1st of Ymiden 719
The last night had been one of fitful sleep. A dream had intruded on Woe’s usual dull and undisturbed slumber. In it, a person who Woe could’ve sworn he knew once upon a time, chance met in Rynmere in a party that was far above Woe’s means to attend. There they’d debated the legality of magic, with Woe posing as the Guild Master of the Mages Guild. This was the King, if he wasn’t mistaken. Well, all that aside, he thought he knew this person, until a few moments later, his name slipped forever from Woe’s mind, with nary but a shrug and a move on.
Besides, the consequences of this action had been that Emea had fallen. The connection between this world and the next severed . Or at least until the heroes of the world pulled their heads out and did something about it. Woe not being an individual skilled in magic, nor particularly blessed by the gods, had no such illusions to greatness.
So he walked out of the tenement he shared with several other Westguardians. He did so with every intention of following a normal, boring routine through his day. He was wearint his casual outfit of brown and black leathers, boots, and a sjambok in his hand. On his belt, an iron scourge. He wasn’t expecting trouble on the way to the station, since it was around a few blocks from there. Most days were uneventful.
This day decided to be different. In Woe’s path, staggered a particularly rowdy morning drunk, who stumbled in his direction. It was Fleaface, a local crank who often hurled insults at immigrants to Westguard. ”Gerron yer worthless Rynmeran Dandeh!” The words came through in his best Yaralon slur. He might’ve had a bottle of purple whiskey for all Woe could tell. ”Oy! Where yer goern? C’mon back!”
Woe stepped away from the man. He walked a circle around him to go on his way to the militia house that he had made his wage at since coming to Westguard. He'd been in Westguard a season or two, arriving by way of Ne’haer and Yaralon before that. ”Go home, Flea.” Woe muttered, his hand clutching the handle of his iron scourge.
”Or wot? Yer gorn ter flog me wit’ yer floggin stick? Gorron dern. Doerrit!”
Woe’s lips thinned as he eyed the man. Finally, after a few moments, he lifted his hand from the whip’s grip, leaving it on its resting place on his belt ring.
”Yer jusht a cherkin. Bawkbawkbagawk!”
And so, Woe went on his way toward the militia station near his street, ignoring the drunk and hoping that he would grow tired of the following. He didn’t of course. Instead, having nothing better to do in all the world, the drunk followed him. ”Oy! Dat man in dat dream o’ mine last nerght, ‘e was Rynmeran too! A real Rynmeran Dandy like our Woe ‘ere!” The fool spread his arms to show off, and pointing with the other to show who he was intending to insult. Woe ground his teeth, but kept on toward the Militia House.
”Rynmeran Dandy!” Fleaface took his silence as cowardice, a terrible conclusion, yet one he’d committed himself to. One that would end in some amount of pain for him.
”Rynmeran Dandy! Eh! Folk! It’s our very own Rynmeran Dandy! Rynmeran…”
Without waiting before he got within ear shot of his station, Woe shot an arm out, and punched the man in the soft tissue of his gut. If he was to spend his morning disturbing the peace, such abuse would be his wage.
Fleaface staggered backward, almost falling over on his ass, before righting himself. Then he charged forward. His shoulder was down with the obvious intent to take Woe to the ground in a jailyard rush.
Woe, having already taken his sjambok in hand, lashed it across the man’s face as he stepped to the side. The impact of the stiff, leather whip made a sickening, wet cracking sound, as it slashed against Fleaface’s cheek. He screamed, tripping over his momentum then sprawling out onto the floor.
A crowd was beginning to gather around the street, attracted by teh sounds of fighting and Fleaface’s wailing.
”Fuckin’ pig.” Muttered one large man, spitting in Woe’s direction.
”Was that needed?” A woman ventured, leaning out of a nearby doorway.
”Who the hell lashes a poor drunk? For no reason?”
Woe fought the urge to grind his teeth, to shout the people back to their business. He was no blackguard, with the authority to administer corporal punishment. No more than he had the authority to demand obedience from passersby. He was a militiaman, and he had to live with these people. Even so, he didn’t feel the need to justify self-defense.
The militia man was about to walk over toward his station, when someone slipped into his path, a few paces away. The man wore sleeves of steel scale, and gauntlets of the same make. His motions were fluid, as he took up a fighting position, wielding nothing but his steel covered arms and fists.
Woe didn’t take a chance, but backed away a pace or two. He readied his sjambok in his hand, with the other ready to grasp the handle of his scourge, if its use became necessary.
It swift became necessary as the steel-armed fighter came forward. He swung his scaled limbs in circular, confounding motions as he circled Woe. Woe, for his part, walked the line of the opposite side of the circle, resting his sjambok against his shoulder. He was waiting for this new assailant to make a move.
He didn't have to wait long before he did. As the fighter's scaled arms flailed through the air, he took a few paces forward and they coalesced into a jab at Woe's midsection. Woe wasn't fast enough to dodge or counter. His back bent on impact. His skull would have received a fracture afterward as well, had he not rolled to the side to dodge it. With the dodge, he cracked his sjambok upwards, on the inside of his new opponent's knee.
There it found purchase, landing with precision and causing a deadly amount of pain. The fighter suppressed a scream, and let his leg fall to the ground. It was clear by teh way he was holding himself then, that he was favoring that leg.
Woe didn't waste his advantage. He pressed it against the man, curling his arm beneath his left armpit, and then striking upward withi the sjambok to the other man's armpit. It glanced over his scaled sleeves, grazing useless against the inside of his torso. Woe returned to his neutral stance with the sjambok. When the other fighter began to get confident, he stepped forward and attempted to chop Woe's right shoulder, down on the brachial nerve. The impact of the strike left his right arm with a slight numbness.
Yet his arm retained its strength, even if it lacked a sense of precision. He was confident he could still take down this brawler.
"Is 'e usin Ki'enaq?" A voice from the gathering crowd asked.
"Oy, it's the blackguards!" A panicked man shouted to the rest, "Let's out of here!"
So saying, the crowd dispersed, yet Woe was still very much involved in the midst of his combat.
He stood, with his sjambok held forward, ready to ward off attacks from most any direction the warrior would take against him. When he finally crept forward, snapping like a cobra with a kick, Woe side stepped backward. Having dodged the kick, almost simultaneous brought his sjambok down from his shoulder then straight down. The stiff end of the sjambok made contact with the fighter's ankle, thus disabling his balance.
Here Woe pressed his advantage, going on the offensive. He drew the sjambok around to the rear of his stance, then with one swift snap of his arm, wrist, and hand, brought it against the fighter's face. As the man screamed, Woe refleced that it would leave an angry welt for days, a month if it wasn't put on ice.
Finally, the perennial late blackguards arrived on the scene, and scattered the rest of the crowd. They regarded Woe and his opponent, who was writhing on the ground. Then, from the ground Fleaface stood up, and pointed at Woe, shouting, screaming.
"Guards! He whipped me! Yer must arrest him at ornce!"
"I was defending myself, gentlemen." Woe explained, to the sober guards, "Can a man not protect his person in this place?"
The blackguard didn'tseem amused, but nodded to Fleaface, as the former slipped something shiny into his palm. Fleaface gave Woe a smug smile, and finally departed. He hummed a tune as he walked away, which included words resembling "Rynmeran Dandy."
