Ascension - Mageocracy

Game Master bbangerter

Thinking of her brought a cocktail of emotions stirring up inside Ian, most he couldn't put a name to. Lust, definitely. But there were so many others, stronger. Visiting her felt like coming in from the cold wet street to sit by a warm fire. Warm eyes, warm smile. Warm bosom, Ian thought. He smiled like an idiot, a passer-by glared at him. He didn't care, he was on his way to see her.

Walking boldly up to her small house in the slums, Ian gripped the single flower he had bought in the market on the way over—purple, cheery, pretty. Stupid, he thought. She doesn't want flowers, she wants coin. With a grimace he tossed the flower aside, into the weeds and garbage that grew with equal fervor in the neighborhood, and stepped up to her door, hesitating, knocking. His heart beat faster as he heard her footsteps approaching from inside the house. He glanced back at the flower, discarded amongst the weeds.

“Ian! Just...give me a moment,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile before shutting the door again.

Beautiful. Maybe not what noble lord and ladies considered beautiful. To someone else she might look scrawny, dirty, with messy black hair, short unladylike fingernails, but he saw her. Her green eyes made his heart beat in a way that probably wasn't healthy. She was fragile, smooth and soft, unlike everything else in his life. He lov—

”Pardon,” a gruff man said as he pressed out of Hazel's door and past Ian, who was staring blankly.

The bearded man, a head shorter than Ian, avoided eye contact with the infamous guardsman, bowing his head twice before hurrying out into the street. Ian stared after him.

“Good to see you, love,” Hazel's soft, thick voice said as she ran a hand down his blade-scarred steel breastplate, tracing the lines with her fingertips.

For a moment, Ian couldn't bring himself to look back at her, afraid of what his face might betray. He put on a relaxed smirk and tore his eyes off the retreating man.

She smiled slyly, and leaned closer to Ian, whispering conspiratorially, “I'm feeling very unsatisfied. He wasn't anything like you.”

Probably just saying that because she saw his jealousy. He didn't care.

“Well, come on,” She said, gripping the collar of his breastplate and guiding him inside, shutting the door and locking it with a click.

That sound, Gods, the sound of that door locking... Ian was already breathing heavy.

Cold water splashed into his face, making him break into a fit of coughing.

“Hazel,” He gasped between coughs.

“The f*$* he said? He's still out, toss the other.”

Another bucket was thrown into Ian's face. He inhaled more water as he gasped and coughed awake.

“He's comin' round. Check the rope again, don't want him gettin' a hand free again.”

Vision blurry, shapes formed in the dim light. An ugly face leered at him. Esteban's.

Ian slurred through busted purple lips, “Was havin' a good dream, wakin' up to your deformed goat-sack of a face is worse than a beating.”

A meaty fist knocked his head to the side, tipping over the chair he was tied to.

“Stupid f~+%. You're gonna be even uglier after this—should bring you a f@*#in' mirror, piece of s!+#,” Esteban spat, his dirty leather boots pacing back and forth angrily in front of Ian's view from the wet floor.

The thugs around him laughed on cue. Ian flexed his wrist, pulling on the bindings, trying to loosen them while the room stopped spinning.

“Checked the rope, right?”

“Yea, and double-checked. He ain't gettin' out of those knots.”

“On your f#*@in' word then—he get free again and you'll be in the chair next.”

The voices were faded, distant. Someone strong—or a couple people—lifted Ian's chair upright again. Esteban tugged on the rope binding Ian's wrists behind his back.

“I said I checked 'em...”

“Shut up.” Esteban snapped, staring down the thug.

Ian swallowed blood, “I told ya already, your boss made his point, his shop's got new protection, I get it.”

Esteban showed yellow teeth in an unfriendly grin. “Afraid he don't forgive so easy, you extorted him for a good many years, a 'sorry' ain't gonna cut it—and we're just getting' started makin' our point,” he nodded to one of the thugs, and the heavyset man brought out a leather bundle, unrolling it on a nearby table. An assortment of blacksmith tools clanged against each other. Pliers, tongs—the works.

Stretching his bindings to try and look behind him, Ian saw two thick-armed men in his peripheral back there, one with a broadsword and the other with a handaxe. Six men, seven counting ole' Esteban, Ian thought as he looked back at the iron tools.

“I ain't a blacksmith, I don't even know what these things are used for,” Esteban picked up a particularly cruel looking one. “But when I look at you, I get all sorts of creative inspiration.”

As Esteban gripped one of Ian's hands with the device, he smiled pure hatred. Ian could see the bruises on Esteban's neck, even in the dim light, from where he had nearly crushed his throat when he got his arm free.

“There's an old whores' trick for covering bruises like that, you wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong idea would 'ya?” Ian said with bared teeth.

Esteban's expression flickered from disgust to fury before his wiry-muscled arms flexed and the blacksmith's tool punched a hole through the meat of Ian's hand, scraping bone and sending spasms of agony through his body. The yell of pain that started in his gut was cut off by clenched teeth, Ian laughed, a dry, bitter laugh, with a shaking voice as his maimed hand trembled.

“I know a few whores 'got toys they love too,” Ian coughed sour phlegm, but forced himself not to throw up from the pain. “Keep em in a nice roll of leather, just like you. You sure you ain't a whore?”

Shaking with anger, teeth bared in what couldn't even generously be called a grin, Esteban picked up the blacksmith hammer, approaching Ian with a white-knuckle grip on it.

Before Ian could speak, Esteban smashed the hammer across his jaw, and the world dimmed to black again.

“You can't stay, Ian. I'm sorry, wake up,” a soft feminine voice said, quietly, gently.

Ian's head smashed against the cold wet floor again.

“You can't stay.”

The floor was almost comfortable as he drifted unconscious. Really really comfortable, actually. He never wanted to raise his head again. Why would he ever leave? Hazel's soft, warm breasts under his head, her gentle hand running through his hair.

“You'll come back though, won't you? I'll miss you if you're gone too long,” She teased. He didn't believe her, but he wanted to. The words were good enough.

They were naked in her bed, and a fire popped and crackled quietly nearby. He listened to the music of her breathing and heartbeat for just one more moment before clearing his throat.

“Yeah, my coin's yours and only yours,” he said, but didn't mean it to sound so bitter.

Silence hung for a moment, her hand stopping in his hair, before she continued.

“Good. I'm a jealous woman.”

He wasn't sure what to say to that. He thought of the gruff bearded man that left just before him. They laid together in silence for another long moment before Ian spoke.

“Ever think of quittin'?”

She sighed quietly, “Not the 'leave this terrible life behind and run away with me' speech, not you, Ian.”

“Not sayin' that. Just askin' if you ever thought of quittin',” Ian responded, dejected.

Hazel sounded like she was going to say something, but kept silent instead. Ian waited, but finally she just said “You can't stay,” and turned Ian aside onto the pillow.

She sat on the edge of the bed to put stockings on, then stood to continue dressing. When she caught him watching she only smiled impishly. “I should charge you for this.”

His heart ached, and someone was kicking him in the ribs.

“Wake up you stupid f%!$ing waste of pile of pig s*@$!” Someone spat, cursing violently as they kicked at him. Esteban.

As he inhaled, he knew he had a few broken ribs—he coughed in pain. His jaw was broken too.

“I was wrong about you,” Ian said, gravelly voice full of blood, pain, and dark amusement, “You ain't a whore.”

The two men stood Ian's chair up again. Esteban was browsing the variety of blacksmith tools, deciding on his next toy. He turned to Ian, eyes sparkling and a sadistic, hateful smile—a pair of iron shears in hand.

“Oh?” Esteban asked, leaning in to savor the brief flicker of fear that crossed Ian's face when he saw the shears.

“Whores hit harder,” Ian said, spitting blood in his face. It was a nice, thick, coagulated glob and Esteban jerked back in surprise. He felt a manic sense of satisfaction, a deep chuckle slurring past his broken jaw.

Wiping the blood from his face, expression completely blank, he grabbed Ian's left ear, and with a sickening flame of sharp iron through flesh, cut it off.

Struggling and jerking around in the chair as he screamed, slurred, muffled, Ian stared murder at Esteban. I'll f$!$ing kill you, I'll f***ing kill you, he thought over and over.

Esteban gloated to the other thugs, who laughed and leered. Then he turned his sadistic grin to Ian, leaning close. “What was that? You sound like a whore with a cock in her mouth. I must've broken your jaw.”

Ian threw every muscle from his legs, his stomach, to his neck to slam his forehead into Esteban's teeth. Struggling around in the chair had loosened his bonds just enough. The impact was loud and wet. Ian felt blood running down his forehead into his eyes, probably some of it his own. Esteban made a choking sound then crumpled, one hand pawing at his destroyed mouth. Ian strained hard against the chair, trying to break the wood if he couldn't escape the rope. The nearby thugs stared in shock for only a moment before they fell on him, beating him with the pommels of their weapons, their fists, their boots.

This time he didn't fall unconscious. Damn, Ian thought, remembering the dream. He wanted to go back there. Everything hurt like hell. Vaguely he recognized his ear, laying on the floorboards not far away.

“With Esteban dead, that means I'm in charge. Got it? We kill him, we leave.”

“What about the bodies?”

“F*&@ them, no ties to us. Esteban's the one who got his grubby hands in that merchant's pockets, he's the face they'll know, not us.”

His head spinning, barely conscious, Ian felt the rope was loose on one of his wrists. He pulled, and a sharp pain shot up his arm. Broken, that's why it was lose, his arm was broken. Suppressing a pained chuckle, Ian steadied himself for what he'd have to do. Flexing the muscles in his broken, twisted arm, he began to pull his crushed hand and wrist through the rope bindings. The pain was worse than anything Esteban had done to him, and he was barely able to stop himself from screaming.

“Gregory, stand watch outside. We leave right after I cut his throat.”

'Gregory' stared in shock as Ian slowly stood, pieces of chair breaking off him, one arm hanging twisted and limp. The thug that was giving orders—Nash?—turned around as fast as he could, dagger swiping from his sheath.

Blood sprayed in a thick slap against Gregory's face as Ian shoved a broken chair leg down through Nash's collar bone, down into his chest a whole arm's length with sheer strength. The look on Ian's face froze Gregory in place. The other thugs drew their weapons and ran at him.

A thug raised his handaxe as he charged, going for a killing blow. Ian grabbed for the haft as the axe came down, missing, but catching hold of the thug's wrist. Yanking hard, he threw the thug off balance, sinking his teeth into his ear, ignoring his broken jaw. The thug screamed in pain as Ian shoved him away, tearing flesh free, then screamed at a higher pitch when Ian stepped hard on the side of the thug's knee, snapping it inward.

This caused the other charging thugs a moments hesitation. He spat the chunk of ear onto the floor and lumbered towards them, one arm broken and limp at his side, forehead bleeding, face covered in blood, ear missing just like the thug he had maimed—and a handaxe, gripped tightly so it didn't slip from bloody fingers. This time only two of them charged, as the maimed thug still clutched his maimed knee, screaming.

Ian slammed the hatchet into the face of the first thug, splitting it like gory kindling, pulling free from Ian's hand as the body collapsed with the axe stuck in it. The other thug ran his sword through Ian's gut. Baring blood-covered teeth, Ian grabbed the hilt of the sword, preventing the thug from pulling it out. He saw the exact moment when the man realized he should have ran, and savored in it, used it to keep his will burning hot even while his body begged to collapse. When the thug turned to run, Ian pulled the sword out of his own stomach, blood spurting, and caught the fleeing man in a one-armed headlock before dragging the blade across his throat. The other two were already rushing at him, daggers drawn. Ian shoved the dying man into one of them, then crudely hacked the other's arm off, ignoring him as he tumbled into a screaming heap, thrusting the sword into the belly of the man who had just regained his balance. He hefted upwards, bellowing agony and rage, lifting the thug several feet off the ground with the impaling blade.

The only one left standing was 'Gregory', who had ran for the door. Ian stomped after him, floorboards creaking. Gregory was two steps out the door when Ian cleaved down at his shoulder, nearly splitting the man in half diagonally. His mutilated body tumbled like slaughtered meat down the stairs, spilling blood and insides onto the street. There was a moment of shocked silence from the crowd of passerbys, then screaming erupted. Ian stalked back inside, covered from head to toe in blood. The crumpled thug was clutching where his ear used to be, crawling towards the house's side door. He looked up as he heard Ian's heavy footsteps approaching, pain and terror on his face. The room began to spin and Ian stumbled. He swiped a hand, grasping for the thug's ankle as he fled, but missed. As consciousness slipped through his fingers, he thought of Hazel, and the purple flower he had tossed aside outside her house.

He didn't dream.

Weeks passed—he took the Cleric's word on it. Benefit and drawback of being in the guard: they just won't let you die. Nice enough old man, the Cleric. Seemed like he had seen a lot of injured and dying in his life. Ian vaguely remembered the faces of fellow guardsmen, coming to visit. Even Captain Jerez, congratulating him on something. Something... he wondered, before passing out again.

When he next woke, everything went by in a blur. He felt better, could walk, but faces came and went so quickly. The Cleric had even reattached his ear, or healed the strange stump into a fresh one, he honestly didn't want to know which, but he swore to the Cleric it was a little crooked. Captain Jerez was still commending him. They seemed to think Ian went in to arrest that gang. He didn't argue.

Finally well enough to leave, he walked instinctively towards Hazel's house, a purse of bonus pay on his belt. He passed a merchant's flower cart. She just wants coin, he thought bitterly, but hesitated. After an agonizing moment of indecision he clenched his fists and stalked back to the flower cart and angrily bought one.

When Hazel opened the door and saw Ian, the relief in her face to see him alive was a moment he stored deep inside, a talisman, to keep him going. She hid the relief quickly, and tried to cover it with her usual impish smile. She began to speak but he hugged her then, without thinking. One arm around her waist, the other behind his back, holding a single purple flower. She didn't hug him back, but it didn't matter.