of thugs without hesitation. The figure clad in an armour, although no longer pristine and without blemish, refracted all the colours pouring in from the dawning sun. The refracted light almost acting as a second weapon. The light firing off into the gloom of the unlit hall, colliding with the dilated pupils of those within and causing momentary blindness.

Dáire crept forwards with the rest of the crew, skirting his way behind a straggler behind the group of thugs, intent on knocking the man out cold with the hilt of his dagger.

[Jourin Argall]

Jourin recognized immediately that the men she fought were not trained warriors. What skills they had were unrefined, picked up over the course of years on the streets. She had been like them once, knew how survival could be a grindstone: honing a body or breaking it just as easily. Still, what she felt for them was neither pity nor empathy. In truth, she felt nothing at all.

The first man dropped like a weighted sack and sprawled across the ground at her feet in a boneless heap. Jourin would not have paused and was, in fact, already looking for her next opponent. A cry went out before she could take a step, followed by a series of sharp whistles that drew her eye to the man -- the black cat -- in the corner.

From behind her there came a thunderous clattering. The very ground shuddered beneath her feet and she knew without looking what was coming. She spun away on the balls of her feet to avoid either being trampled or caught in the immense cage of dense bone which could easily break any of hers.

A gust of wind that smelled strongly of animal brushed her as the beast charged by, telling her in no uncertain terms what a near thing it had been. But there was no time to think about it, for even though a few of the attackers had been bowled over -- their shouts of pain paid testimony to the fact -- there were still enough to pose a threat.

Jourin whirled to face the group of five still standing. Ignoring the indecision on a few of their faces, she took a step and a half forward and slipped the toe of her boot under one of the truncheons, effectively scooping it onto her boot. One strong kick sent the cylindrical weapon of solid wood and leather hurtling toward a thickly-bearded man who -- up until that moment -- had been working up the courage to charge her.

There was a meaty sound and a faint crunch when the sap-turned-projectile impacted the thug's nose. He had just enough time to clap a hand over his face before Jourin strode forward and struck his legs out from under him with a solid kick to his left knee.

The rest of the fight went rather quickly between Jourin and the crew. Increasingly demoralized, the remaining attackers could do little but try to disengage and make a break for it. None of them did, since they were hardly fit to outrun a battle-trained moose and the occasional crossbow bolt. Another minute and it was over.

As the last man fell, Jourin returned her blade to the sheath without a flourish. She flexed her left hand, forming a fist, and judged that nothing was broken after smashing it against a bony jaw.

Dropping her arm back to her side, she turned her eyes unerringly towards the man. She did not approach him nor any of his men, but simply stood there in the midst of their victory, waiting to be addressed. Waiting for her destiny.

[Artemis Black]

Artemis had kept a close eye on the armored woman, still not entirely certain what to make of her as she waded into battle against the thugs. Despite his reservations he reaped full advantage of the confusion she sowed to press the crew forward. He realized belatedly that no one else was going for killing blows, and his third bolt took a man through the leg instead. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the fight was ended.

Artemis staggered slightly as all his attention shifted away from the thugs and snapped to Dáire. His friend looked uninjured, though certainly worse for wear. With that worry settled, he moved his eyes to the armored woman. She was striking, in a terrifying and powerful way. He was reminded of the storm clouds that drifted out from the sea. They held the promise of coming violence, but were always spectacular in a way. He watched her, noticing immediately she was intently staring at only him. As he caught his breath he decided to try his hand.

“Hello. Thanks for the assist. I doubt we could have taken them without your help. Can I get my people sorted and the bastards tied up?” he asked her, his voice a bit strained as the adrenaline started to recede and the morning’s light bored into his refogging brain. He definitely couldn’t fight her, and she definitely wanted something. Maybe coin for the help, or perhaps she was her own sort of bandit come to collect. He wasn’t certain he liked the alternatives. Anyone willing to help a random group in the slums was likely to bring with them a whole host of problems the East Hall wasn’t ready for.

[Jourin Argall]

The man took a moment to assess the condition of his nearest comrade before finally looking for her. Jourin got the impression that he was sizing her up in an effort to make sense of her presence here and determine whether or not he should remain on his guard. She did not begrudge his skepticism; it was sensible to be wary. He would hear in time why she had come.

Jourin observed, too, the ill-concealed pain on his face when he spoke. Something else was plaguing him, unrelated to the recent scuffle. For his sake she did not point it out, but responded to his question with a shallow nod.

"Allow me to be of further assistance," she said evenly, gesturing at the various fallen enemies with a sweep of her hand. Her voice was low and possessed a soft accent that placed her origins somewhere far away from Fellsgard.

"You speak to your men and I will start binding these fools. Have you a bit of rope?"

Brown eyes remained fixed on him but the question could have been directed at anyone. Jourin extended a hand, palm up, ready to receive something to restrain their defeated foes with. There was an unspoken expectation that she would be allowed to help. What reason did they have to refuse?

[Dáire]

Dáire’s head cocked to the side as the woman spoke, the slight lilt to her voice tickling memories buried deep within him. As wretched as he felt in that moment, he dismissed the urge to suss it out. Centering what little focus he could muster, he took in the human that had just swooped into save them all. She was no dainty creature that was for sure, built like a fighter and projecting very clearly, that she was not a woman to trifle with lightly. Satisfied with his evaluation and happy that she was unlikely to turn on them imminently, he allowed himself a brief glance over at his friend. Still standing and no blood, a tightness in his chest was released then as the relief flowed through him. Not getting away from the fact that the man looked as rough as he felt, maybe even more hungover if that was possible. When he looked hesitant to answer the woman's question and expectant palm, he stepped forwards, drawing her attention to him.

“I’m sure that some of the men still standing can find appropriate bindings for these louts, while you and I can pull their heavy arses out of the way and away from these downed men. We’ll deal with the dead, and the leaked blood once the living are secured.” His voice projecting with an uncharacteristically commanding tone throughout the vast space.

Meeting eye contact with a few of the men, they moved off in search of the necessary items as Dáire closed in on the stranger. Leaning down slightly and lowering his voice , he all but growled at the woman, “Should you think to turn on anyone here this morning, you would do well to hope you’re faster with a dagger than I am.”

He didn't doubt for a moment that she could smell the alcohol on him, would know his reactions would be compromised for hours yet, but he’d still felt the threat warranted. Afterall, she didn't know just how fast he was even hung over. Without breaking step, he moved past the woman, lunging for one of the men and pulling his worthless arse up by the scruff, “Where’d you want them Artemis?”

"On the road, let the watch handle it. Leave the dead in the corner." Although the words were clear and firmly spoken, the far off glint in his eye concerned Dáire as he began to lug the first man outside.

[Jourin Argall]

Jourin believed unquestionably that everyone had a destiny to fulfill but it was the lucky few who actually found it. Hers had taken thirty-five long, grueling years to find her; in that time she had been pushed to the brink of hell and fought her way back again. She hadn't been sure it was worth it until now.

The elf approached, filling her vision with his tall, lanky frame. If not for that she might not have taken her eyes off of the shorter man at all for fear that losing sight of him now would mean losing track of him forever. She put those concerns aside with an effort of will and raised her gaze to acknowledge this new stranger.

It would be difficult to gauge her thoughts or emotions for how utterly expressionless she seemed to be. Even when Dáire bent to deliver his threat, her nose didn't as much as twitch at the scent of stale alcohol seeping through his pores.

Jourin met his gaze squarely and without animosity. She had no real time to nod or convey her understanding before he stepped around her, so she did neither. Her eyes moved in their sockets, following the elf until he moved beyond her periphery. Then, like metal filings to a magnet, they flicked briefly to Artemis again, wherever he was. After a moment, she turned away to assist.

Moving to the man she knocked unconscious upon arriving, she bent to grasp him by the ankles. She proceeded to drag him to the spot Artemis had indicated, not caring how small bits of debris might be scraping the skin from his back. He was as nothing to her as refuse, which is exactly how she dumped him; haplessly and without any real mind for where he fell.

Jourin collected two more and deposited them in a similarly dispassionate fashion. By the time they were wrapping up she had worked up a bit of a sweat, which glistened in the morning sun across her brow and the bridge of her nose. Winter was upon them but manual labor had a way of keeping the body warm in spite of the chill.