That was life, not everything went to plan, especially when they were the plans of Ezlan, but that was ok. He aimed high and enjoyed the journey along they way, not just the destination.
Caught in the grapple a wide excited smile took his face as he continued his introductory spiel. Loud and deep, the occasional word hindered by a labour of breath but otherwise he carried on. This was not only a small trick to pacify some of the malice and pure aggression of his opponents mid battle, but also his own. It helped him hold off that rage deep within. It was a trick beyond the conscious that trifled with the brain, splitting attention. You were not fighting for your life with everything you have because you were also in a casual conversation, processing and considering words. The friendly smile only made it worse. Experienced in this, Ezlan took advantage of every slight opportunity it might give. Always one to use anything that might slide the scales of victory further in his favour.
Yes grappling was a skill, but it also come down largely to strength. Both qualities Ezlan was not lacking of. Whilst these men may be veterans of the field, Ezlan doubt that even combined their total tallies of bar room brawls wouldn’t equal up to nearly as many as his.
With a small shift in his weight Ezlan pivoted around his grappled foe, keeping the man between himself and any other on comers. (The elite great-swordsman) He leveraged his opponents half plate against him. The heavy protection limiting flexibility and offering Ezlan extra mechanical control and places to lever and grip. Facing his back to the wall he stacked himself beside a table, limiting the spaces and directions from which others could get involved. Then seizing an opportunity he would drive a fist, elbow or forehead at his opponents nose, and in that distraction quickly lash out with a leg at the table his first opponent was using to regain balance. Still, all’s whilst this was going on, that smug smile held true through the struggle and his words kept flowing merrily (as possible).
Take control of the grapple Use foe for cover Strike grappled opponent Strike table - knock over 1st attacker.
Primary Alias: Vallen Thorn Appearance: Young, scrawny, and short. Wiry limbs and a mop of brown messy hair. Hands and feet stained with dirt. Soft freckles splatter his tanned skin. Loose tattered rags bound by fraying ropes pass as his clothing. Equipment: Most notably is his absence of things. Bound in simple tattered rags secured by fraying rope. A worn leather satchel hanging over one shoulder with makeshift ties along the weathered strap. Reputation: A street rat. Defiant, brave, angry at the world. Recent History: The wet cobbled stone path was cold and hard. Unforgiving to the bare feet frantically slapping against it. It’s stones uneven and loose, littered with traps of small pebbles and sharp rubbish just waiting for the unsuspecting, unprotected foot to fall upon, as Vallen’s did, again and again. These cruel and devious dangers sulked out of site in the thick heavy shadows cast by the ever present looming towering walls on either side, blocking what little light fell from the dark cloudy night sky.
Still, he endured. Heart thudding profusely in his chest. Lungs burning with desperation. Muscles aching, head spinning, mind a blur.
He didn’t have the luxury to care about the occasional bolt of pain shooting up his leg as again he smashed his toe or stepped on some viscous debris, no matter how intense or severe it may be. He couldn’t worry what state this left his feet in. He knew they were bloody and bruised, he could feel a warm tingle oozing along his icy cold skin. He was surely missing a nail or two from toes most likely broken, but regardless he just couldn’t stop. No matter what he just had to keep them moving. For no matter how disconcerting it might be, worse things were coming.
Disconnected from his mind they were like objects that he kept placing in front of himself. One after the other as fast as he could. Numb with pain. Without full feeling or sense of the ground on which he was running, Vallen slipped and stumbled every few meters as he darted down one alleyway and then suddenly flew around a corner into another, always frantically avoiding possible signs or sounds of trouble ahead. With every fumble a new fear rose in his stomach and his eyes widened with terror. He had somehow been managing to keep away from his pursuers so far, but if he fell over completely, surely they would be upon him in an instant. Even if they weren’t, the young boy wasn’t sure if he could even get back up. The night was growing long and despite all his urgency and adrenaline, the malnourished young lad was growing tired and weary. Already running on empty it was only desperation and fear that still drove him.
He was so scared and yet still so hopeful that he hadn’t realised just how much he had slowed. This wasn’t the usual guard chase that lead to a simple beating if the one or two men could be bothered keeping up the pursuit. This was different. Vallen had wondered into territory that he shouldn’t have, and with his stubborn attitude he had upset the wrong people along the way. Hateful spiteful people not concerned by rules or laws except for their own. They were a viscous pack that ran these streets, more deadly and dangerous than those of the slums. This was the real reason why the upper regions had less beggars and bums. It wasn’t the guards that kept them in check.
It hit him too late... How many others like him had came here before him. Leaving the slums in their final hours of desperation, overwhelmed by thirst or starvation. Vallen would not be the first to threaten their hold. More begging children meant more guard patrols and they didn’t want that. No. They had quick methods for despatching his kind. Vallen was running the alleyways blind, had been running them for ages, yet still he was in them. Never had he come to an open road or passed a lit up building. There were no sights or sounds of the many people living in this densely populated area. Sure he didn’t know the streets. But his pursers did.
Realisation rushed up to him as quick and as hard as the solid brick wall before him. Trapped! Isolated and alone. He had been running exactly where they had wanted him to. Vallen was known for his defiant fighting spirit, but at this point it was all gone. He had nothing left. Sight of the wall broke what little spirit and hope he had left. He didn’t even look around to see where it was going to come from. It didn’t matter. He dropped heavily to his knees, defeated, given up, just as a soft rain began to fall over him. The rain did little to conceal the tears pouring down his face, still he did not sob. How could he have been so stupid. This, this was his third and final failure.
As the rain grew heavier and the omnidirectional beating commenced, his limp body bounced around back and forth between the violent shadows. Lighting streaked the air and a bellowing thunder echoed down the alley. Despite being like them, of the street with no family, no love, living in fear, constantly fighting for survival. Having being beaten and abused, abandoned and forgotten. Looked down and spat upon. Considered lesser or nothing at all. Despite all these similarities and understandings, there was no sympathy or remorse towards him. They would beat him to death out of the rage and pain those years had built in them, or out of fear of returning to those days. It wasn’t long until his vision dulled and his body offered no resistance to the assault as he rolled around on the floor. Hands and feet pummelled every inch of him. He was sure there were sticks too and probably some sort of bladed weapon. It didn’t matter, there was nothing he could do now and in his final moments he thought only of the sister that he had left behind. His little sweet sister who he had abandoned with that monster all those years ago. How now he could never go back to save her...
There was intent to kill, that is what they were trying to do. Vallen should have died there and then that cold and miserable night, under the heavy rain and crumbling heavens. In that lost little alleyway behind the houses of the rich wealthy and corrupt. Perhaps it was his resilience from a lifetime of beatings or maybe a greater power like some form of divine intervention or fate, it could have even been his stubborn will and his unfinished business that forced him to cling desperately onto those last threads of life. Then again most likely was just simple sheer dumb luck and an eagerness on his attackers part to escape a miserable night too cold and too wet to be thorough. Either way he wasn’t conscious when his near lifeless body plummeted deep into the filthy sewer drain. He barely recalls the rising rapids washing him away through the forgotten unholy pipes beneath the city or even how long that journey took.
But as with all journeys, it eventually came to an end. However Vallen’s was not yet over, one might even say this is where it truly began.
He faded in and out of consciousness multiple times over a period unknown. Light and darkness came and went. Pain was the only constant. Caught between worlds, teetering on the edge of life and death he experienced the most beautiful dreams he had ever had. He saw a mother that he had never met, played happily in safety with his sister all grown up. There was a house and food in abundance. This was all so vivid and as real as real life. He was almost convinced that this was his actual life, but always it quickly and cruelly was vanished, ripped away from him before he could truly clasp or hold it. As in life, forever evading his reach. Despite all its beauty and warmth he would have been better off without it. These visions serving only as a painfully taunting reminder of what could never be. It only gave him further to fall as it vanished, fading away to a myriad of horrid nightmares that came to torment and aggravate him. Reflections of the worst parts of his true past and his greatest fears replayed over and over again.
Seemingly he was only shown that happiness so he could be harshly reminded how far away from it he was, and had always been his whole life. How dare he think he could ever be happy.
Had he the strength to end his life and stop the cyclical nightmare there and then he would have. But even that he couldn’t do. With the visions he saw and felt he welcomed hell, but even that was too close to happiness for him. So with no other option of escape Vallen was forced to open his eyes.
He awoke to a tugging on his right arm. While the midday sun was bright in his eyes and burned at his retinae, slowly a blurry image appeared amongst the sea of white and came into focus as the blinding light faded. Vallen was in a swamp, half submerged in a soaking pile of trash and faeces, caught on the bank a little way down from an open still dripping pipe. It was only because of the heavy rains did the tunnels bring him here. No longer pure luck but divine cruelty, it had to be. It couldn’t be anything else.
Then he recalled the tugging of his right arm and looked over half expecting to see some wild dog feasting on his flesh, but it was not. It was a man, old and crooked. Patchy wisps of unruly white hair littered his chin and were weaved through his thick bushy eyebrows. He had a long thin nose that was apparently resistant to the putrid smell in which they were both bathed. Around his otherwise bald head (except for the just noticeable white hairs in his ears and nostrils.) he wore a thick dirty band on a slight angle that held a makeshift cloth patch over one eye, leaving just one beady hazel eye to gaze suspiciously at Vallen. Beside that the man was concealed heavily by a thick grey course fabric cloak that gave little else as away, leaving only his head and hands protruding.
Noticing Vallen was still alive the old man stopped trying to remove the contents of the boy’s hand. Something Vallen had been holding with a death grip, presumably grabbed in his moments of fleeting consciousness and desperation. The old man showed little interest in the boy and continued to rummage through the filth. If Vallen was to live or die, this man held no stakes or care either way. Suddenly it night and Vallen awoke to the familiar squelching swooshing of the old man rummaging new patches of waste. Had he left and returned? Had he stayed here all day? Either way Vallen welcomed the disturbance that pulled him once again from his nightmares. Once again the old man tested the boy’s grip on his treasure and quickly gave up and moved on.
The next time Vallen awoke it was not to feeling or sound but smell. Through the pungent aroma he had become accustom to cut a powerful forgotten smell that caused a trifle within his stomach and drew a new life within him. A faint orange glow shimmered, caught reflecting in the puddles of water that surround him. Light from a camp fire.
Not far from the boy the old man sat beside the humble flames holding over them sticks of skewed lizard and bugs. While he offered nothing to the near dead child he did not object as Vallen crawled his way through the cold dirt and feat upon the hot food he had set aside. In Vallen’s movements all his injuries were revealed to him. The large and the small. Even the simple ones now infected. But he didn’t care of them. Like a man possessed, all that mattered was that food. Like the risen dead he shambled his half non-responsive body over and feasted with an insatiable desire before again blacking out. Alls whilst holding onto the thin frail leather bound journal like it was his last strand of life.
This became routine. The waking to his grip being checked. The lack of objection as Vallen helped himself to the mans unattended food. The consuming silence between them and a faint absence, both growing more noticeable as Vallen held conscious for longer and longer.
“Johnny fucking silver tongue” Ezlan says musingly, referencing a popular tavern tale as Eomer, quite skilfully, tried to diffuse the situation. The almost sad desperation of his attempt stripped away any admiration his comrades skillfully placed words might have earned from the Caerbean.
It was going quite well Ezlan thought to himself, not feeling any need to justify himself to Eomer. The room had revealed itself and those of non-importance had left.
While the tension in the air might have been as thick as mud, Ezlan sifted through it with the oblivious ease of a mud demon stalking in its own habitat. While seemingly unaware and unhindered by the way it gripped the room and the breath and hearts of the patrons within, this could not be further from the truth.
Ezlan could feel and almost taste it. He relished in it drawing youth and vitality. It was as electricity to his skin and an insatiable thirst on his tongue. There were micro dilations in his pupils and a slight unnoticeable flare to his nostrils as his body began drawing in extra oxygen to supply his raising heart beat. The sweet nectar of adrenaline now coursing through his veins, like an addict, despite common sense, Ezlan couldn’t help himself. Limits would be pushed and boundaries tested. While he held no hostility, it was fair to say not all shared his demeanour.
All this excitement brought a mighty thirst to his lips, and the good thing about everyone standing with hands at the ready, was now their hands were empty. A situation Ezlan would take full advantage of.
Ezlan’s deduction differed from Eomer, and he truly hoped he was right so he could slap the smug righteousness off his comrades face. He instead took the crippled man beside the Tiefling as Dagston. Not all those of position flaunted their wealth so openly, and most cripples wouldn’t speak up and invite trouble so confidently unless the loyalty and respect of the men around him had long since blunted the burden of fear.
Still he kept the fancy clothed man in the corner of his eye, this man bothered him, swathed in unpredictablity he might act on his own accord. But it was one of the heavily armed and armoured men that Ezlan approached. Not only was the weapon heavy and slow but it was overkill for a bar room fight. Hopefully this meant he would not use it. Still, weapon in hand or not Ezlan liked his opponents to use the heavy swinging style that often accompanied such items. Secondly a man in plate armour would fall to the floor easier and find it more difficult to rise.
Ezlan locked the mans gaze intently, not to intimidate but to study. He wanted to see who he sought confirmation from, who it was he looked up to. The smirk long glued on Ezlan’s lips vanished behind a sudden mug of ale. Swiped from the mans very table right before him, Ezlan turned to side profile to steadily drink deeply while still keeping a ready taunting eye on the beverages rightful owner.
..........
Always the showman Ezlan had picked his opponent carefully. While appearing foolishly unready he was actually quite prepared. His loose pants hiding the tense muscles balancing his unorthodox stance. His torso like a wound spring ready to snap and follow his opponents momentum. While he had the muscles and size to upright oppose most others strength, Ezlan often preferred to not be so predictable.
Play the fool. Misdirect. Redirect. Strike fast and overwhelm.
Should everything go to plan, any attempt to touch or attack Ezlan would be quickly met with equal force and dictate the degree to how hard he put his opponent to the floor. It is then that he would introduce himself. ”Ezlan” he would announce loudly in reply to the cripple while kindly aiding his foe back to his feet. “Son of whore and a fisherman with too much coin.” He would joke at his own expense. Truths hidden and weaveing through his humour as was the case with all great stories. ”as my nervous companion said while placing his lips on your asses.” the next joke hopefully these rough men would appreciate was at Eomers expense. ”we are here to do some guild work in this territory, and as I’m sure you are all aware, preparing for work gives a man a fair thirst. Just as doing, completing or even thinking about it.” he finished his last statement, one that hopefully found mutual agreement, with a self amused chuckle. He would then thank the man who’s drink he stole and offer to buy him the next.
Skills: Melee weapons (Str) Fire arms (Dex) Driving (Dex)
Personality: Amundr is a kind, friendly giant with a scarily short temper and some anger issues. He’s not great in social circumstances and speaks his mind freely irregardless of who it might offend. He has a dark sense of humour and despite being a bit grim, always perseveres. For all this he is honest and straight forward. A simple man of simple values and virtues, he is all too happy to help those he can. Present Circumstances: Theme Song:Jekyll and Hyde
“Well ain’t this a sorry looking bunch.” Ezlan loudly muses to himself as he casually enters the nameless tavern with long confident strides. “Well, let’s just hope the ale is better than the atmosphere.” The Caerbean had an almost eager excitement in his eyes as he took in the rough riff-raff of the room. His lips rolled into a smirk as he eyed the wooden leg but no tangible jokes were ready to leave his lips, clearly though, they were steadily forming in his mind.
Making his way to the bar Ezlan leant on it as he eyed as much as he could of what was behind it. Curiosity either sated or running dry, Ezlan spun around, facing the room he addressed them all in his well practiced deep and attention demanding voice. “Any of you happen to be serving, or perhaps be the one to run this fine establishment?” He asked while looking around.
Ezlan got near enough straight to the point, not afraid to draw the attention of the near empty room.
Otakuforreal
Scrawl Banditta
Iracebeth
Esailia
Simply Not Real
Durandals
icmasticc
Neziul
Ezekiel
PrinceAlexus