Description
Name: Rasmus Rynn
Age: Twenty-Nine (29)
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Straight
Race: HumanRasmus Rynn is an imposing figure, and he's aware of it. Standing, the man is over six feet tall, with dark hair, dark eyes, and lightly-tanned skin stretched taut over his sailor's figure. Strong arms and well-muscled legs compliment a hard, weathered body, atop which sits the man's suspicious face. His hair is long and darker than the rest of him, cascading down his back like a waterfall. The rest of his clothing is basic tan, brown, and white cloth. A pair of worn boots and a belted pouch complete his usual attire.
Companions: A loyal crew, bloodthirsty and greedy. He also enjoys women.
Personality
Rasmus is arrogant, selfish, and prideful in his manner, though he possesses an intoxicating charisma that draws people to him. A natural leader, Rynn has difficulty following the directions of another, unless he were to develop a deep respect for them, in which case he is a fiercely loyal ally. He is an honest man in speech, if not in nature, having never had need or reason to lie, though, contrarily, he possesses a deep cordiality and impeccable etiquette. Though life often demands a moral hardness, the pirate is, strangely, often quite soft, especially towards women. Perhaps as an added characteristic, Rasmus is somewhat superstitious, and maintains a storm is coming the likes of which will be greater than any the world has ever seen.
Greatest Desire: To sail and plunder for the remainder of his dwindling life.
Greatest Fear: Death, though he'd never admit it.
Equipment
Aside from the rapier and dagger he wears belted on his left and right side, respectively, Rasmus carries no significant equipment, aside from two small pouches: one containing a small amount of currency, and the other small, round cherry bombs.
His largest, and perhaps most important piece of equipment is his ship, The Reaver. The pirate ship is large enough to hold some twenty-five men, along with a relatively large number of chests, barrels, and casks full of loot and food stuffs.
History
The oceans had always been home to Rasmus Rynn, as his father was the fearsome Randall Rynn, captain of The Reaver before Rasmus himself and self-stylized Lord of the Nerean Sea. He had been a harsh man, cold and calculated and ruthless in his pursuits, and Rasmus had always dreamed he might someday achieve the level of fame and seaman's prowess his father had. Rasmus spent much of his life aboard the ship and, as such, learned the many skills and secrets of an excellent sailor. As he grew, his father took note and began grooming the boy for succession.
The time came more quickly than either could have anticipated, however, for a most powerful hurricane blew in, trapping The Reaver and her crew in it's clutches, battering the ship with gale force winds, and sweeping Randall Rynn from the deck with a mighty wave.
What was left of the ship and crew survived, barely managing to make it to port in a small seaside city.
Rasmus Rynn was forced into a position he had neither the knowledge or experience to fill. But the man was stubborn and filled with a sense of responsibility to his father and a crew he could barely keep together. Therefore, at the age of twenty-three, the young Rynn began his career as captain of what was once the most feared pirate vessel ever to plow the seas of Valore.
Now, Rasmus struggles to rebuild the lost reputation of his family and ship...
So begins...
She had been to Maradar, some thirty-two years ago, and still, for all the majesty and beauty of the city, the port reeked of sweat and fish. The woman had visited many of the different ports around the world, and never had any smelled pleasant, but she had deluded herself into believing this fantastic city would bear some greater fragrance than the pungent odor that seemed to pervade the streets. It seemed to her this city bore the worst scent of any.
The ship she had requisitioned to carry her here bobbed just behind her, rising and falling with the waves, various members of its crew moving about purposefully on its deck, all but the captain, who stood observing the comings and goings of the people on the waterfront.
He was a younger man, perhaps thirty years of age, with curly, flowing hair that framed a prettier-than-pirate face. The man's eyes were narrowed, as he surveyed the crowd, suspicious, cautious. The woman watched him watch everything for a moment, before turning her attention back to the merchant she had been questioning, a skinny, weasel-like man, who persisted in dry-washing his hands as he spoke to her.
"I don't believe I am at liberty to discuss our city's... current events... with someone of your... aspect," He told her, narrowing his beady eyes into a look of disgust.
"And what, might I ask, is the matter with my aspect?" The elf woman asked, indignantly. There was nothing strange about her; in fact, she was the picture of elven grace and character.
The woman was tall and lithe, silvery-haired and tongued, with supple lips and slightly curved, almond-shaped eyes. She wore a pair of pearls in her ears, and a light gown of sea foam color. In truth, the man should have responded much differently to her than he was. All of the people she had spoken to should have responded much differently.
The woman had been in Maradar for less than two weeks, and, in that time, the people had shown themselves to be prejudiced and exclusive, shunning her and various other peoples, while welcoming human travelers with open arms.
"You aren't supposed to be here," He told her, gesturing to some scrap of paper nailed to a wooden beam, "Says so right there."
The elf read, incredulous and bewildered by the audacity of Pelenus' lord.
Read these words and mark:
Upon the morning following the posting of these commands, all manner of species not wholly human are to be refused service at any and all establishments, and must not be allowed to seek shelter within the city itself. All those within shall be dealt with similarly, with the waterways and lands beyond the walls of Maradar prohibited. These orders will be carried out to the best of our ability, and under the authority of the Emperor of Varnathus and myself, Lord Maxus Orro.
The signature at the bottom bore the same name, Lord Maxus Orro.
"How long has this been in effect?"
"Well over a fortnight, lady, and that is not even the most recent command," The merchant told her, casting sidelong glances further down the line of ships, to the large open market into which a vast number of armored guards began to file.
"What is the most recent command?" She asked, struggling to hide the fear and unease in her voice.
"Die," The small man whispered, retreating quickly into his little store, and locking her out.
A shriek pierced the air, and an arrow pierced the elf woman. She could see the guards had dispersed; some climbed the gangplanks of various ships, grappling and fighting with the seamen aboard, while others were simply hacking their way through the crowd. Above, Maradar guardsmen fired arrows from atop the walls, raining pain and destruction.
She was hit again, in the belly this time, and the world turned black as she realized she smelled death amongst the fish and sweat.
He had stood watch over the woman they had transported - stood watch over the whole of the market - and he had seen the guardsmen coming before the slaughter had begun. The captain had seen the weasel-man's retreat into his shop; he saw the crossbow bolt strike the elf woman; he saw the red tide the guards created through the crowd. All the while, he did nothing. He only watched as prejudice became massacre. It wasn't until the armor-clad figures began climbing the gangplank of his own ship, his father's ship, The Reaver, that he found he had the ability to move, to act.
"They want blood, boys," He called from the railing above them, the scraping of his rapier against it's sheathe adding emphasis to his words, "And I believe they expect it to be ours!"
Outraged roars came from men and weapons, as the various members of his crew pulled swords, scimitars, daggers, and knives in anticipation of the fighting.
"I suggest," Rasmus told his men, making his way onto the deck and turning to face the oncoming threat, "We give them what they came for!"
The first of the guards to make it onto the deck found himself with steel piercing his throat, serving as both Rasmus' welcoming and parting gift. An exchange of gifts began in earnest, it seemed to him, as Maradar's defenders flooded onto the ship, trading blows and wounds with his men. He could hear nothing but the din of battle around him, could see nothing but light glancing off chain-mail and blades.
For privateers, the fear of imprisonment was superior to that of death, and the captain battled as such, vehemently denying his opponents the prize that was his life. A man rushed him, swinging a bastard sword over his head, attempting a brutal, two-handed blow; Rasmus side-stepped, driving the point of his dagger into the man's eye before shoving the corpse backwards with a boot.
Without noticing, Rasmus Rynn had fought his way up, to the familiar upper deck where he had watched it all begin; the thought left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
His kill allowed for a moment's respite, and as he gazed out over the rails, surveying the scene both on and off his ship, the captain saw bodies everywhere spilling vast pools of blood, staining the cobblestones red; he saw ships burning, men and women aboard them still fighting the city's sentinels; he saw his own crew dying, though for every one of them, he saw three slain enemies.
Turning to rejoin the fight, he saw what he hadn't before - a shield, wielded by one of the many guards that had found their way aboard The Reaver, as it collided with his head. Something struck him in the thighs, and he had the brief sensation of falling. Then all he saw was darkness.
The Sea Gate Tavern was aptly named, given its location. At the farthest east end of the dock front and accessed along a short north running alleyway, the long standing watering hole was at once close to the dockside action and neatly tucked away from the brunt of its force in a protected cul de sac of sorts. Along its eastern flank, and curving around part of its northern back exit, the less than pristine waters of the harbor slapped against moss and slime covered dock supports, and more than one unfortunate who’d had the worse end of a tavern brawl had found himself hurled over wooden barriers and into its depths. That might be the reason the owner had had a few rope ladders permanently installed at intervals along the side of the building. Maradar might have had more murderers than its prison could hold, otherwise.
Inside, the night hours wore on as the violence of the early evening outside subsided. Laughter, raucous conversation and the choral singing of sea shanties along with the clink of tankards and cutlery on plate filled the busy corner of the world, and in the midst of it all, a songbird flew. Taking requests, leading the chorus an filling the place with the light of her music, Kira almost didn’t notice the passing of time, but her tired voice and aching muscles did. She was about reaching her limits for the evening.
“Last call for requests lads!” She called out cheerfully. “If I have another ale to keep my throat wet ye’ll be fishing me out of the harbor for losing my way home..” she teased. Her skin was softly flushed with the heat of the fire and her exertions, and she only turned redder when the hooted “I’ll give ya somethin’ else to wet yer throat lass!” came barking across the noise.
“You shut it Mcreedy!. Or I’ll be setting your wife on you I will! I know where you live!” but her fingers were already strumming through the notes of the song she usually closed out with.
Beyond the confines of the boisterous tavern, the hushed quiet of the dock front was almost eerie, and wisps of smoke still drifted skyward from the burnt out shells of the ships that had suffered that fate. Every so often the row boats that drifted amidst the wreckage would pause, as another body was retrieved from the water.
The man paddled along, pushing his little rowboat through wreckage and debris and a few corpses that happened along his path; he winced a little, every time they bumped into his craft. He observed with tired eyes the stark contrast between what Maradar once was and what it had become: a place of burning vessels and drowned men. Sighing, he decided it was better to close his eyes, to pretend things were better.
His nostalgia was cut short by the sudden knocking of his paddle into flesh. It wasn't the feel of it that startled him so much as the great bubble of air that broke the surface. The man scrubbed a hand through his hair and leaned over the side of the boat, trying to inspect the body closer; it didn't seem to have the same pale cast to it the others did, and bubbles only meant one thing - air. The old man reached, grasping at the back of the man's shirts, struggling to haul him up without tipping the tiny vessel.
Immediately, the older man began compressing the unconscious form's chest, attempting to force the water from his lungs...
...and Rasmus Rynn opened his eyes. Shoving his savior back, the pirate looked about wild-eyed, searching frantically for the enemy or his crew, and only finding the wreckage left over from the battle he had taken part in.
"What happened?" He demanded of the man opposite him, who sat cowering as if he were looking at a ghost.
"Don't you remember?" The old man began, gazing at Rasmus quizzically, "The guards - they came and attacked everybody! Hundreds dead. Orders from Lord Orro to exterminate the non-humans and magic-folk. You remember any of this?"
Rasmus did; the image of the bolt striking the woman he had brought to Maradar burned in his mind like the many ships in his view. He shook his head softly, placing a hand to the pained, bruised spot on his forehead.
"My ship..."
"Probably burned," The old man interrupted bluntly, "They burned all ships that didn't belong to Maradar."
This was another blow, though Rasmus felt it in his gut. The Reaver had been his father's ship, had been through Hell and made it out again, only to go up in flames at the hands of some petty city guards; the thought made him sick to his stomach.
"Could you get me to port?" He asked the old man, who nodded earnestly.
It was not but a few minutes time before Rasmus was climbing the steps leading to the streets and alleys of Maradar's port. His mind raced, struggling to come to grips with the events that had unfurled and find a decisive plan of action. Drink. That was what he needed first; his throat felt like leather.
He made his way through the smoke and crowds towards an old tavern near the large gate leading into the city - The Sea Gate Tavern, it was aptly named - but he didn't quite make it. His time in the water had left him much wearier than he had realized, and exhaustion got the better of him just outside the door. Collapsing to his knees, Rasmus breathed heavily.
To his right, he noticed a small alleyway, too small for anything but kitchen crew and shifty patrons. Mustering up the last of his energy, he crawled just inside, away from the smoke and fires and last remaining light of the sun, leaned back against the cool stones and slipped into unconsciousness again, this time to the sound of music and a beautiful accompanying voice.
Kira closed the door to the worker's exit of the Sea Gate with a soft click behind her, and for a long moment the leggy bard just stood still in the shadows of the side alley. Looking neither to the right or the left, sore and callused fingers reached to lift her hood over her short cropped, auburn bob as she let a quiet sigh slip past her lips. The woman reached over her shoulder to touch at the neck of her lyre, checking that it was secure in its housing on her back and then fingers were reaching to gently press the ache and smoke sting out of eyes weary from a full night of work. In the distance she could hear the splash of waves against the boards, of hulls, and docks and she could still smell the lingering acridity of smoke that had resulted from a burn through more than firewood.
She didn't want to see it. The aftermath. Not when she had spent the night in an atmosphere of seeming revelery and congeniality. For one night maybe she could forget, or pretend that the world had not become what it was. There was the sound of marching, suddenly, boots tromping again in unison and she was turning her head toward the end of the side alley in the direction of the main docks. The unit was marching with purpose, torches lit and she had the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that yet another unfortunate ship and crew was about to meet its fate. When would word finally get through that Maradar was no longer a safe port of call? She'd learned to dread the sight of sail that had once meant profit.
No. She didn't want to see it and would take the long way home. Turning away she took three steps deeper into the alley and almost stumbled over an obstacle in the way. "Gods blood I wish they would take the trash out.." she muttered to herself under her breath. But it was too low, and lean for waste. The bard narrowed her eyes to focus into the gloom, the dark outline of posture made out, finally, in a slouching lean against the tavern wall.
"Shit.." The expletive came in a whisper. Was he dead? Did she want to stay around to find out? Another quick glance was offered in the direction that the city guard had passed. She should be getting out of the way before more of the madness started. Kira leaned in closer to the body, and chanced poking at his thigh with her boot.
"Hey.." It was her first effort at contact. "If you're not dead..you might want to find somewhere else to sleep. At least, tonight.."
His sleep had been dreamless, a pervading blackness of the mind and body. It was an exhaustive sleep, the kind that started and stopped almost in the same instant. Or, perhaps it was that Rasmus had only just drifted off when Kira discovered him.
The first nudge of the woman's boot did little more than rouse him from his sleep; the second managed to irritate him enough that there was not a third. As she made the attempt, suggesting he find a less conspicuous and more protected sleeping arrangement, Rasmus caught the bottom of her boot and shoved upward, effectively causing the girl to lose her footing and fall backwards. In the fading light, Rasmus could see auburn hair spilling over the edge of her hood and framing the pale face with pretty amber eyes staring up at him.
"Might I make a suggestion myself?" He asked her, pulling himself into a kneeling position to stare down at her, "I'd suggest you don't go around pokin' those sleeping peacefully; might be they don't like being woken up."
As he stared, though, it soon occurred to him that she might not have been slighting him; perhaps she truly meant only to help him. The captain silently berated himself, and reached a hand down to help the poor girl up again.
"My apologies, lady," He said, looking a bit sheepish, "I'm a tad gruff when I'm woken up."
Kira had almost been sure that he was dead. With her luck, and everything that had been going on in port it would have been fitting. She was certainly caught off guard when that grab to her boot was made, and on any other night, with any other person it may well have been that the girl would have ended on her back. But that was where her lyre was housed; her livihood and her love. Her music. Kira didn't have long, but she had just enough time to try to twist her body in the air on her way down, throwing her shoulder toward the hard pavement to absorb the shock of contact to the ground. The sound of that joint sliding sickenly out of place would be lost to the soft cry of pain that the bard bit down on to swallow. Her amber gaze was not staring up at Rasmus, but squeezed tight shut in pain, and that would be the reason she could see neither the regret of the captain, nor his extended hand offered in aid to rise.
Even in her discomfort she had but one thought. "My Lyre.." It was a gasp around her pain. "Is my Lyre sound?" She was rolling forward onto her stomach with a low groan, because onto her back was not an option, and Rasumus would find himself with an eyeful of the cloaked figure, a puddle of cloth in the alleyway, and the soft gleam of the wooden instrument secure still, and unscratched upon her back.
It was not until he had answered that question that she would follow it finally, with a response to his apology. "I'd say that was a fine suggestion.." it was muffled into the cloth bunched around her neck. "But rather useless to me in the present circumstance.." Her breath was still strained with pain. Thank the gods it was not her playing hand. Just the thought of finding a way to rise, had her shivering in pain.
It was almost comical, the way the girl laid there in a mass of cloth and fabric, but the way she struggled both to move and speak made it not so. She was obviously in pain, though she seemed to ignore it, her concern focused more on the condition of the instrument she had strapped to her back; try as he might, Rasmus couldn't help but scoff at this. At present, however, it seemed best to set his judgements aside and help her; she did, after all, attempt helping him in the first place. Why should he not return the favor, especially since he was the cause?
"Hold still," He commanded, attempting to sit her up, "Your lyre's fine, but you don't seem to be."
She muttered something about his suggestion and how it wasn't applicable at the moment, and that very nearly caused him to laugh aloud.
"No," He said, tugging on her shoulders, "Perhaps it is useless, but bear it in mind anyways. Might be it saves you from situations like this in the future."
Kira's hood fell back as she was aided in that turn and rise to a seat, to reveal the close cropped and messy auburn bob that just kissed a delicate but stubborn chin, and he'd have her amber eyes darting to meet his own with the first flash of irritation present, now that she was sure her instrument was unharmed.
"Well -some- of us actually have to work for a living you know.." she mumbled. "We can't all take the time to lounge around in dark alley- ooowwww!!" His tug on her dislocated shoulder triggered the yell that she didn't remember to control or stifle, and the captain would find himself the benificiary of a steady stream of profanity- the best she'd learned from her years on the docks. Kira couldn't help it. Her boot came up and aimed another resentful kick toward the man's shins.
"The hell are you doing? You don't even know what's wrong with it. Asshole.." The sheen in her amber gaze was one of the tears that she wouldn't let fall as her good arm reached to grab the damaged. It was still stubbornly out of place.
The bard was shifting in place, trying to work her way onto her knees to effect a rise, and her face was pale with the strain that the pain was putting on her. "Gotta get to Doc.." That last was on a fainter breath.
A pair of scoffs escaped the lips of the pirate when Kira mentioned work and lounging about, but they were cut off as abruptly as her speech. The woman's cry of agony echoed about the stone walls of the alley, as did the many curses directed at him; the boot which struck him hard in the shin could not echo, but the dull throb it left served as a sufficient substitute.
"Gagh! What the..." He imagined he deserved that. Now seated on the ground, he could see the pain and tears in her eyes, and they struck him much harder than the boot.
So much for an attempt at redeemed chivalry, Rasmus thought, spreading his hands in a gesture of surrender. He rose to his feet and took a step back, watching the woman struggle. The sight was piteous; she appeared to worm and roll about in her attempts to rise. With a sigh, the captain knelt once again and gently took her by the waist, lifting her to her feet.
"I am sorry," He told her, quietly, ashamed, "Which way to this doctor?"
Kira felt her own first twinges of guilt for the remorse and regret that she saw in his face, now that she'd taken the time to look, and there would be no resistance offered Rasmus for his assistance to rise now that he'd found a part of her to hold that didn't feel like hot fire to the touch. She blinked away the sheen in already bright eyes and half turned to face him.
"I suppose its not all your fault.." she admitted with a slight wrinkle of her nose. She really should have been careful about poking sleeping rogues on the docks. She'd broken the cardinal rule of survival; mind your own business. But her arm was still killing her, and she'd be useless for anything, much less work until she got it sorted. "He's got a clinic a ways along the dock.." she offered quietly, "But it's late..he might be closed.." worry colored her expression. "There may be a way-" What she was about to say was cut off suddenly by the sound of shouts, and then the singing metallic confrontation of a skirmish in the harbor.
"Dammit..Does it never end?.." the bard hissed, worried, between pain clenched teeth. There was no way she was venturing out into whatever madness was unfolding. The uproar made her decision for her. "There's a back way..But the company might be.." she didn't want to betray what she knew of the doctor's habits; from what she could see, Rasmus was a human and she had no idea of his position in the unfolding movement. "Just help me as far as the door..This way.." And she was turning deeper into the alley, toward the back paths she had been planning to take home anyway.
If he accompanied her, Rasmus would still be at her side when she found herself standing limp, and weary with pain in the smoldering and partially choking cloud that still hung in the atmosphere of the body pyre in the clinic's back yard.
"Knock..please.." she asked the man faintly. "I can't.."
Neither of the pair outside the clinic's back door had to worry about knocking. They may have barely been standing there before the portal was pulled abruptly open. For a moment the slim, blood stained doctor eyed them as though in a daze. No one could sleep with all the noise going on along the docks. Of course, the bloody lot of them would interrupt the few minutes he had at catching a cat nap. Driven out of the cot by some vague notion to check the body pyre outside, he still looked half caught in the claws of what sleep he'd managed to find. At least.. for amoment. His teal gaze sharpened an instant later behind his spectacles, leveling into a narrowed study first on the songbird who really should have known better and then to the stranger. Exhaling a sigh into the smoke thick air, Quill folded his arms over his chest.
"If you managed to walk here on your own, you can't be that hurt." Matter-of-factly spoken, though the sharpness of his gaze was drifting over Kira with a healer's assessing stare. "But you look like you're about to pass out." It helped that she was one of the few humans who knew the purpose of that door, that he didn't go swinging it closed in her face. Instead, he stepped aside to allow her just enough room to squeeze through. Her escort, on the other hand was eyed for a moment with the same, studying stare before the apparent human shook his head.
"You. Not so much. If you need me, come by the clinic at regular hours. Usually open every day from when I wake up, to when I get tired. Have a nice evening, don't trip over a corpse on your way out." He waved his hand in the male's direction before fingers lifted to adjust his spectacles up and onto his nose.
The words he had reserved were for the songbird's ears alone. Not for a strange human appearing at his back door in the middle of the night.
Rasmus watched the little bard turn and make her way further into the alley before disappearing around an unseen bend. Scraping metal, battle-cries, and screams of the wounded and dying could all be heard reverberating off the walls from the streets outside; he could understand the woman's desire to get away. Turning about, the captain followed after her.
The pair turned numerous corners down various streets and alleys, Rasmus struggling to keep up with the woman as she effortlessly traversed what seemed an urban labyrinth; he was more than a little relieved when she finally stopped, knocking on a back door to some building, outside of which was a small, smoke-filled pavilion with a fire burning just a short distance from the pirate and the singer. The smell - and the question of what it was being burned - set Rasmus' stomach churning.
Before he could begin to think too much, however, a skinny man in blood-stained clothing appeared in the doorway, looking a mess both in demeanor and aspect. His gaze passed over Rasmus' companion with a level of satisfied familiarity before it was turned on Rasmus himself, where it lingered for a moment.
"If you managed to walk here on your own, you can't be that hurt," The doctor told her, a bit brusquely, "But you look like you're about to pass out."
Upon making what Rasmus believed was an obvious assessment, the doctor turned slightly to admit the bard into his small facility; Rasmus was not offered the same courtesy, however.
"You. Not so much," He was told, as the slim man turned and waved him off, "If you need me, come by the clinic at regular hours. Usually open every day from when I wake up, to when I get tired. Have a nice evening, don't trip over a corpse on your way out."
The pirate was not unfamiliar with peoples' hesitance towards his kind, but the man's arrogance more than irritated him.
"I don't intend to make this trip again," Rasmus told him, catching the door before the doctor could close it in his face; in truth, he didn't believe he could find his way to the clinic a second time. Shouldering his way past the medic, taking care to bump him hard, Rasmus made his way after his injured charge.
Kira blinked; though whether was for the suddeness of the doctor's appearance, or the bluntness of his words, was not immediately apparent. Her mouth fell open with the intent to speak and then clipped closed again. There wasn't that much to say, after all, and she was beyond uncomfortable with the white hot, wrenching pain in her joint. She held her peace through his casual inspection and was only too happy to cross the threshold into the more clinical smells of the building and away from the scent of death that hung on the air like a cloud.
"Evenin' to you too Doc.." her words when she spoke them were tight with her discomfort, but yet dry with her own brand of humor. Anybody who'd been around the docks long enough knew that Quill was not one for much of a bedside manner, but gods did he have a touch with the ailing, and the messier the wounds, the more capable he seemed. She'd not thought twice about where she needed to go when it came to ensure that her livihood would not be threatened by an amateur's attempt at fixing her problem. "Fell on my arm. Think I poppsed somethin'.."
Kira had been walking forward, assuming that Quill would follow, but the bard paused when she realized that there might be a rukus behind her at the door. "Oh dear.." It was faint; a concerned murmur escaping. She knew nothing of the man who'd accpmanied her, saved that he had quick reflexes and a tendency toward a temper. But Quill would not take favorably to being shoved around an she had little inclination to speak out in her companion's defense. Adopting a lean against the nearest solid surface, shadowed gaze flitted between the doctor and the pirate and she remained silent. Perhaps her need would overcome any inclination Quill might have to escalating the scene.
Quill's attention had shifted from the pirate to his newest patient for that explanation, though no sooner had teal eyes landed on her than he found her companion shoving past. His brows lifted briefly and in an instant, they stitched together and smoothed over again. "It seems you have a gentleman following you along to be sure you are well, songbird." He pushed his spectacles up casually with his index finger before drawing the door closed behind the group. "Perhaps he has taken a fancy to you." Sharp, almost unnerving teal eyes flickered to the male again in a secondary inspection. "Or he knows a bit about how a bird managed to crash. Bit of guilt tugging, then?" As though he were quite done targeting the male, he turned his focus on Kira and her injury- which was still a priority. Arm outstretched to direct her to the cleanest of the trio of cots, with no apology made for the blood staining what had once been white sheets. "Sit." That tone brokered little argument.
A flat glance shifted over the thick frames of the doctor's spectacles to the pirate and with a casual, "I do hope your gentleman tag-along does not mind that he gets no peeps," Quill pulled the curtain closed around the cot. There was privacy to be had there, though not as much as the man would have liked. Teal eyes drifted back to touch on Kira with a speaking look. Not that he kept his mouth shut about other matters. "Off with anything covering it. If you need help, I'll help. If we need to snip, I'll snip." He waved his hand dismissively and would either be waiting patiently for her to strip those upper layers, or helping her do so. "Popped you say. My, lucky you found a knight in shining armor to take you along, though I daresay he reminds me quite a bit more of the bodies dumped out back. Far from knights, that lot." He may have been trying to poke a nerve at the man behind the curtain, or making a casual observation. Either way, if and when that injury was revealed, Quill fell back into the more practiced motions of a medical professional, and his touch in examining the dislocated joint would be several times more gentle than his words.
"Hope you trust him well enough to have brought him along." They were the quieter words spoken near the woman's ear, regardless.
Kira only leveled a hard glare on the doctor for his unseemly jest, before her amber gaze was flitting to brush over Rasmus where he stood. The bard still had enough delicacy to blush faintly for being so openly flattered in Doc's back handed way. Or maybe he was just trying to be annoying. He usually was. Lips pinched with pain and irritation parted and she managed a mutter just loud enough for them both to hear. "Well if he does he's got a fine way of showin' it.." And that might have been all the clue Quill would need to know that he'd hit the mark with that other reason for the pirate's interest in the girl. She didn't know why he'd insisted to follow her, really, or to come inside..or why he'd even been sleeping at the side of the tavern, as if homeless on the worst possible night for it. Still, he'd come, and she felt..obligated, perhaps to show -some- measure of thankfulness for him taking responsibility.
A faint wrinkle of her nose would be her only comment to the bloodstained sheets as she hitched herself awkwardly onto the bed, and she was wincing even for that tenderer touch that the doctor mastered. A shake of her head indicated her inability to help herself entirely, and Quill would have to suffer through helping her free of those layers, including the lyre that still rested secure. The purpling distortion of her joint would be evident enough, and she was biting her lip against the pain the movements had caused as she fixed her gaze to the pulled curtain. She hadn't intended him to follow, and the first twinge of worry that he could betray, stirred in the girl.
Raising her voice to carry, she answered Quill, and prodded for answers. "I don't think he's from the city. Doesn't strike me as the sort...an' I've not seen him around. He could be crew from one of the ships came in today.."
It might have been her hope that her fishing would garner a response, confirmation or otherwise, from the pirate behind the curtain. In either event, Quill was fairly screwed for his activity, if Rasmus accidentally came on the doctor's secret while here, and proved to be a foe..
"I'm no pervert," Rasmus informed them through the curtain, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall behind him, "And I'm no knight, and I'm no deckhand."
The answer was vague, but true enough. He had been captain of The Reaver for a short while, but with his crew imprisoned or dead and his ship burned, he couldn't really be captain of anything - so what did that make him? The pirate shook his head; it wasn't the time nor place to begin pondering something like that. Instead, he focused on the closed curtain in front of him, wondering just how detrimental it would be to them if he killed the doctor.
He chuckled at the idea; perhaps others would appreciate it, too! His mirth dissolved as quickly as it had come, however, as he mentally reviewed the day's events.
Maradar had fallen into a state of extreme prejudice - that much was obvious - but now people were being murdered in what seemed cold blood, ships were being burned for no reason, and those that weren't dead were surely suffering some equivalent. Rasmus rubbed closed eyes, struggling to rid himself of the headache the thoughts brought with them. He opened them suddenly, as he was struck with a sort of epiphany. The two with him were residents of the city, weren't they? Surely they'd know what was going on.
"So, tell me," He began, shifting from one foot to the other, "Either of you know what's goin' on here? The city, I mean. They're killin' people and makin' sure nobody leaves. You gotta know something."
He was sure he had them, now; words would be words, but silence spoke, too.
Quill touched a hand lightly to the bard's arm, just below that swollen shoulder joint. With a doctor's touch, he worked his way down the bones, feeling for any other bumps, swelling or odd angles. Yet aside from the displacement of the joint, there was nothing obvious. Kira may well have to endure it as the pirate spoke- the doctor having her move her fingers, her wrist and her elbow until pain forced a stop on the testing movements. "Well. Nothing broken it seems. How lucky for you. Or for your gentleman friend." Since it seemed to be the fault of the fellow beyond the curtain that Kira's arm was as out of sorts as it was. Literally. "He's quite a bit of nothing, it seems. I wouldn't pursue a romantic interest in him if I were you." Expert advice, that. Despite the line of questioning, Quill's focus was on his work underhand, and a little more seriously he spoke directly to the bard. "Going to have to move your shoulder back into place. It's going to hurt. But it'll be quick and your shoulder will feel quite a bit better."
A pause there, and he still hadn't answered the pirate's question. He could interpret into the silence what he wanted, but for any who knew Quill, it might well have been the doctor's natural arrogant bastard shining through. "Need to get you some medicine to take beforehand. To make it heal quicker. Though it'll make you sleep too. Which you need." He eyed the girl through his spectacles. It was her choice, whether or not she took the medicine or suffered through the quick procedure without it. Either way, the doctor turned to speak to the curtains.
"Aye. I know exactly what's going on. The emperor figured out the secret to eternal youth lies in the blood of the nonhumans." Complete and total bullshit, but Quill spoke it so smoothly and with such a straight face- unseen as it might have been- that it might have come off as entirely believable. "They're collecting them. Boiling up the bodies into a brew that will help him live forever. All very dire. Very dire indeed."
Depending on what answer Kira had to the doctor's own question, the brunette male might have been making his way through the curtain, flashing Rasmus a look that was almost forlorn for what he had shared. Otherwise, he was back by the woman's bedside to take her arm in hand in preparation to put it back in place.
Kira flinched for the pressure that sent flashes of discomfort along her nerve endings, though pride had her biting back the soft sounds of protest that threatened to escape during his examination. Doc's exemplary advice would do nicely to distract her from the pain, and provide a focus for her ire.
"I'd thank ye for your concern doc, if it was bleedin' neccessary," she snapped. " I dinne who he is, and I've no care to know." That was added on a lower hiss, in case he missed the point. Her amber glare was a glower Quill's way, and it showed no sign of warming for his news about the incoming suffering. Her lips pinched for the choice he offered. She'd need fulls use of her arm to play, preferably sooner rather than later, but the idea of falling asleep with the night unfolding as it was left her nervous. Kira nodded her head. "I'll take it. But ye canne let me leave with him.." Her chin jerked in the direction of the curtain. The idea of being unconscious at Rasmus' mercy made her uneasy. She didn't know if Quill kept patients overnight in his beds, however, and that might leave her with no other choice.
The captain's question through the curtain, and Quill's rediculous answer, earned the doctor a swift connection of her boot to his shin in reprimand, and she had to swallow the snort of laughter, even through her discomfort that would have betrayed it for a lie. Though that was self evident. Rasmus would have the bard's lyrical voice offering something closer to the truth, especially now that she realized that his lack of awareness could only mean that he was not one to be considered the enemy, yet.
"I suppose ye could say it's a borrowed trouble. The blue bloods in Maradar have allied themselves to Varnathus in their cause. The emperor's law is the law of the land, an' that means this isn't a city ye'll want to put to port in if you traffic in magic, or if ye're not human." She tried to say it flatly, to give no indication of what she felt about it one way or another, but Quill would feel her tension under his touch. "It's gettin' pretty bad. I think people have a taste for blood, now..an are less carin' for where they come by it." More and more she was seeing people fall. Humans who'd dared to sympathize with the plight of the genocide's victims. "If I were you..I'd get out of the city, if ye want no part in it. While ye can."
Rasmus was almost taken aback by the doctor's insinuation of any kind of romantic ties, but the man kept his composure and chalked it up to the doctor simply being himself, whom the pirate grew to dislike more and more as their time together in the little clinic lengthened. The doctor's bullshit about immortality didn't help his case.
Kira's offering the truth was appreciated, if not confusing. He had heard of the restlessness of Varnathus and its ruler, had heard rumors of war, but he had believed them simple whispers then. Now, however, in light of the events he found himself forced to take part in, he was beginning to doubt they were simple, and, if he possessed the means, he almost certainly would've taken her advice. But he did not.
"Thanks for the suggestion," He told the woman, almost tasting the bitterness in his tone, "But I can't do that. Bastards burned my ship. I got no way out."
He needed to find a ship, some vessel that could get him out and away and back to his old life, but that would have to wait until morning, or perhaps later than that; he was sure most ships would be swarmed with refugees and those fleeing the violence. The man sighed, scrubbing his hair back and out of his face, before sinking into a sitting position on the floor.
