Snippet #2284998

located in Skyrim, a part of Skyrim: The Mentor & The Sellswords, one of the many universes on RPG.

Skyrim

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: Anirne Direnni
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On the other side of the inn sat Vanryth, having already finished his tankard and working on his second. He figured that when the time came to leave, Sinder would come and collect him, hopefully by then he could still stand. Up to that point, every time that Vanryth was close to the drink, one of the others were there to help him moderate. With the others now occupied with their chores, that left him alone, at the bar, with as many tankards he could down before it was time to leave. He managed to find a seat at the corner of the bar, away from the other patrons so that he may try to drown himself in peace. Maybe, just maybe, if he drank enough, he'd forget all about the Mentor and the Shade, and the bloody game they were thrown into. Probably not, but it didn't keep him from trying anyway.

The plan was moving along smoothly, and he had almost drowned out the bard's singing when the stool his left recieved a visitor. He knew not who the visitor was or even the race of him or her, as they'd took a seat on his blind side. The left eye of his was all but useless and only remained to occupy space in his skull now. He didn't mind though, as long as the patron wasn't expecting someone to chat with. Alas, apparently that was exactly what the man wanted. Van picked out his accent as a sterotypical Nordic brogue, a low baritone harshness honed by the cold land.

"Not from around here are you elf?" He said. Vanryth decided to not dignify the question with a response. He was not in a chatty mood, and he didn't much care for the tone the man used. If only for Sinder and his sister's sake, he'd try not to be confrontational. Had he been in his youth, that tone would have been replied with a crack to the jaw. Lucky day for the man. "Not a talkative one, are you? Figure you're too good to talk to me? Fine. Just listen then. Don't cause any trouble if you know what's good for you," The man's voice was beginning to wear on Van's nerve, but he hid it well enough under a vaneer of nonchalance. Perhaps if he played deaf too the man would go away and leave him to his drink.

"Maven Blackbriar has this city under her thumb. It'd be smart not to anger her. It'd be easy on me, you see. If you make her mad, she'd send me to fix it. I really don't want to fix anything, elf," Van brought his tankard to his lips and downed a sizable amount of the liquid within, trying his best to drown his voice out. Maybe he could ignore words, if he tried hard enough, but he could never ignore the rough hand grabbing his shoulder. The nord spun the dunmer so that they could talk face to face. "Do you understand elf, or are you stupid?" Vanryth tilted his head and downed the rest of his drink. He never was the understanding kind, after all. Didn't listen too well either. The empty tankard then found itself embedded in the man's jaw and again in the top of his head.

Memories of youth came flooding back to him as the man picked him up roughly by the collar and bared a fist to return the favor. A kick to the chest sent the nord across the bar and into the table of a couple of unsavory looking people. Needless to say, they weren't pleased. That much was clear as they stood up to indulge the dunmer in a good old fashioned brawl.

Sinder was saved from a somewhat-awkward silence by perhaps the least-desireable thing to be saved by: the sounds of his best friend getting into a fight. When they were supposed to be laying low and not making a nuisance of themselves. In a town where one of them was already disguised just to walk around safely. Damn. Rising to his feet with haste, Sinderion knew his options were limited, and frankly, there was no way he wasn't going to do anything. The question was, what? He was more worried about the safety of the civilians and the thugs than he was about Van; the Dunmer was well-accustomed to handling himself, and right now, he might very well be lethal. The last thing they needed was a fatality and yet another bounty on one of their number.

Unfortunately, even as he moved to restrain Vanryth, one of the strangers blocked his progress, already mostly lost to the idea of making a full-on fight out of this incident. The man swung a clumsy fist for his stomach, which Sinder would have simply moved past were it not for the fact that he was trying to prevent escalation. Instead, he took it, twisting his body to minimize the damage he sustained. For all its inelegance, the hit was hard, but largely inconsequential to someone sadly too used to being stabbed. Wrapping both hands around the extended arm, he twisted it, quickly and brutally, desirous mostly of a swift end to this, before he, too, forgot that they were supposed to be moving beneath notice.

Anirne had been slowly processing the information Sinderion had provided her, and she had been about to speak when a dull crash caught her attention as surely as her brother's. She turned in time to see a large Nordic man fall into an occupied table, and followed his trajectory back to Vanryth, who looked... well, perhaps hostile was the best word. She shook her head somewhat, unsure of what exactly had caused this whole thing, but well-aware of what she was going to do about it. She hadn't been lying when she said that anyone who befriended her brother had her loyalties as well, and the psijic did not hesitate in taking up her staff, moving almost as quickly as Sinderion had to place herself in the middle of things.

Throughout his tale, her brother had alluded to the fact that something unnatural happened to him when he was provoked too much. It had sounded like such an occurrence had been a long time from its last manifestation, but was not quite so far from happening again. From his tones when speaking and the way he would not look at her, it clearly caused him much anguish, and that was something she wished to prevent if at all possible. The length of wood and steel in hand, Anirne cracked it resolutely against the nearest instigating head, and the man dropped like a pile of stones, collapsing in a messy heap on the floor. He was of course far from dead, merely knocked out for the moment, and she repeated the process with the next, taking the numbers down to three total, including the one Vanryth had originally kicked into the table (now recovering and ready to rejoin the conflict) as well as the other held in Sinderion's grip.

He had forgotten how fast these things escalated. In only moments, the whole bar had erupted into chaos as bodies churned across the inn floor. He was vaguely aware of the innkeeper yelling something at them, though it was far too along for harsh words to have any effect. With his collar now free, Vanryth dropped back to the floor and took a couple of steps toward the man. He asked for this, and he would receive. He was not in any mood to put up with anyone's bullshit, though he tried to avoid it for their sake. Truly he did. However, he was pushed too far, and he was far too broken to know what else to do but to push back. Tempers had flared, alcohol was involved, and now he found himself in a heart of another fight. The first bar fight since the Mentor had taken him in...

No time for him to reminisce though, as the man lept from the table and speared Vanryth into the bar, crushing a number of chairs in their wake. Pain shot through his spine, multiplied by every hard day he lived. If he wasn't pissed before, he certainly was now. His one good eye flared up into a vicious fury and a snarl formed at his lips. His hands rained heavy blows down onto the man's back. He'd only managed about three blows before he felt himself being lifted up into the air and into a bear hug. Now his ribs as well as his spine was in danger of snapping. Though his arms were free to retaliate, he didn't have the time, as he was spun around and slammed into the nearest table, splitting it under the combined weight of the brawlers.

The force slammed all of the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping for air and a bit dazed. This was not his first fight though, and he had experience over the man. As they wrestled in the wreckage of the table, Vanryth had managed to find himself in the position to deliver a headbutt to the man. The blow set his own head a ringing, as he had forgotten the stone-headediness of the nordic people. Still, a little headache wasn't going to slow him down, and the timely headbutt had stunned the man long enough for Van slip him into a headlock. They spent a few moments rolling around in the splinters of the table, a couple of which were still digging deep into Van's back and adding further fuel to the fire. Eventaully, the two brawlers found themselves rising to their feet, a poor position for Van to find himself in. The man was stronger than he was, younger too. He'd easily put Vanryth down if given the chance.

Van just had to make sure he didn't get that chance. He cocked back a fist and sent a flurry of three punches into the man's head, and knocking him out of the hold. Though free, the punches dazed him long enough for Van to capitalize. As the man staggered trying to regain his footing, Van took his chance to grab a nearby chair and shatter it across the man's chest. Still he stood though, for all of about a second before his stuggling feet gave out from under him and put him to the floor.

Careful to measure his force, Sinder slammed the side of his free hand against the man's neck, dropping him beside one of Anirne's victims. That she had jumped so quickly into the fray honestly surprised him; he knew little of monks, but he'd thought they'd most likely be pacifistic. Apparently, this was not true of the psijics, or at least not true of her. Either way, he found himself glad of the unexpected assistance, especially when it became clear that the aggressors in this conflict were not going to be backing off just because their allies fell like sacks of grain. Unfortunately for him at least, he was fighting a much harder battle inside himself than the one going on externally. This was apparently how it was going to be from now on: the smell of sweat and fear in his nose, the sounds of shouts and thudding limbs, all of it was to feed the starved beast in its cage, letting it rattle the rusting bars of its confines, threatening to break them at any point between now and who knew when. He was coming to understand that this was only a matter of time.

The next man to hit him caught him in a moment of distraction. He'd felt his teeth rearranging themselves and had hitched in his step, willing them to return to normal, and failed to notice the attack from his flank. A thick piece of wood-- what had once been a table leg, it seemed-- smacked into the side of his head, sending Sinderion staggering sideways, bleeding from a cut on his temple. The sneak attack raipped a snarl from his throat, and the retaliation was nearly-instantaneous: with uncommon quickness, the Altmer man whipped himself around, reversing his direction and springing upon the burly Nord, landing in a crouch on the brawler's chest. For a sickly-spinning moment, he was sorely tempted to sink his teeth into the juncture between the man's neck and shoulder, taste his flesh, but that he quickly shoved aside, instead drawing back a (clawed) fist and driving it up under his opponent's jaw.

It was enough to render him unconscious, but Sinder didn't move too much immediately afterward, instead focusing on his breathing, trying to draw it back to a normal level rather than the harsh, ragged pants he was exhaling now. It wasn't even the exertion that was doing it, it was... the hunger. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed thickly and backed off slowly, not taking his eyes from the still form before him. Was he truly so close to the precipice? Was this all that remained of this distance between himself and that thing? It was a disturbing thought, to say the least.

Upon the swift defeat of his fellows, a third man had wisely chosen to approach her more cautiously, and he unlike they was actually quite skilled in unarmed combat. Currently, they circled each other in a somewhat-open space in the center of the bar, but she was much more patient than her foe, and it showed in the bruises blossoming over his limbs and her unscathed figure. Somewhere in her peripheral vision, she caught sight of Sinder dead-jumping onto a man, while Vanryth headbutted another, but she knew better than to lose focus. They were professionals, certainly well capable of taking care of themselves without her.

Still, her flicking glance had drawn her opponent, a mid-sized Imperial fellow with white-blond hair, forward, lashing for her side with a first. Anirne twisted, snaking out of the way of the blow, and planted her staff upon the floor, using it to leverage herself up and strike out with both feet in a rotating motion around the axis of the wooden pole. The maneuver caught him unawares, and her left heel hit his chin, snapping his head to the side. Landing lightly, Anirne lifted the staff and took advantage of his disorientation, driving it into his stomach, and then into the back of his head when he doubled over. This one, too, fell, and she looked up to see that everyone who'd attacked was out cold, due to the collective effort of the three of them.

The bar was in shambles. They'd managed to break a table, several chairs, and scatter food and drink all over the floors. Grimacing, Anirne straightened and reached to her side, untying a satchel of coins there and approaching the bar, where Keerava was looking slightly at a loss for what to do. "Please, take this for the damages, and for those men's... care. We'll not impose upon you any longer." The amount should be more than enough to cover it, and the Argonian woman seemed to think so, too, as she nodded with relative equanimity and yelled for her help to take care of the mess.

Approaching the other two, she looked worriedly at Sinder's temple and the way Vanryth was standing and pursed her lips. "I know a fair amount of healing, but I think we should get out of here first, perhaps."

Van stood at the bar, leaning on it heavily and using it to keep himself from keeling over. His back hurt worse than he could ever remember, splinters were steadily digging into his flesh, and air just would not go back into his lungs. He stood there for a few moments, trying to get his lungs to work properly again. Had he not shattered every chair in the immediate vicinity, he'd be sitting in it. During the fight, he had felt young again, but after it... not so much. He couldn't bounce back like he used to. Still, he still had it, by the way he still stood and the nord didn't. In time perhaps, he'd realize that it wasn't something to be entirely proud of. Things could have been worse though, things could always be worse.

Anirne approached with a mention of leaving and healing, causing him to look around at the destruction he had caused. It all fell squarely on his shoulders after all. How long had it been since his last fight? Last bar fight? He couldn't remember. Perhaps he didn't want to remember. He felt very sober at that moment, like all of the alcohol in his blood evaporated in an instant. The last time he was in a bar fight... Someone died. Despite all of the Mentor's teachings, he anger still got the better of him. With a bit of regret and embarrasment in his face, and a curt nod later he began to limp out of the inn. If he was able to walk straight, he'd had left a step behind a run.

Sinderion simply grimaced and nodded. "Perhaps that is for the best." He couldn't exactly say that he wouldn't act the same way if given a second chance, but that didn't mean that he was particularly proud of it. Jumping into the fight beside his friend had been necessary, but perhaps regrettable all the same, especially given the extenuating circumstances plaguing the both of them. Anirne's easy acceptance of the events left him a bit perplexed, truthfully, but that didn't mean he wasn't grateful. Once the lot of them were outside, he led the way around the back of the building, into the alley it shared with a sundried shop. They didn't want to be too plainly visible, but neither did he fancy the idea of making Van walk too far with such a pronounced limp.

He stopped walking, then, sitting himself on a shipping crate instead, looking perhaps more like a repentant child than he had in years. This wasn't how he'd wanted this whole thing to go, those few times when he'd let himself consider the possibility. "I'm... sorry," he managed eventually. "In a couple of hours, you've seen an unfavorable side of us, and I've... you didn't need to be burdened with my problems." He wasn't sure what he was expecting her to do, but he wouldn't have been surprised if she simply chose to leave. There was no way this could have been what she'd expected when she took leave of her haven to journey back to Skyrim. Vanryth nodded his agreement, the woman seeing him in one of his weaker moments.

Anirne smiled at the both of them, shaking her head slightly. "Nonsense." Taking her brother's chin in hand, she turned his head so as to examine the wound on it, then clicked her tongue rapidly in something like sympathy. Her hands lit with an aureate light, and this, she directed to stem the bleeding and close the shallow wound over. "I came to Skyrim to find you. I never had any expectations about what state I'd find you in, and we all have our demons." She shrugged, and turned to Vanryth. His injuries seemed more general, so she didn't bother trying to locate them, deciding to let the magic do that for her. Instead, she touched her thumbs and index fingers to each other in something like a triangle, and brought her arms down in a slow, controlled motion. It seemed to be effective, anyway, because what wounds he had sustained disappeared.

"Besides. You are my brother, and you are his friend. I'd not soon let you deal with that by yourselves if I was capable of helping. Now. When do I get to meet the rest of the Sellswords? Seems you could use a little help." She released the magic and brushed her palms over the sides of her dark grey tunic, looking at both men expectantly.

Sinderion knew enough to sit still while she worked her magics, but as soon as she was done, he was exchanging a glance with Van. Truthfully, his sister was very little like he remembered; only some element of pragmatism seemed to remain. The rest was... unexpected, and he wasn't really sure how to feel about it. On one hand, it made his life much easier. On the other... she wanted to come with them. Even knowing as much as he did about what they were in for. Did that even make sense? He wasn't sure it did. The Altmer blinked once, slowly, almost surprised when she was still standing there when his eyes opened. Probably not some kind of dream then, and she had a smell, which excluded the usual types of illusion.

"Um." He replied, oh-so-articulately, then glanced over at his friend, as though seeking an opinion. Vanryth shrugged as if to say, "Why not?" "Well, if you're sure, I suppose... the others are in the market. They, er... they might not agree, but... I think they will." There was no mistaking the fact that they were in desperate need of as much help as they could get, and undoubtedly, she had formidable talent in magic to match the easy mastery of staff forms she'd displayed in the tavern. She was, after all, a psijic monk. Even Aldmeri battlemages knew better than to underestimate such folk. Rising to his feet, Sinder led the way around the building and back out into the open market-area. It seemed that Adrienne and the Nord woman, Lynly, were just finishing up with something, and he could see Drayk and Maya some distance beyond. The archer was actually the closest, speaking in low tones with a redheaded man under an awning of some sort.

Sinderion chose to bypass that possibility and instead flagged down the other four, raising an arm above his head in a silent signal for them to gather. Better that than drawing all kinds of attention to themselves by shouting across the way, at any rate.