(121-05-20) Enter the (Shackled) Dragon
Enter the (Shackled) Dragon
Summary: Magden meets a fellow from the old neighborhood and things get kind of absurd.
Date: Date of play (20/05/2014)
Related: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank. You have to use full URLs, like http://gobmush.wikidot.com/logtitle)

Somewhere on the seedier side of Oldtown

There are countless reasons not to be in this part of Oldtown; no matter how many manses and Nobles might inhabit the great and old city, rats and cockroaches always find a place to nest. A place where one goes when they have no better locale, or where they wish the shadows from the squalid filth to conceal matters best kept to whispers.

In this particular case, the door to the Scabbed Rat tavern bursts open, followed by a rather large individual being shoved into the middle of the streets proper. One hand is desperately trying to keep hold of an awkwardly shaped clay mug, cheap rotgut sloshing out. Five men fan out, and it's easy to tell not a one of them could be properly called sober.

"Fer the last time…" Raiko growls, turning around to squint with his good eye. His voice is a strange bastardization of Common, a mixture of Braavosi and Astapori accent. "Ya heard me RIGHT. Yer a eunuch aspirin' mummer who'd make a better LIVIN'… if ya were trounced around in a collar and taught ter BARK! Self-entitled little dragonshits like you… they get gutted way before gettin' to yer ages where I'm from. …What kinda weeds is this land lettin' grow to such wild sizes?" The man at the forefront is a thug of some renown named Bertrand, wielding a breastplate of scale armor and slipping free a broadsword. The other four begin to fan out, similarly drawing slender blades and daggers.

Raiko continues to teeter, taking another drink. "See? This is more like it… took ya long enough ter grow a pair back… *hrrk*." A thump to the chest allows a burp to leave him.

Unsurprisingly, a number of civilians are giving a wide berth. Normally, brawls are done with fists… but with one party having weapons out, all bets are off.

"I gave you a way out." Bertrand growls, drawing his tongue up the broad part of his sword. "Now the only way out's going to be from a shallow grave."

"My lord, just fuckin' come at me…" drawls the larger figure. He has nothing but a pathetic three-inch blade at his belt, made for grooming and utility. It probably wouldn't even get through the boiled leather of his assailers full force.

It didn't take Magden long to learn that the best way to travel anywhere is by rooftop, at least when one is in a city as crowded together as Oldtown. Not that she can't handle herself on the ground, but small and unusual looking as she is, she tends to draw unwanted attention. Over and over again. Just about every ten yards or so. After one particular outing resulted in more stabbing than walking, alternative measures seemed wisest. For expediency's sake.

So today finds her, not unusually, leaping rooftops. She soars over people's heads and no one ever knows she's there. The shortest distance to any point, a straigh line, is always laid out before her. But just now, surveying her new home and pausing with some slightly superstitious misgiving for the flight of a raven, she's paused on a ledge, and that ledge happens to look down on the street where a certain Very Large Man is being accosted by a number of armed thugs. She's about to leave them to it, but then hesitates. She's suppose to be doing good things, now. Something about protecting the small. Clearly this one doesn't count, yet there's certainly an affront to fair play in the offing. Then he speaks, however slurred and muddled, and there's a hint of Astapor in the round, two-toned vowels. Huh. She paces along the ledge, her curiosity piqued.

It wouldn't take long for Magden to confirm that the man being hassled is from the Free Cities; he does not have an ounce of Westeros blood within him, either tongue, skin or form. But there's no manner of fighting that's really known which involves a single mildly drunk man against a mob of swords-people and no weapon that is known. Certainly there are legends of masters of fist and foot, who use the power of the earth beneath their feet to turn themselves into weapons keen as any maul, but such isn't even known in Braavos, hailing north of Essos. Such eccentricities are reserved for the fighting pits and blood shows, not actual combat…

Bertrand slithers forward, and brings his weapon down in a slash of pure power, the sort intended to cut through even scale. It is obvious he believes Raiko some drunken fool in old armor, and direly in need of cutting down. Whatever his capacity might be at his peak, of full guard and focused experience, becomes irrelevant in the face of such reckless underestimation.

The Shackled Dragon's steel-gauntleted forearm strikes up with equal force, hitting the broadsword at a sharp angle. It skips like a stone, point striking the ground with a *crack*. When he moves to pull it back, Raiko snaps forward, catching the hilt in his massive hand. This is obviously not a tactic that Bertrand is much familiar with, as is gut instinct is to try and pull backwards very hard.

A moment later, the clay mug explodes over his face in a swift backhand. Fragments and stinking alcohol spray the ground as the street thug reels. Twisting with a violent motion, Bertrand then begins to scream as his broadsword thumps to the street, clutching his shattered arm — socked fragmented at the elbow and dislocated at the shoulder. This cuts off quite sharply as a scale-plated elbow thumps him in the nose, sending him backwards in a fountain of blood to crash on his back.

The other four are hesitating now. That was obviously not what any of them expected to see. Raiko's beckoning at them now, grinning like a madman. A fire in his eye that could melt Valaryan steel, desire nearly lustful. "C'mon… c'mon, ya sow-fucking cowards…!!"

THWIP-THUNK. THWIP-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK. One knife, followed rapidly by three more, embed themselves in the ground between the remaining men's feet. That the streets here are cobbled, however unevenly, make the rapidity and precision all the more remarkable — each blade had to find a slender mark between stones or skitter off, ineffectively. "Those would have been the weak spots in your armor, not between cobbles, if I wanted you to die today." The girl — for she's barely more than the size of a child — drops lightly down from ledge to rickety awning, balance perfect even on the rain-slicked shingles. "Go away now, before this man undoes my good deed." Her tone carries no urgency. Whether they go and live or stay and die is of no particular import to her. With a gesture just as nonchalant, she has knives in both hands again, flipping them easily end over end.

The sound of the blades in the air causes Raiko's head to turn and body to stiffen. Not enough to have done anything to avoid them, but a far cry from the nigh-literal jump of the remaining four when they hear the precise *crack* of them embedding into the cobbles. Having already been on the border of absconding, all of them maneuver to bolt. Except one, which Raiko catches by the collar with a strange dash; the motion of his foot was peculiar, unnatural but giving him a remarkable burst of speed in only a couple meters. Twisting him around, he begins to violently slug the rapscallion in the face with a growl, first causing his slender sword to drop, the second knocking him out, and only after the fourth is he dropped to thump upon the ground, utterly immobile. Blood drips from his steel fist, where the claws of the dragon slightly protrude over the armored first knuckles. "…The hell are you doin'… ruinin' my fun…?" he offers to Megden, squinting at her with the exact opposite of being pleased for the intervention. "I finally find a part o' town I can let loose a bit've frustration, and ya /ruin/ it…" A mild stagger takes him to the writhing Bertrand, swiftly kicking him in the temple while he's down. Unconscious, a brief frisking comes up with a small coin purse. It's dumped into his hand. "Three Stars and a Groat? You piece of shit." He then begins repeatedly kicking the grounded thug in the ribs, but at least his breastplate's protecting him this time around.

"It's not fun if they're running away from you, or if they're unconscious on the ground," Magden opines, flatly — in Astapori. "I don't like five on one and I don't like mindless brutality. So get a hold of yourself." She steps off the awning, tucking and rolling to snatch back her knives. She's crouched and facing the big man as she pulls them from the mortar and mud. She looks like a fucking storybook princess, all dainty and pale. It's pretty ridiculous. "I know who you are."

"…" Raiko simply glances back towards Magden when she speaks. For a second she might wonder if he spoke the language, but he follows with fluency, if accented. "I wanted to hit something." The more literal translation, difficult for Common, is 'a desire to feel better by breaking something'. There's no violent motion towards Magden when she slinks closer, as the lumbering man moves to frisk the second, but only finds several half-pennies, which he throws into his bloodied face. Before reconsidering and gathering them up once more, making the badass gesture considerably more awkward as he shoves the crimson-smeared coins with his others. Magden is given a slow look. Another might consider it the norm, some brute gauging a piece of flesh for aesthetic value. But Megden would know better — she's likely done it and seen it time and time again. Analyzing another fighter. "Do you? I doubt it. If I could find someone with a few moons or a dragon and get away with taking them, I'd get on the next damn boat in the harbor to Astapor. The weakness in this city sickens me. I'd rather make another fortune in the pits."

"You're the Shackled Dragon," says Magden, drawing herself up to the full of her less-than-impressive, elfin height. Knives are stowed on her person with a few economical movements. Some return to visible sheaths, some disappear. "I've performed on sand that was still wet with the blood you spilt." She shrugs, slipping easily back into her unaccented, but slightly less fluent, Common. "Welcome to Oldtown."

"…" Raiko pauses once more, seeming somewhat more interested in Magden as opposed to the somewhat dismissive posture he had before. "Aye. Ya don't look like someone from Essos though, little girl…" Certainly, there's poets, songwriters, and other such people who have spoke of him in Westeros in the decade and a half his name has been known, but they tend to be bloated, exaggerated, more myth-implying, and focus on the time he strangled a tiger. Although eyes widen at the latter. "Hah. So ya know those pits, do ya?"

Suddenly the huge, lumbering form comes over to Magden. If she does not back away, he'd move to grasp her chin in a surprisingly fast motion, one that belies the heft of muscle and mass. Yet his only intent is to look her over, left and right. Even if distance is kept, his response is the same. "Where're yer battle scars, mouse?" he wonders. "Ya look more like a princess o' the rodents. Didja get lucky? Were ya sent ter throw knives at pigs and cattle, while the crowds laughed and laughed?" A sneer follows.

She didn't escape scarring — or maiming, or death — without being aware of her opponents: where they stand, when they move, and how they move. Magden saw the Shackled Dragon fight once, years ago, from afar. And again today, moments ago, nearly close as arm's reach. She paid attention. And while that brief display certainly didn't acquaint her with even the tiniest fraction of his ability, it left her with two undeniable conclusions: he strong, and he's quick. She, too, is quick, however, and the moment his shadow shifts she's leaping up and back, like she's on strings, covering a rather remarkable distance from a dead stand and landing on the rim of a water barrel. Distance is kept. "I danced," she says, her voice a low growl. "With tigers. Bulls. Men. Until they bled and died. I could dance with you, Dragon."

The motion to grab had been intentional, even if harmless; the speed, real. He seems pleased that Magden managed to slither away, letting out a bit of a chest laugh. "Ohh? Aye. I was half-right, mouse…" Slowly his good eye narrows, and there's some distant echo of recognition. "Right… right…! The girl who'd avoid beasts and wear'm down… Think a few people called ya the Dancin' Manticore, way ya bled people out with them slender blades." She certainly could have dropped the Dragon, if her initial volley meant to target him. "Hah. Ya were a wee lil' wisp back then. I thought ya a boy, and still ain't sure. Marius wanted us ter fight once. We didn't." Marius was well-known for being a butcher, one of the foremost 'entertainers' in Astapor's bloodiest rings. He enjoyed hiring useless slaves for cheap prices and having them be killed in spectacular ways. Many of the Dragon's day to day occurrences were just breaking defenseless people with his bare hands. No wonder it might be somewhat cathartic.

"I learned one thing, though…" A memory of black and white, water the color of coal, the dying. "There ain't no coincidences in this world. Maybe the 'Stranger' sent me ter this town fer some reason." Strange that he knew a Westeros god, despite obviously being as foreign as they come. And he spoke it with a sardonic tone, like it were some secret joke. "So, mouse. Ya squeak well. But the dancin' I want's a proper fistfight, or a proper woman. Ya don't seem fit fer either."

It seems Magden and Raiko are talking in the middle of the street, although the former is in a defensive posture. For whatever reason, there's two unconscious men nearby, both with faces that look like they took the bad end of a cudgel. Maybe the still-dripping blood from Raiko's gauntleted right fist has something to do with it. Right now, they are just scenery.

A Stark sister walks along the path with a gigantic beast of a man, a knight in armor, a huge sword, and an even gruffer looking disinterested look about him. Aeryune replies to 'the beast' "See? I told you wheat was a good idea, it's rather…." Her words come to a pause as she approaches the situation slowly. She looks from one unknown man, to the other that is on the ground. "What is the meaning of what is going on here? Miss, are you alright?"

The 'Beast' steps somewhat in front of Aeryune, and looks at Raiko with a mildly annoyed look. "Do I have to kill you, or are we good?" the man's voice is gruff, he seems like he's seen his fair share of battles, and probably isn't one to bluff or play nice.

Magden's defensive posture involves standing balanced on the edges of a rain barrel, some distance from the big, bloody-fisted man. She doesn't look like she trusts him further than she can throw him, and there's really no chance she could lift him to begin with. Her hands are on her hips, though from there they could probably reach any number of knives. And those are just the visible ones.

His recollection of the 'Dancing Manticore' makes her smirk slightly. "My promoter would have been displeased. He spent a lot of money billing me as a captured Westerosi princess." She shrugs. "I like 'manticore' bet — "

She blinks as the 'Beast' steps in front of, and accosts, another beast — a rather more mythical beast — that he clearly does not know. "My lady," says Magden, somewhat tersely, "you should call off your man unless you want him to die. Is he in the habit of threatening men randomly like this? You should break him of it."

"Hah. Princess. We had a laugh at that. 'Flattest Princess in Westeros', was what those in the pits thought o' ya." It's actually said with a laugh that's more friendly than not this time around. "Yer owner tried too hard, but I heard yer cheers under the ring. What a waste, his son broke up the act…" The approach of the young Stark catches Raiko's attention for a few moments; anyone dressed in such a manner is not common in the Wynd. But he seems far more drawn to the 'Beast', as it were. The light in his eye seems to click on, and a grin slowly warps his scarred face. "Few people wanted ter fight." he allows, looking with disdain at the fallen men. "I did." A few footsteps follow, neck slowly cracking to the side. "I like the look o' ya." he allows the plated figure. It's something between a taunt and a compliment. Although he does allow another scowl when Magden interjects. "I'm nobody special. Ain't even got a sword…"

Aeryune furrows her brows and rests her hands on her hips. She offers to Magden "Unfortunately yes. I've tried breaking him of the habit, but it's like saying it'll never snow in the North again. He's consistently rude, however he is quite effective considering. Are you alright miss? It looks like something is terribly amiss..was this man assaulting you?"

The 'Beast' pushes Lady Aeryune back with a sharp shove. With her being far less muscular she stumbles back a bit more than one might expect. "Barrows!" she admonishes. Barrows 'The Beast' is calm, seeming more annoyed he has to deal with the situation than the situation itself. "Shut 'yer trap n' stay out o' the way. Last thing I need is for you to get your hide tanned." His eyes look to the oncoming man "Your keeping me from drinking and whoring, and I enjoy my drinking and whoring. So one more time - Are you freind or foe? I'm fine either way, I'd rather just get things over with."

"I'm fine," Magden assures the lady, looking a bit baffled as to the precise relationship between Beast and Beauty. She gapes when the fellow shoves his lady. Charge? Wife? Daughter? What the skinny, pale blonde had thought was clear is more muddied by the moment. "My… lady?" Even that's in question, now. "Is this… person in your employ? How does he take liberty to treat you thus?" She lets Raiko play coy and friendly with no further interjection, on that count. Whatever works.

Raiko doesn't stop his approach, stopping a couple meters opposite the other large figure. They are probably rather alike, down at the core. Brutal men who live only to fight, drink, and whore. Simply one was born in Essos, and the other privy to arms and armor. Why, the Beast even said as much! "Hrrm. Depends. If yer man enough not to take out yer blade… foe." A lazy spit is sent to the ground in front of Barrows, flick of the wrist spattering the cobblestones with coagulating blood. "Ya can keep the armor." Slowly his grin widens, and the Shackled Dragon takes a strange stance. Any seasoned fighter would get the same feel that comes from staring down the leveled blade of a master swordsman, fangs of combat bared. It would remind Magden of what she saw earlier, when he made that odd dashing movement. Raiko was taught some sort of unusual melee art. "But I swear… by whatever God of Death ya whisper to… ya damn well better be able ter satisfy the monster inside me…!" An audible creak is heard, from the sound of his molars pressed so firmly together; a few missing and cracked, from brawls years past.

<FS3> Raiko rolls Intimidation: Amazing Success.

Barrows stands there, and comes to the full realization that this is not a man, this is beast. Unlike him, he actually seeks out the violence that Barrows has just come to accept with indifference. Barrows pulls out his sword, a large bastard sword, probably just like the man? "Do we really have to do this now? Can't we just drink and whore, then be at it? If I'm to die today, I'd rather die fulfilled."

Lady Aeryune nods to Magden "Unfortunately yes, you don't really control him precisely, you just more..point him at a direction and watch the havok ensue. That being said he's kept me alive this long. Of all the days I didn't bring my bow. Seriously, the /one/ day.." When she sees that menacing look, she reaches over to swat at Magden's back. "You should go, he attacked you right? I can't let him just fight in here, in this cramped space there's no way.." She looks around in a panic, and rushes forward, pushing all her weight into the rain barrel, pushing it over. The water goes spilling out over the ground, as well as does the lady who pushed it. Rolling out between the two of them on the ground, and muddying her dress up.

Barrows looks down at Aeryune with a surprised look, yes..this one surprised him, that's fairly rare. "What in the name of all the gods are you doin? Really? Didn't I teach you anything? Your going to get killed, stupid, stupid Stark girl!" He slams his blade against the nearby wall, making a spark. "For all of the smarts you have in your brain, you sure dont know when to use them!"

Magden yelps and pinwheels her arms as Lady Aeryune pushes over the rain barrel she's still standing on. Fortunately, she's rather lightning quick in the reflex department, launching herself off said barrel mid-topple and catching the edge of an awning. She levers herself neatly onto the roof. "He didn't attack me — are you out of your mind? What do you think you're doing?" shouts down at the lady in the mud puddle. Then, turning her wrath on 'Barrows,' "And YOU. How dare you drag a lady out whoring? ANYWHERE, never mind this part of town? She will not dismiss you? Lord Stark will. Get her home. RIGHT. NOW."

When the blade comes out, Raiko laughs. But his eyes shift to the side at the mention of the Stark. "Coward. I knew it." When the rain barrel comes toppling over, the slosh of water doesn't seem to bother the massive Braavosi in the slightest. Instead he slowly backs away, but with the sneer of someone in victory. "She's a noble, ain't she? Pretty and proper, but lead around by her dog. I'd do ya a favor, girl. Ya think I couldn't rip that sword outta his hand, take him to the ground, yank open his fancy tin helmet, and pound his skull to fragments…? I've done it before. A dozen times." Still, he's not pressing matters. "I ain't stupid enough ter hassle a Stark. Hah. But if yer stupid enough to attack me… ya could be the king of dragons fer all I care…" He's closer to Magden now. If she's his foe, it'd be pretty easy to stab him in the back of the head, really.

Barrows seems unphased by the taunt. "Fine, you win. I don't really care." He sheathes his sword when Raiko backs off, picking Aeryune off the ground and putting her down on her feet. "Really? Did you think givin' him a bath was going to stop him?"

Aeryune has a blush upon her lightly freckled cheeks. "It was meant to be a diversionary tactic..and I thought there would be more water in there. And.. I was wrong." She lets Raiko retreat, then looks over to the unfamiliar woman. "Actually Barrows knows me well enough to know I wouldn't be stopped from stepping in. It certainly looked like he was trying to beat you..or worse. I'm a bit of a stickler for that sort of thing, though I didn't have my usual equipment with me, which in this case was probably a good thing as it ended without bloodshed." Her eyes dart breifly down to the two men on the ground "Well..relatively I guess…but anyway, he was escorting me to my lodgings. After that time, he can do whatever he wants. He may me gruff..very, very gruff..and so rough around the edges he's jagged, but he's loyal, and he's good at killing bandits. So since it looks like I'm outted, I'm Aeryune, the very muddy Stark daughter. Would you like to come along with us? We should be in more pleasant company after Barrows goes about his nightly..errands."

Magden is apparently not a foe of Raiko, as the man remains unstabbed. "My lady, he should be flogged for taking you through his part of town," says the pale girl from her high perch. "This man," she gestures to Raiko, "is not pleasant company, and though he is no enemy of mine, he is not fit for the likes of you. Nor, in truth, am I. Now. Let your man get you home. And do make sure he does his 'errands' on his own time, or things will go poorly for him. I promise you."

Aeryune shakes her head "None of that now. Starks aren't those kind of people, and I am even far less so. Everyone has a place, and a value. Even monsters like the one we just met." She wipes mud off of half her face and begins walking with Barrows "Should you wish to join me you may feel free, should you wish not that of course is your choice as well."

"The rains were the worst," says Wulfred to Alis as he walks alongside her. 'Walking' may be loosely defined, as he occasionally leans into her, only to be pushed off with a laugh. "Completely soured my time in Castamere. I suppose a tragic ballad could be sung of it, but who would bother with such?" Judging by the man's gait and his tone of voice, he may have had a little too much to drink. And if anyone were to recognize him, they'd surmise such was the case based on his reputation.

"I have met the Starks. Fought in Lord Stark's company. And I promise you, lady, he would not have this man treat you with such disrespect." Magden, a pale and slender thing in boy's clothing, is standing on the ledge of a building, talking down to Aeryune. Way down. There is a big, beast of a man apparently protecting the lady from ruffians and other flotsam, while and even bigger, beastier man leans glowering against a wall, out of the way. There are a couple of unconscious fellows, random thugs, lying bloody and unconscious in the mud. Interesting evening, it seems.

Alis pushes Wulfred off of her with a gentle elbow before she reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from tumbling over in the other direction. It appears to be quite the balancing act. "…Where tha hell is Castamere?" The short lean woman asks as she grips the man's arm. "Ain't ever heard'o it."

She spots a pair of urchins near the house with the peeling green door and yells out, "Oi! You little shits had better done what I told you to do." She looks back to Wulfred, "Tragic stories are always bullshit. Nine times outta ten tha victims had it comin'." She looks down the street towards Aeryune, Magden, and Raiko before mentioning to Wulfred, "Wha' the fuck is with the fancy people?"

"What fancy people?" asks Wulfred, his head twisting about in an attempt to see to what Alis refers. He squints his eyes while settling his feet, placing a gloved hand to his brow. "I don't see no fancy people. Just a few men facefirst on the ground and what did it to them standing nearby." He reaches for Alis' shoulder, "I hear there are thieves around these parts. Who's gonna protect us?"

"I've never met a person in me life who dared call me pleasant company ter me face." Raiko growls out, spitting to the side. There's still a sort of deathglare given to Barrows. Wanton, like a dirty peasant with a gold dragon who just entered the fanciest whorehouse in Oldtown. A man who desires violence to that degree… probably best that the 'beast' drew his blade instead of taking the fight to fisticuffs. One of them would not have been hale afterwards. Crouching down, Raiko is in the midst of cleaning blood from his steel knuckles, with a disturbing familiarity. Ritualistic, almost. Alis and Wulfred are given a sort of… well, bored look. Lazy acknowledgement. "So, mouse." he offers Magden. "You know this nest, in a manner. What's the best way to earn coin, outside taunting people into takin' the first swing and breakin' them?"

Aeryune holds up her hand "I'm not a fighter, I'm a healer. That's why I need this man to do all my fighting for me. If your around some time, why don't you stop by? But..let's make sure to leave the unconcious behind?"

Her beast of a companion, Barrows snorts "I wouldn't mind a different detail…" Aeryune pushes the large man fairly unsucessfully from behind "Oh just get going you! Your not getting a different detail! Don't tell me you don't feel accomplished offering healing and aid to the poor?". Barrows shrugs "My hearts a'flutter milady.." The two walk out into the next section of town.

"Tournament," Magden says to Raiko, simply enough, crouching on her high perch like a gargoyle. "The Reachfolk are mad for their tournaments. More money than you've ever seen." She smirks. "Never seen a man enter a melee with just fists. That would be entertaining." She looks relieved when the lady and her 'beast' move on. "I don't know which one of them I wanted to stab more."

"Fancy /person/." Alis amends. "Whose leavin'." She squeezes Wulfred's arm lightly, "Quit it." He earns a light slap to the arm as he reaches for her arm, but allows it anyways. It seems like the little woman just /likes/ slapping her companion, "Thieves? Oh. I suppose we'll just lock ourselves up tight, and pray ta tha Seven." She peers pointedly at the man, "Ya got any room in yer small clothes ta hide shit?"

"Blades are just lumps of metal. Trusting your life to a creation of another…? Hah. My power's the earth beneath my feet. You ever see the look on a bravos' face when you rip his toy from his hands and hurl it into the water? Fear. The true fear of a man who's strength is not his own." His faded gauntlets are clean enough for his less than fastidious standards, and he rises once more. "If Marius lives, I'd not be too welcome back in Astapor. Maybe I could carve out a name for meself 'round here, then… although more know my name than I figured. Nothin' as fun as someone thinkin' yer helpless…" Alis and her companion for the moment aren't given any notice. If they try to loot the unconscious thugs, they're stripped of valuables outside old, worn weapons with half-dull blades. Yep, Raiko mugged them first.

"You oughtn't hit me, I bruise easy and it lowers my value," says Wulfred with something of an amused sound. The inebriated tend to entertain themselves, which can be unfortunate if present company prefers peace and quiet. "I would have equal success praying to the sun. At least that brings warmth and some semblance of a schedule." He looks down at his boots after another stone thwarts his gait, and he curses under his breath. "I've plenty of room in my smallclothes—wait, are you inferring something? That's a good one. I should tell you the joke about a hard Cockens' cider."

Magden was here. Totally saw the mugging. Probably should have called the watch or… cared. Or something. But didn't. She doesn't look too impressed with Raiko's tales about beating up water dancers, either. "Mm," she says, a noncommittal sound. That's nice, dear. "So you should enter a tournament, then. Bound to be another, sooner rather than later." She stands and stretches. "'Night, Dragon." With a quick, nimble leap she's up on the second story roof, taking a running leap onto the next building. Off along her way to wherever she was headed, before.


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