[h3]Jordan Forthey[/h3]

	The stranger [i]screamed[/i] as Jordan's blade dug into his fingers. It was a primal, [i]visceral[/i] sound that commanded the squire's muscles to halt, applying to some deep instinct that insisted it was one of his own kind facing slaughter, and he himself should remain quiet and unnoticed, lest the same fate befalls him. [i]He mustn't. Can't.[/i] He had known - had thought he knew - that people fighting for their lives were usually too shocked or [i]distracted[/i] to scream; the people who had the peace to lament their injuries, the mourning, and the fearful sounding alarm were noisy, but those in combat and the ones dying had too little energy to spare. 
	But had succeeded. He had gotten the stranger, fast and powerful though he might be, off himself, and now the masked fellow was unarmed, down a hand and with a cut to the bone in his shin, bleeding. He still had his sword in a death grip; his wrist was maybe sprained, maybe broken, and he had a few bruises, but he was [i]not[/i] bleeding. [i]Get away. Get up.[/i] It was not over. This one was not going to give up so easily, and bleeding out took time.  
	Even now, still recoiling from a kick to the chest, the stranger was already scampering to his feet, assuming a crouch, [i]hissing[/i] like a feral cat. Not fleeing. [i]Preparing,[/i] even as Jordan aligned the tip of his blade with the stranger's chest and attempted to assume a semblance of a guard while drawing in his legs and figuring how to best get up without losing his ability to defend himself, even momentarily. 
	If there was something to be thankful for, it was the stranger's flair for theatrics, as even now, he briefly halted himself for a statement, [i][color=fff200]'This is how it en--'[/color][/i] ... and ceased. The change, just as the stranger once more had the squire in his full view, was almost imperceptible. A hair-thin jolt as muscles froze in tension with the silencing of the figure's voice. Perhaps there was contemplation, maybe a blink of an eye's worth; something had changed.
	The stranger bolted in a display of unnatural speed, abandoning the fight and his weapon. 

	Some part of Jordan almost failed to register the abrupt change. It was ... over? But why? He, too, froze in a lack of understanding ... the stranger had initially wanted to leave, and if Jordan didn't intervene, probably [i]would[/i] have, but he doubted the masked figure would, [i]just like that[/i], go back to his original plan. His confusion felt longer in the combat-fueled haze, but in reality, he had just about enough time to blink thrice as he watched the stranger [i]go[/i], before -
	"You found trouble," an all too familiar voice stated from somewhere to the right and what registered as "up". 
	[b]Oh.[/b]

	The rush of blood from the confrontation was slowly being replaced by an entirely different kind of nervous feeling, the cold, anxious sensation of - in its most polite iteration - "Am I in trouble now? I'm probably in trouble now.". It was no longer survival and instincts. Now, it was about [i]consequences. [/i]Thankful as he was for finding himself no longer in mortal danger, he nevertheless involuntarily seized up and very much wanted to be ... somewhere absolutely not where he was now. 
	It [i]was [/i]cold outside, now that he had the presence of mind to notice those things. He was also covered in cooling sweat, which did not help matters. The cobbles did not make the most comfortable resting site. He was still holding onto his sword, for no other reason than that sheathing it would have been a too elaborate action, and he was unsure what else to do with it. 
	Then again, he [i]probably [/i]could not pretend that Sir Yanin was not standing behind him indefinitely, either. Slowly, warily, he turned sideways inching up till he was sitting sideways with his back against the wall, his legs half-bent from the knees. He had made sure his sword did not scrape against the street, though still he rested it on its scabbard rather than sheathed it. His head hurt some, as did his wrist. Other bruises weren't as noticeable, though that may change come next morning. He stared dully at his knees. 
	"Did you sustain any injuries?" Sir Yanin's voice was ... dispassionate. Not that it was all that atypical of him. Felt like the knight was going through some kind of a checklist. Might be better than angry. Probably. But given that something had been bothering him before... Who knew. There were plenty of people who yelled when they were pissed, but turned cold and calculating when they were [i]really [/i]angry. 
	That was a simple question, at least. Glancing up, his master appeared to be observing the street in the direction his opponent had taken off to, rather than - thankfully - staring down at him. The knight's sword was still brandished, too. Back to staring at his knees. 
	"My right wrist is sprained, I think... The rest is just bruises, I think." His voice seemed dull. 
	The knight sighed. "Get up and sheathe your sword, " he said, demonstrating the latter half of his own words. He did not expect Jordan's ... what was the stranger to him? Attacker? He had [i]technically[/i] attacked first, at least. Whatever the case, Sir Yanin did not seem to be expecting the stranger to be back. 
	But ... yeah. Get up. He guessed he could do that. 
	"Preferably before someone comes along and figures you're either a drunkard or that [i]I[/i] beat you up."
	[b]Oh. [/b]
	Jordan (probably wisely) chose not to ask whether the latter was not something his master pretty much habitually did every day, anyway. Minus the sprained or broken wrist, that is. Sir Yanin had never really [i]broken[/i] anything. So he just managed to carefully slid [i]up[/i] the wall, awkwardly sheathing his sword using only his left hand. Certainly less convenient than doing it with his right hand, which was opposite the scabbard on his left. The cobblestone in front of his right boot seemed very interesting just about now. 
	"How come I found you fighting a vampire?" For Sir Yanin, the tone was almost conversational, yet Jordan wanted to flinch like a much younger boy expecting to be hit. 
	A [i][b]vampire[/b][/i]? He had noticed the speed and strength, but ... a vampire? In a large city like this? How come he had not been caught with all the magic and guards and eyes and who-knows-what-else ... in spite of supposedly leaving corpses in his wake? It's not like he could kill the citizens and just pretend a bear ate them like he could in a more rural place. Jordan had figured he was a rogue warden or something... 
	Usually, he'd have asked his master how he had managed to identify the stranger as a vampire, not as a warden, or a demonspawn, or any other potential mostly humanlike fiend. Not today. 
	"I was asking people about the refugees. He looked like he knew something. About, well, something. He did not like questions, I guess." 
	"Hmrh."
	"Sorry." It could not probably hurt to just apologize pre-emptively. Whatever it was he was exactly supposed to apologize for in this instance. 
	"We can discuss if further at the inn, in the evening. I figure I'll be running the errands I intended to give you myself. You go get your wrist checked, and I'm certain the guards here would be interested in knowing there's a homicidal vampire running around on the streets. And try to avoid finding more trouble today; stick with streets that have people on them, for example."
	"Okay." So he will be facing the potential repercussions ... later. Great. 
	"For someone who picked a superhuman for his first fight entirely alone, you did not do a [i]too[/i] bad job not getting your throat immediately ripped out. You've learned some."
	At that Jordan actually looked up at Sir Yanin, who, evidently, considered the conversation done, seeing how he opted for seeing himself out. Was [i]that[/i] supposed to be a weird acknowledgement, or just an insult? It was true he'd have been dead by the time of his master's convenient arrival a year ago, but ... still. 
	Even after years, he wasn't entirely sure what to make of Sir Yanin's way of interacting with people.