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Fantasy Seiunita OOC

Hm, I have a decent opening. Now, what should I actually have him do? Go to the Grand Mistress or something?
 
Nogoodname said:
Did you wanna post your cool ass post or not?
Click to expand...

I was actually kidding. I'm halfway through completing it. The end result's probably going to be 4000+ words.

Can you give a look at my current shiitake?:

Markas Malivan, an ill-reputed soldier of fortune, gritted his teeth. If there was anything worse than the heat of the fire kingdom — a sudden departure from frozen seas and subsequent exposure to cracked deserts could leave anyone disoriented — it was the fact that you were going to get killed. That the saint of luck, whatever her name was, wasn't siding with you. That wasn't a simple fact, not at all.

Malivan's hirsute hand skimmed near the well-oiled oxhide sheath of his dagger. He was frowning, his skin pale and pulled taut over his face, and he was also sweating, which wasn't strange for a sunny day such as this. Yet, however the sun was argent in its visage, it wasn't a bright day for him.

There was a good reason for it too.

Up the darkened alleyway, came a troika of men. Three men, and upon a closer view, a frontman backed by two other men — discernable in that the two were different to the leader. To an everyday aristocrat, it was just a pedestrian routine. But this was De'ag, notorious enough for all warrior to keep track of; a city where everybody kept to themselves, weapons concealed, hands quivery. You don't approach anyone out of curiosity here — you either mean business or trouble. Malivan knew that, but disquieting was the fact that assaults were a common day-to-day incident in De'ag, as ordinary as the chatter of birds.

Muggers, people getting mugged, were typical in the lower-half squalor of the fire kingdom's southern ports, where De'ag was. The city was made up of morose and craggy lands, flush with cliffs riddled with narrow openings which lead to the main shoreline — sand, beige-white with a silvery tincture, and more sand. A dozen sandcrawlers here and there, reams of them swarming in the uncharted rocky canyons that flank the upper cities and the docks. It was a city that made a living by its ports, the orc-made structures jutting out awkwardly from the blanched precipices, navigable by stratified floors which lead from the sea-soaring docks to the upper cities. The ambiance was near soothing from afar, the zig-zagged hymn of the shore-birds melding with the sound of the sea crashing against the rocky shores and stone bridges, and the chorus of sails fluttering and small boats clambering slowly through the emerald sea, and so on. Houses on rock stilts, to evade the watery waves, and docks on longer, shaped stone ingots. From afar, it was a humble, ideal place. Not so much from up close.

The roads, blackened by a patina of ashen soot, mixed well with the few dozens of chapels and bounty offices interspersed throughout the city. The humans there were trooper-for-hires or officials, the orcs tasked with lording over the commoners and patrolling the streets, and most others make a living through working, sailing or fishing.

The place sustained with the fleeting activity of its many docks and wharfs, ships coming in and out, harboring both notorious fugitives looking for amnesty and a second chance, and merchants looking for a good share of coins. A simple arrangement, which had succeeded only in making the fire kingdom rife with bounty hunters and subtle sorts of highway robbery. The bounty offices, which kept the notice boards and official papers regarding fugitive-hunting, were rather distinct — neither did they succeed in appearing coy, which was initially a planned feature, nor did they intermix with the rest of the sand buildings. All metal, black and sallow, with peaked heads and intricately-crafted roofs that distinguish it from its surrounding. While the orcs were stupid, admittedly, they were good with metals.

The endearing mercenary, Malivan, was a strong man all right. If anything, he was stronger than most men. Most men in Elysium, that is, for the inhabitants of the fire kingdom breathed brutality at a consistent basis. Markas was born in Elysium, in the more richer districts of the southern division. Tossed from womb to a noble-enough family, and while he bested even the most vain nobles in terms of facial endurance, indeed, the nifty soldier also held the mark of a true northerner: harsh facial bristle which he had managed to fashion into a glossy curly moustache in accordance with trending fashions in Elysium; misty grey eyes, both magnetic and fearsome, fixed to perennial sharpness; an angular face, near architectural in its incisiveness, that bears both class and an underlying savagery.

Furthermore, setting aside his largely northern looks, he possessed the traits that so make the southerners eligible bachelors. He had a romantically-sculpted nose, complimented by a deuce of arching eyebrows, and a pale dark complexion reminiscent of most searrine dwellers; a royal mane of hair, which runs down wildly but always above his receding hairline, showimng off his high forehead. Ultimately, a cultured, smart smile that fades smoothly towards both its end and beginning — he has yet to find any worth in it, aside from wooing women over to his cause and bed.

Markas' father was a treasurer, while his mother was a lowly noble. Both met at a southern sector — by the naval titan, the duchy of Raserre, which controlled the lowermost peak of Elysium — where his father was assigned to after a series of shady transfers and dealings, and where his mother lived since birth.

His father was a meek man, dreamy and quizzical, who acted exclusively in favour of his own well-being and his family — often the latter than the former, for he loved his kith and kin, and his sons, and his wife, and so on. It made him seem like a coward of sorts, with his cunningly squinting eyes, and his curly smile. Verily, the odd fellow could be seen as a weakling, and many did see him as a weakling, but Markas himself liked to think of him as a passive man. Or at worst, a pragmatist. The man knew what to do ensure his survival, or the betterment of his living, even if it meant kissing up to people — not the most ideal nord, but he did the job right.

When it came to luminosity, Markas' father was scarcely the zealous believer people believed him to be; he was bearably faithful, but never more than that. He used to say it was a kind of sham religion, whilst simultaneously following it. Sometimes used to admit his hypocrisy too. Then again, he was as honest as a honest worker could be, but solely to his family and at no time to the daily so-and-so.

Nonetheless, Markas' relationship with his father was good. Good enough. It wasn't spoken of freely, and they both preferred limiting their conversation to the necessities, but Markas knew that his father knew and he knew it himself too.

Markas' mother was, more or less, rather similar in nature to his father. The only strong difference was her streak of pomposity which contrasted highly against his father's enduring humility — could be interpreted a wanton need to keep himself hidden, could be part of his miserable act of cowardice. Nevertheless, it was a byproduct of her life in a vaguely noble family trying to keep their watered-down bloodline still relevant. Just toss your head back up, and walk like you mean it — that woman did just that, till the day she succumbed to death. Her pride was hers to keep, and she bared it freely for everyone to see. And for that, Markas admired her, and respected her too, but affections came the last in his mind.

Markas Malivan, aged somewhere in his early forties and stunned by intortion of timelines, stepped back. His sense of direction had been distorted by his abrupt, unneeded trance, but he was used to them by now. Few things really surprised him, and as such, he was oft the last in the group to be surprised.

Malivan squinted his eyes at the approaching group. The light, or whatever pitiful stray light had managed to reach the hairline gap, cast them in more clarity. The mercenary could see them with more ease.

The leader, for he led the men, carried the burden of a crooked back and the height of a dwarf — traits which made him look more older than could've been, although Markas could swear the crook had linings running across his face and disrupting the contours. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed in rank by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. He had bushy eyebrows, slicked hair swept back in layered waves, and ears that stuck out too far from his head. A permanent sneer was fixed on his face.

A heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features — and an elongated nose that might've appeared handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them — followed the leader diligently, staying strictly to the left. He was broad-shouldered and bare-skinned, showing off his sinewy musculature and wiry upper limbs, except for a simple felt trouser that were clipped to the shins and a pair of rugged sandals. His bare chest was hairy, but the dim-black meshed well with the olive skin.

The man on the right lacked armour, relying on a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size. The coat clung dearly to his flabby skin. The belts, and which held the buttons, swayed and limped. The portly man had a nigh enormous pot belly which, Markas presumed, would neither fit armour nor any sort of clothing. And which, the mercenary also assumed, was why he had to rely on an inadequate clothing article. He had an absurdly thick neck, nearly melding with his chin, and jowls that vibrated at the merest of movements. His eyes were set deep into his sockets, and he had a distinct lack of both eyebrows and hair. Queer tattoos decorated his unclad cranium.

The trio, all of them and barring few, were armed with warped eyes and gore-clubs — and which was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, though the one on the left remained passive. The blood that stained on their weapons suggested that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them. Viscerally.

Markas' sarcastic drollery was surpassed by the slew of dread and fright he had in store, and hardly could that ever be a good thing — in one way it was, and such a remark would've been coming from the mouth of his still-alive father, but it still certainly made a bad impression. It was seldom good for his reputable looks. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. One could also interpret it as a frown of sorts.

The fact, however portrayed with or without expression, was simple: it was a single dagger against three clubs.

‘A fuckin' stupid death.’ Markas was a cynical man, and he had no qualms about his less-than-ideal outlook on life — acrimony was prevalent in his occupation, and some even took to writing their will and testament, in advance, before marching to battles. Malivan was a skilled fighter, but more than that, he was a gambler: people survive more through luck than through empty prowess, and he had witnessed it many times during his more turbulent days. That was one of his principles.

Of course, there are the gods too, blessed with saintly powers and an amaranthine ambry of otherworldly kismet, but they don't stoop to help their accidental creations.

Such was the way of life.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — and at the same time, bland — aura. It's a common armament, lightweight and cheap to make, and can be seen in the hands of bush league goons, due to its simple appearance. Its image and its demeanour both caters to the taste of the common man, favouring utility over hauteur. The wood-and-iron mace can be prove to be deadly even in the hands of an amateur, rendered easy to use with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving a less-needed heft to the enlarged head. However inessential it is, as staves do exist, it still allows for more force to be put to blows and swings at the expense of speed. It is necessary to mention that the weapon is useful especially against armour, where the spike-laden head can penetrate through brittle plates.

This weapon had its origins rooting from the De'ag, where the olden patrolmen — orcish or otherwise — were sighted carrying around these custom-made clubs. Could've been simply for the fear effect.

The height of the bludgeon differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so. The goon on the center carried a superlative exception, one that was roughly three feet in height and towered his scrawny build. A certain oddity, but principles were being followed — the principle of the top dog. The peak of a gore-club perpetually comes with a metal ring riveted and bound around the usually flat beak — or in this case, brass — with lethal, reasonably sized spikes protruding from around the axis of the metal band, hence the name.

“Ay, ye' ignorante,” the hunchbacked geezer sputtered out, his drawl making it hard to discern his voice. A steady trail of spittle oozed down from a corner of his mouth. It was a strange choice of words, calling a random stranger stupid, but some idiots don't change. Idiocy is rampant in the fire kingdom, Markas discerned.

The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace, weapons slack in their hands. At first glance, one could speculate about their apparent passivity, or their lazy lack of initiative. Though, Markas noticed that they blocked the entrance to the alleyway, in their attempts to shirk out of their work — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't apprehend.

The mercenary — Markas Malivan, age forty and one, in case you forgot — inched forward, leaning first to the left and then to the right, getting a good grasp of the scenario. The environment held only copious amounts of stinking garbage, moldy food, and rusty junk. The walls of the buildings, which hunched eerily over the dead-end pathway and gave it a spangled shade, were made of adobe bricks. The road was simply sand, dirt and gravel beaten together and treated over to resemble a firm path.

The curved knave was closer now, his canter quick and jittery. The man was undeniably fast, Markas had to admit. The two tankers at the back was still in their position, with Olive leaning against the mossy wall, and Fat acting as the primary, though stolid, rampart.

‘Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.’ There was a good reason for Markas to be concerned. One versus three usually doesn't bode well for the former, especially with crude weapons such as daggers.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. He advanced forward, jabbing his finger at the air and pointing it towards the geezer. “You got no business here, straddle off.”

The old man, or it was what he appeared to be, chose to ignore his words. Too silently spoken, Markas now regretted.

“Juz-” He paused, “leave yer shit behin-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream of his drool. His gait, Markas then noticed, was clipped and blocky. He had problems with his mouth too, and which additionally served to be a speech impediment. A severe one. It was a pathetic sight, distracting but more so to the owner of it.

It was a good window for a quick strike or three. A good window it was. A good, good window, Markas found himself muttering.

The mercenary darted forward, feet slipping against the dusty pavement as he bought down the edge of his elbow upon the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the formerly silent livery, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly. A gasp from the fat one came after the initial two sounds. The mercenary doubted Fat could get a good view of the action, but it didn't hurt to imagine.

Markas looked at the reeling geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.

‘Probably should've just left my shit behind.’ Most men did just that. Most men except the magnificent mercenary, Markas Malivan, himself.

“Fuck.” The mercenary murmured. His elbow ached, a biting pain shaking up his nerves every few seconds. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting down from his nose. His spittle had turned pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

‘Forty. Fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me.’ Markas did his best to cloak his fear, pessimistic and rotten to the core and feathers, with the impression of bravery. It was a bare, rough performance legible only for its amusement factor, but then again, Markas never was a good actor. Southerners were good actors, his mother was a good actor, but he never was a good actor.

‘A fucking stupid death, indeed.’ The mercenary, rather than making a run for it — and which would've been stupid, considering the advantageous positions of the two alley-men — took hold of the geezer's grimy collar. It stank of a liberal mixture of sweat, stale alcohol, and a cocktail of bodily fluids. The collar was oily to the touch, with a hint of jagged leather. It still stank.

From the far corners of his peripherals, Markas could see the two burly men making way for him. They were slow, but they were coming all right; arms tensed, weapons ready, and sporting more-than-deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well. Or maybe, they didn't spot his dagger yet. Yet.

‘Two seconds, five maybe.’ Markas estimated their arrival with a run-off-the-mill calculation. His father was a treasurer, and one of the first things he learned, aside from basic language, was mathematics and probability. The latter he perfected during his trooper days. Oh, how glorious those days were. Markas couldn't help but reminisce about those valiant years, but clearly now wasn't the time for that.

The geezer was belting out repetitious commands, his voice slugging and drowning under copious amounts of blood, courtesy to a strong smack from Markas' knuckles. The mercenary yanked his hand back, unfurling it, before lashing out again. The furious whip-like blow, scarcely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks. It was enough to send him tumbling towards the stony floor, with a feeble howl and enough tremolo to knock the wind out of someone.

The geezer fell, on faltering feet, into an open garbage bin, his two hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, jutting out from the putrid mess.

Markas let out a triumphant scoff, before turning and facing the entrance of the alleyway.

The unshorn clod, Olive, was now edging nearby. He was much faster than what the mercenary had discerned. His shoulders and back arched, in a stance that implied reckless care. Olive didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended do with it was a lucid fact: the boor was planning to pounce upon him, the sole mercenary here, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he looked as if he knew how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge.

As it was, Markas happened to be a gambler, not the most truest nor the most skilled of fighters.

The only thing Malivan had, that could be useful in this fight, was the element of surprise, and a good share of speed. The two savages had neither speed or wits, except for Olive who an indefinite amount of agility on hand, and Markas aimed to exploit these weaknesses.

The mercenary ably slid out his dagger. The dull scratch of metal against tough leather was warming to the ears. He held it and waved it around, oscillating it to and fro the air and between his fingers, then grasping it tightly. A steady hold, but Markas made sure to swivel between his stance every now and then — the necessary panic factor. He hadn't removed his cloak, as he had no wish to reveal his choice of armour; not that it would make any difference against the vicious blows of a gore-club.

The clod winced, but regained his passive temperament at the following instance. This slight moment of confusion, of the brain digesting the sudden action, provided a good aperture for more violence. Markas grinned — it was a sloppy grin, lopsided and favouring the right over the left — then promptly reacted by dashing forward.

Markas Malivan was a gambler. A proper sordid one at that.
 
Elephantom said:
I was actually kidding. I'm halfway through completing it. The end result's probably going to be 4000+ words.

Can you give a look at my current shiitake?:

Markas Malivan, an ill-reputed soldier of fortune, gritted his teeth. If there was anything worse than the heat of the fire kingdom — a sudden departure from frozen seas and subsequent exposure to cracked deserts could leave anyone disoriented — it was the fact that you were going to get killed. That the saint of luck, whatever her name was, wasn't siding with you. That wasn't a simple fact, not at all.

Malivan's hirsute hand skimmed near the well-oiled oxhide sheath of his dagger. He was frowning, his skin pale and pulled taut over his face, and he was also sweating, which wasn't strange for a sunny day such as this. Yet, however the sun was argent in its visage, it wasn't a bright day for him.

There was a good reason for it too.

Up the darkened alleyway, came a troika of men. Three men, and upon a closer view, a frontman backed by two other men — discernable in that the two were different to the leader. To an everyday aristocrat, it was just a pedestrian routine. But this was De'ag, notorious enough for all warrior to keep track of; a city where everybody kept to themselves, weapons concealed, hands quivery. You don't approach anyone out of curiosity here — you either mean business or trouble. Malivan knew that, but disquieting was the fact that assaults were a common day-to-day incident in De'ag, as ordinary as the chatter of birds.

Muggers, people getting mugged, were typical in the lower-half squalor of the fire kingdom's southern ports, where De'ag was. The city was made up of morose and craggy lands, flush with cliffs riddled with narrow openings which lead to the main shoreline — sand, beige-white with a silvery tincture, and more sand. A dozen sandcrawlers here and there, reams of them swarming in the uncharted rocky canyons that flank the upper cities and the docks. It was a city that made a living by its ports, the orc-made structures jutting out awkwardly from the blanched precipices, navigable by stratified floors which lead from the sea-soaring docks to the upper cities. The ambiance was near soothing from afar, the zig-zagged hymn of the shore-birds melding with the sound of the sea crashing against the rocky shores and stone bridges, and the chorus of sails fluttering and small boats clambering slowly through the emerald sea, and so on. Houses on rock stilts, to evade the watery waves, and docks on longer, shaped stone ingots. From afar, it was a humble, ideal place. Not so much from up close.

The roads, blackened by a patina of ashen soot, mixed well with the few dozens of chapels and bounty offices interspersed throughout the city. The humans there were trooper-for-hires or officials, the orcs tasked with lording over the commoners and patrolling the streets, and most others make a living through working, sailing or fishing.

The place sustained with the fleeting activity of its many docks and wharfs, ships coming in and out, harboring both notorious fugitives looking for amnesty and a second chance, and merchants looking for a good share of coins. A simple arrangement, which had succeeded only in making the fire kingdom rife with bounty hunters and subtle sorts of highway robbery. The bounty offices, which kept the notice boards and official papers regarding fugitive-hunting, were rather distinct — neither did they succeed in appearing coy, which was initially a planned feature, nor did they intermix with the rest of the sand buildings. All metal, black and sallow, with peaked heads and intricately-crafted roofs that distinguish it from its surrounding. While the orcs were stupid, admittedly, they were good with metals.

The endearing mercenary, Malivan, was a strong man all right. If anything, he was stronger than most men. Most men in Elysium, that is, for the inhabitants of the fire kingdom breathed brutality at a consistent basis. Markas was born in Elysium, in the more richer districts of the southern division. Tossed from womb to a noble-enough family, and while he bested even the most vain nobles in terms of facial endurance, indeed, the nifty soldier also held the mark of a true northerner: harsh facial bristle which he had managed to fashion into a glossy curly moustache in accordance with trending fashions in Elysium; misty grey eyes, both magnetic and fearsome, fixed to perennial sharpness; an angular face, near architectural in its incisiveness, that bears both class and an underlying savagery.

Furthermore, setting aside his largely northern looks, he possessed the traits that so make the southerners eligible bachelors. He had a romantically-sculpted nose, complimented by a deuce of arching eyebrows, and a pale dark complexion reminiscent of most searrine dwellers; a royal mane of hair, which runs down wildly but always above his receding hairline, showimng off his high forehead. Ultimately, a cultured, smart smile that fades smoothly towards both its end and beginning — he has yet to find any worth in it, aside from wooing women over to his cause and bed.

Markas' father was a treasurer, while his mother was a lowly noble. Both met at a southern sector — by the naval titan, the duchy of Raserre, which controlled the lowermost peak of Elysium — where his father was assigned to after a series of shady transfers and dealings, and where his mother lived since birth.

His father was a meek man, dreamy and quizzical, who acted exclusively in favour of his own well-being and his family — often the latter than the former, for he loved his kith and kin, and his sons, and his wife, and so on. It made him seem like a coward of sorts, with his cunningly squinting eyes, and his curly smile. Verily, the odd fellow could be seen as a weakling, and many did see him as a weakling, but Markas himself liked to think of him as a passive man. Or at worst, a pragmatist. The man knew what to do ensure his survival, or the betterment of his living, even if it meant kissing up to people — not the most ideal nord, but he did the job right.

When it came to luminosity, Markas' father was scarcely the zealous believer people believed him to be; he was bearably faithful, but never more than that. He used to say it was a kind of sham religion, whilst simultaneously following it. Sometimes used to admit his hypocrisy too. Then again, he was as honest as a honest worker could be, but solely to his family and at no time to the daily so-and-so.

Nonetheless, Markas' relationship with his father was good. Good enough. It wasn't spoken of freely, and they both preferred limiting their conversation to the necessities, but Markas knew that his father knew and he knew it himself too.

Markas' mother was, more or less, rather similar in nature to his father. The only strong difference was her streak of pomposity which contrasted highly against his father's enduring humility — could be interpreted a wanton need to keep himself hidden, could be part of his miserable act of cowardice. Nevertheless, it was a byproduct of her life in a vaguely noble family trying to keep their watered-down bloodline still relevant. Just toss your head back up, and walk like you mean it — that woman did just that, till the day she succumbed to death. Her pride was hers to keep, and she bared it freely for everyone to see. And for that, Markas admired her, and respected her too, but affections came the last in his mind.

Markas Malivan, aged somewhere in his early forties and stunned by intortion of timelines, stepped back. His sense of direction had been distorted by his abrupt, unneeded trance, but he was used to them by now. Few things really surprised him, and as such, he was oft the last in the group to be surprised.

Malivan squinted his eyes at the approaching group. The light, or whatever pitiful stray light had managed to reach the hairline gap, cast them in more clarity. The mercenary could see them with more ease.

The leader, for he led the men, carried the burden of a crooked back and the height of a dwarf — traits which made him look more older than could've been, although Markas could swear the crook had linings running across his face and disrupting the contours. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed in rank by a rotund nose and a pair of swollen eyes. He had bushy eyebrows, slicked hair swept back in layered waves, and ears that stuck out too far from his head. A permanent sneer was fixed on his face.

A heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features — and an elongated nose that might've appeared handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them — followed the leader diligently, staying strictly to the left. He was broad-shouldered and bare-skinned, showing off his sinewy musculature and wiry upper limbs, except for a simple felt trouser that were clipped to the shins and a pair of rugged sandals. His bare chest was hairy, but the dim-black meshed well with the olive skin.

The man on the right lacked armour, relying on a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size. The coat clung dearly to his flabby skin. The belts, and which held the buttons, swayed and limped. The portly man had a nigh enormous pot belly which, Markas presumed, would neither fit armour nor any sort of clothing. And which, the mercenary also assumed, was why he had to rely on an inadequate clothing article. He had an absurdly thick neck, nearly melding with his chin, and jowls that vibrated at the merest of movements. His eyes were set deep into his sockets, and he had a distinct lack of both eyebrows and hair. Queer tattoos decorated his unclad cranium.

The trio, all of them and barring few, were armed with warped eyes and gore-clubs — and which was oddly festive to the likes of Markas, though the one on the left remained passive. The blood that stained on their weapons suggested that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them. Viscerally.

Markas' sarcastic drollery was surpassed by the slew of dread and fright he had in store, and hardly could that ever be a good thing — in one way it was, and such a remark would've been coming from the mouth of his still-alive father, but it still certainly made a bad impression. It was seldom good for his reputable looks. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. One could also interpret it as a frown of sorts.

The fact, however portrayed with or without expression, was simple: it was a single dagger against three clubs.

‘A fuckin' stupid death.’ Markas was a cynical man, and he had no qualms about his less-than-ideal outlook on life — acrimony was prevalent in his occupation, and some even took to writing their will and testament, in advance, before marching to battles. Malivan was a skilled fighter, but more than that, he was a gambler: people survive more through luck than through empty prowess, and he had witnessed it many times during his more turbulent days. That was one of his principles.

Of course, there are the gods too, blessed with saintly powers and an amaranthine ambry of otherworldly kismet, but they don't stoop to help their accidental creations.

Such was the way of life.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — and at the same time, bland — aura. It's a common armament, lightweight and cheap to make, and can be seen in the hands of bush league goons, due to its simple appearance. Its image and its demeanour both caters to the taste of the common man, favouring utility over hauteur. The wood-and-iron mace can be prove to be deadly even in the hands of an amateur, rendered easy to use with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving a less-needed heft to the enlarged head. However inessential it is, as staves do exist, it still allows for more force to be put to blows and swings at the expense of speed. It is necessary to mention that the weapon is useful especially against armour, where the spike-laden head can penetrate through brittle plates.

This weapon had its origins rooting from the De'ag, where the olden patrolmen — orcish or otherwise — were sighted carrying around these custom-made clubs. Could've been simply for the fear effect.

The height of the bludgeon differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so. The goon on the center carried a superlative exception, one that was roughly three feet in height and towered his scrawny build. A certain oddity, but principles were being followed — the principle of the top dog. The peak of a gore-club perpetually comes with a metal ring riveted and bound around the usually flat beak — or in this case, brass — with lethal, reasonably sized spikes protruding from around the axis of the metal band, hence the name.

“Ay, ye' ignorante,” the hunchbacked geezer sputtered out, his drawl making it hard to discern his voice. A steady trail of spittle oozed down from a corner of his mouth. It was a strange choice of words, calling a random stranger stupid, but some idiots don't change. Idiocy is rampant in the fire kingdom, Markas discerned.

The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace, weapons slack in their hands. At first glance, one could speculate about their apparent passivity, or their lazy lack of initiative. Though, Markas noticed that they blocked the entrance to the alleyway, in their attempts to shirk out of their work — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't apprehend.

The mercenary — Markas Malivan, age forty and one, in case you forgot — inched forward, leaning first to the left and then to the right, getting a good grasp of the scenario. The environment held only copious amounts of stinking garbage, moldy food, and rusty junk. The walls of the buildings, which hunched eerily over the dead-end pathway and gave it a spangled shade, were made of adobe bricks. The road was simply sand, dirt and gravel beaten together and treated over to resemble a firm path.

The curved knave was closer now, his canter quick and jittery. The man was undeniably fast, Markas had to admit. The two tankers at the back was still in their position, with Olive leaning against the mossy wall, and Fat acting as the primary, though stolid, rampart.

‘Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.’ There was a good reason for Markas to be concerned. One versus three usually doesn't bode well for the former, especially with crude weapons such as daggers.

Markas clenched his fists, squinting his eyes. He advanced forward, jabbing his finger at the air and pointing it towards the geezer. “You got no business here, straddle off.”

The old man, or it was what he appeared to be, chose to ignore his words. Too silently spoken, Markas now regretted.

“Juz-” He paused, “leave yer shit behin-” The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream of his drool. His gait, Markas then noticed, was clipped and blocky. He had problems with his mouth too, and which additionally served to be a speech impediment. A severe one. It was a pathetic sight, distracting but more so to the owner of it.

It was a good window for a quick strike or three. A good window it was. A good, good window, Markas found himself muttering.

The mercenary darted forward, feet slipping against the dusty pavement as he bought down the edge of his elbow upon the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the formerly silent livery, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly. A gasp from the fat one came after the initial two sounds. The mercenary doubted Fat could get a good view of the action, but it didn't hurt to imagine.

Markas looked at the reeling geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.

‘Probably should've just left my shit behind.’ Most men did just that. Most men except the magnificent mercenary, Markas Malivan, himself.

“Fuck.” The mercenary murmured. His elbow ached, a biting pain shaking up his nerves every few seconds. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting down from his nose. His spittle had turned pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

‘Forty. Fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me.’ Markas did his best to cloak his fear, pessimistic and rotten to the core and feathers, with the impression of bravery. It was a bare, rough performance legible only for its amusement factor, but then again, Markas never was a good actor. Southerners were good actors, his mother was a good actor, but he never was a good actor.

‘A fucking stupid death, indeed.’ The mercenary, rather than making a run for it — and which would've been stupid, considering the advantageous positions of the two alley-men — took hold of the geezer's grimy collar. It stank of a liberal mixture of sweat, stale alcohol, and a cocktail of bodily fluids. The collar was oily to the touch, with a hint of jagged leather. It still stank.

From the far corners of his peripherals, Markas could see the two burly men making way for him. They were slow, but they were coming all right; arms tensed, weapons ready, and sporting more-than-deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well. Or maybe, they didn't spot his dagger yet. Yet.

‘Two seconds, five maybe.’ Markas estimated their arrival with a run-off-the-mill calculation. His father was a treasurer, and one of the first things he learned, aside from basic language, was mathematics and probability. The latter he perfected during his trooper days. Oh, how glorious those days were. Markas couldn't help but reminisce about those valiant years, but clearly now wasn't the time for that.

The geezer was belting out repetitious commands, his voice slugging and drowning under copious amounts of blood, courtesy to a strong smack from Markas' knuckles. The mercenary yanked his hand back, unfurling it, before lashing out again. The furious whip-like blow, scarcely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks. It was enough to send him tumbling towards the stony floor, with a feeble howl and enough tremolo to knock the wind out of someone.

The geezer fell, on faltering feet, into an open garbage bin, his two hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, jutting out from the putrid mess.

Markas let out a triumphant scoff, before turning and facing the entrance of the alleyway.

The unshorn clod, Olive, was now edging nearby. He was much faster than what the mercenary had discerned. His shoulders and back arched, in a stance that implied reckless care. Olive didn't hold the weapon before him, but what he intended do with it was a lucid fact: the boor was planning to pounce upon him, the sole mercenary here, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he looked as if he knew how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge.

As it was, Markas happened to be a gambler, not the most truest nor the most skilled of fighters.

The only thing Malivan had, that could be useful in this fight, was the element of surprise, and a good share of speed. The two savages had neither speed or wits, except for Olive who an indefinite amount of agility on hand, and Markas aimed to exploit these weaknesses.

The mercenary ably slid out his dagger. The dull scratch of metal against tough leather was warming to the ears. He held it and waved it around, oscillating it to and fro the air and between his fingers, then grasping it tightly. A steady hold, but Markas made sure to swivel between his stance every now and then — the necessary panic factor. He hadn't removed his cloak, as he had no wish to reveal his choice of armour; not that it would make any difference against the vicious blows of a gore-club.

The clod winced, but regained his passive temperament at the following instance. This slight moment of confusion, of the brain digesting the sudden action, provided a good aperture for more violence. Markas grinned — it was a sloppy grin, lopsided and favouring the right over the left — then promptly reacted by dashing forward.

Markas Malivan was a gambler. A proper sordid one at that.
Click to expand...
Geez, 4000+? That's insane.
Anyways I really like it so far!
I'm already beginning to like Markas as a character, he seems really cool.
 
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