It wasn't that Ginger Dan mourned the loss of Varel and Tym. He didn't. They were radge bastards who brought in a trickle of coin most weeks and other weeks cost the gang in booze and bribes.
It wasn't that he hated the job of telling their families they were dead: they hadn't had them to start with. Varel was one of the Stormwind street rats who'd been clever enough or lucky enough to survive childhood. Tym's da had been hanged for murdering Tym's mum and sisters twenty years gone. Neither of them had sweethearts or even favorite whores. Dan divvied some of their things up amongst the remaining boys and sold the rest. That profited him about seventy silver -- still more than the two had brought in in the month before their deaths.
It wasn't even that, since they had no families, he was stuck with the expense of laying them to rest. He had two of the youngest boys drag their corpses to the canals in the small hours and that was the end of it. He even tipped them each two silvers for the job.
It wasn't any of those things, and yet, ever since they'd been found foaming and frothing at the mouths on their squalid, flea-ridden pallets, Ginger Dan had felt the fury building in him, a hard pit in the center of his chest.
To be fair, the little bitch had probably done him a favor. Varel and Tym were only a run-in or two with the guard away from landing in the Stocks. Or, when they inevitably fucked up a job, (and that was a when, not an if) he'd have had to slit their throats himself.
She'd done it fair and square, too. Varel and Tym threatened one of hers, so she took them out. Hell, she'd even done it in style, taking over a wench's shift and waiting their table herself. They'd looked right at her when she dropped off their mugs of poison-laden grog. Red-haired Bette even said they'd tipped her, tucking a whole two coppers into her bodice. She'd leaned way down to let them do it, said Bette, and looked them in the eyes.
All they saw were her tits, of course. They'd toasted each other's health and slammed back their deaths.
Funny thing: if the bitch had been freelance, Dan would've sought her out and hired her, made her the first of Ginger Dan's Boys that didn't piss standing up. But she wasn't, and that was what gnawed at him.
Now, Varel and Tym had brought it upon themselves, frightening the Langston girl like that, and if the bitch hadn't done them in, they'd've worked themselves up to worse sooner rather than later. Which would have meant a dead Langston girl, and the Guard wasn't likely to let that go. The slatterns in Cutthroat Alley could all be found in a heap and the law would look the other way. But murder a girl from an honest Old Town family, and the alleys'd be crawling with the King's Own day and night, mucking up business and collaring even the most upstanding of the criminals.
No, she'd done him a favor, done them all a favor, but it didn't fucking matter, did it?
Because when someone struck out at yours, you struck back at theirs. And you kept doing it until someone blinked or backed down.
Ginger Dan wasn't going to back down, not from a yellow-haired tavern whore, even if she did wear the Black and fucking Red. Yet, even with their boss out of town, the Riders were deadly to a man. Dan ticked off his men's names in his head, pitting them against this or that Rider, and every time, it was his gang on the losing side.
There was the Drachmas woman, maybe, but she was rarely in town, and when she was, she was flanked by the rest. That, and she often had at least one babe in her arms. Ginger Dan was a cruel fucking bastard, but he'd not murder a new mother. He didn't like killing women in general -- rough them up, sure, if they deserved it, but... no, he didn't want a mother's blood on his hands.
A father's, though...
For the first time in weeks, Ginger Dan smiled.
Eye for an Eye
Moderator: Guild Officer
Re: Eye for an Eye
The shop hadn't seen a customer in nearly half an hour. People had been hurrying home from their errands earlier than usual in the days since the riots. Business would pick up again in the summer, as the days grew longer and the passage of time calmed the city's nerves. While it was slow, though, Padraig al'Cair decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Thenia had taken Naiara for a walk. If he closed now, he could have dinner halfway done by the time they got home.
He was halfway to the door, keys in hand, when it burst open and three men came stomping in.
"I'm sorry," he said amiably, "but I was just about to close for the night." It only took one look at their shabby clothes and hungry eyes to know they weren't there for silk or wool.
"It's all right." The tallest one, a wiry man with a shock of curly red hair, leaned against the door and turned the lock. "Our business won't take long."
The others two were Padraig's height, but half again his size when it came to sheer muscle. They stalked forward, their expressions almost bored except for the glint of violence in their eyes.
His sword was behind the counter; he'd never put it back in the attic after the riots. If I can get to it now, I can even out the odds. Padraig held his hands up and took a slow step backwards. "Listen, gents, I'm not sure what this is about, but why don't we talk? I've a bottle of whisky in the back. We can --"
"Don't waste your breath, friend. There's nothing to discuss. We're merely balancing the books." The man nodded to his lackeys. His voice was almost regretful. "You have a very clever little girl, sir, but business is business. Clever'd only count if she was one of mine."
Padraig knew better than to turn his back on the advancing thugs, but they weren't going to let him retreat all the way behind the counter. He knew every inch of the store; it had been his for near-on thirty years. He'd helped John Bell frame out the walls and windows. It was the one advantage he had.
He backed up three more swift steps and leapt, one hand coming out to aid his desperate backwards vault.
Maybe ten years ago, he'd been nimble enough to make it, but such acrobatics were a distant dream. The palm of his hand hit the counter wrong. Pain shot up his forearm as his wrist snapped. He'd have fallen to the ground on the wrong side of the counter if one of the thugs hadn't been there to yank him forward by his shirtfront.
Padraig put up the best fight he could as their fists looped down. He got in a few well-aimed kicks and one solid hit with his left hand, even with his right hanging limp and useless at his side.
But these men were seasoned fighters: a bloodied nose and a couple of bruised shins weren't going to slow them down against one middle-aged shopkeeper. They worked in relative silence, the only sound in the dusklit shop Padraig's grunts and groans as each hit landed. One held him up while the other pummelled him. Neither of them even broke a sweat.
Ginger Dan didn't lie. Within mere minutes, Padraig's knees buckled, and he became dead weight in the arms of his assailant. His face was a battered mess -- he'd spat out at least three teeth already and there'd surely be more loosened and lost. They lowered him to the floor and started kicking, as though it wasn't a man laying there, but a sack of potatoes or a bag of sand.
Dan counted to ten and said, "That's enough, boys. We want to be gone before his wife gets home. I don't fancy having to do for her, too." He knelt down beside Padraig, careful not to get blood on his knees. "Listen, friend, you awake?"
One grey eye rolled towards him. The other was swollen shut. Ginger Dan could see pain there, and fear, and most importantly, lucidity. Tough, for a shopkeeper, or stubborn, maybe. Whatever the reason, it was good enough for Dan.
"You tell your girl we're even, yeah? I called them off before they could kill you. I don't fancy a war with her associates, so there's the deal. You get to live, she leaves us alone. Gonna be fuckin' hurting a good long time, but you ain't dead. So that's the end of it. Tell her."
He clambered to his feet and followed his men out the door.
He was halfway to the door, keys in hand, when it burst open and three men came stomping in.
"I'm sorry," he said amiably, "but I was just about to close for the night." It only took one look at their shabby clothes and hungry eyes to know they weren't there for silk or wool.
"It's all right." The tallest one, a wiry man with a shock of curly red hair, leaned against the door and turned the lock. "Our business won't take long."
The others two were Padraig's height, but half again his size when it came to sheer muscle. They stalked forward, their expressions almost bored except for the glint of violence in their eyes.
His sword was behind the counter; he'd never put it back in the attic after the riots. If I can get to it now, I can even out the odds. Padraig held his hands up and took a slow step backwards. "Listen, gents, I'm not sure what this is about, but why don't we talk? I've a bottle of whisky in the back. We can --"
"Don't waste your breath, friend. There's nothing to discuss. We're merely balancing the books." The man nodded to his lackeys. His voice was almost regretful. "You have a very clever little girl, sir, but business is business. Clever'd only count if she was one of mine."
Padraig knew better than to turn his back on the advancing thugs, but they weren't going to let him retreat all the way behind the counter. He knew every inch of the store; it had been his for near-on thirty years. He'd helped John Bell frame out the walls and windows. It was the one advantage he had.
He backed up three more swift steps and leapt, one hand coming out to aid his desperate backwards vault.
Maybe ten years ago, he'd been nimble enough to make it, but such acrobatics were a distant dream. The palm of his hand hit the counter wrong. Pain shot up his forearm as his wrist snapped. He'd have fallen to the ground on the wrong side of the counter if one of the thugs hadn't been there to yank him forward by his shirtfront.
Padraig put up the best fight he could as their fists looped down. He got in a few well-aimed kicks and one solid hit with his left hand, even with his right hanging limp and useless at his side.
But these men were seasoned fighters: a bloodied nose and a couple of bruised shins weren't going to slow them down against one middle-aged shopkeeper. They worked in relative silence, the only sound in the dusklit shop Padraig's grunts and groans as each hit landed. One held him up while the other pummelled him. Neither of them even broke a sweat.
Ginger Dan didn't lie. Within mere minutes, Padraig's knees buckled, and he became dead weight in the arms of his assailant. His face was a battered mess -- he'd spat out at least three teeth already and there'd surely be more loosened and lost. They lowered him to the floor and started kicking, as though it wasn't a man laying there, but a sack of potatoes or a bag of sand.
Dan counted to ten and said, "That's enough, boys. We want to be gone before his wife gets home. I don't fancy having to do for her, too." He knelt down beside Padraig, careful not to get blood on his knees. "Listen, friend, you awake?"
One grey eye rolled towards him. The other was swollen shut. Ginger Dan could see pain there, and fear, and most importantly, lucidity. Tough, for a shopkeeper, or stubborn, maybe. Whatever the reason, it was good enough for Dan.
"You tell your girl we're even, yeah? I called them off before they could kill you. I don't fancy a war with her associates, so there's the deal. You get to live, she leaves us alone. Gonna be fuckin' hurting a good long time, but you ain't dead. So that's the end of it. Tell her."
He clambered to his feet and followed his men out the door.
Re: Eye for an Eye
Threnn and Anna sat on opposite sides of the desk, the end of a plate of cinammon scones between them.
"I should've talked to you sooner. Bricu said he serves these with brown butter when they're hot."
"You should've talked to me sooner because I'm your big sister."
Anna rolled her eyes. "Threnny, I'm fine. I promise. I --"
Both of their buzzboxes crackled to life at the same time, their parents' shopgirl's voice echoing on both channels. "M-Miss Annalea? Miss Th-Threnn? Please answer. P-please."
Threnn snatched her box up first. "We're both here, Maggie. Is everything all right?"
The girl moaned. "N-no, it's not. Your f-father. H-he's -- just please c-come. He n-needs healing."
They were out of their chairs in seconds, up and out the door before the shopgirl's voice could fade out. They flew along the cobblestone streets, throwing one another worried glances as they ran. Neither dared to speculate, as if wondering aloud might break some spell and kill him before they could get there. They pushed themselves faster, harder, until they reeled around the corner and saw the shop.
Pomeroy stood outside, guarding the door.
"How bad?" said Threnn, just as Anna asked, "What happened?"
He didn't answer either of them, only stepped out of the way so they could get inside.
Annalea whimpered as she caught sight of the ruin that was her father's face. Their mother leaned over him, whispering to him and dabbing at his forehead with a cloth that was already soaked with blood. Maggie stood in the corner, holding a shell-shocked Naiara.
Threnn knelt beside her mother and took her father's head in her hands. "Has he said anything?"
Thenia shook her head. "Can you... is he going to..." Her voice broke, but she got it under control quickly. "Threnody, is he going to die?"
"No." Threnn took Padraig's head in her hands. Somehow, she didn't know how, the calm of the battlefield descended upon her. The Light filled her as she whispered her prayer and drove it into her father's wounds, closing them as swiftly as she could. Flesh knit together, bones set, his labored breathing eased.
Threnn held onto the Light, healing what she could, but injuries this severe couldn't be repaired all at once. This was a start. The rest, Padraig would have to do on his own. She sat back, panting, drained from the force of the healing magic. "Anna, buzz Bricu. We need to get Da up to bed. Going to need help."
Thenia watched Anna step out onto the porch, then dropped her bloody length of cloth and reached for another. Threnn realized dully that she was pulling from a pile of the most expensive linens in the shop. She reached across and took one for herself, dipping it in the bowl of warm water that sat between herself and her mother.
They set to work washing off the blood they waited for Bricu to arrive.
"I should've talked to you sooner. Bricu said he serves these with brown butter when they're hot."
"You should've talked to me sooner because I'm your big sister."
Anna rolled her eyes. "Threnny, I'm fine. I promise. I --"
Both of their buzzboxes crackled to life at the same time, their parents' shopgirl's voice echoing on both channels. "M-Miss Annalea? Miss Th-Threnn? Please answer. P-please."
Threnn snatched her box up first. "We're both here, Maggie. Is everything all right?"
The girl moaned. "N-no, it's not. Your f-father. H-he's -- just please c-come. He n-needs healing."
They were out of their chairs in seconds, up and out the door before the shopgirl's voice could fade out. They flew along the cobblestone streets, throwing one another worried glances as they ran. Neither dared to speculate, as if wondering aloud might break some spell and kill him before they could get there. They pushed themselves faster, harder, until they reeled around the corner and saw the shop.
Pomeroy stood outside, guarding the door.
"How bad?" said Threnn, just as Anna asked, "What happened?"
He didn't answer either of them, only stepped out of the way so they could get inside.
Annalea whimpered as she caught sight of the ruin that was her father's face. Their mother leaned over him, whispering to him and dabbing at his forehead with a cloth that was already soaked with blood. Maggie stood in the corner, holding a shell-shocked Naiara.
Threnn knelt beside her mother and took her father's head in her hands. "Has he said anything?"
Thenia shook her head. "Can you... is he going to..." Her voice broke, but she got it under control quickly. "Threnody, is he going to die?"
"No." Threnn took Padraig's head in her hands. Somehow, she didn't know how, the calm of the battlefield descended upon her. The Light filled her as she whispered her prayer and drove it into her father's wounds, closing them as swiftly as she could. Flesh knit together, bones set, his labored breathing eased.
Threnn held onto the Light, healing what she could, but injuries this severe couldn't be repaired all at once. This was a start. The rest, Padraig would have to do on his own. She sat back, panting, drained from the force of the healing magic. "Anna, buzz Bricu. We need to get Da up to bed. Going to need help."
Thenia watched Anna step out onto the porch, then dropped her bloody length of cloth and reached for another. Threnn realized dully that she was pulling from a pile of the most expensive linens in the shop. She reached across and took one for herself, dipping it in the bowl of warm water that sat between herself and her mother.
They set to work washing off the blood they waited for Bricu to arrive.
Re: Eye for an Eye
It wasn't that Ginger Dan was scared of the Wildfire Riders. He was, but that was because he was smart. Having a healthy fear of a powerful gang is just a natural instinct in the business, and one that'd saved many an arse over the years. But it wasn't fear that was stilling Dan's hand and making him brood in the back room.
He mulled over the rumors he'd been hearing out of the east-side of Old Town for the last few days. Panic from the Pig and Whistle, Riders running all about willy-nilly, and even the temporary boss dropping out of sight. He didn't think it was all over one beating, even if it was a beating of a relation to that boss. That's what got him; no recourse, no recompense - it really did seem like they were even. Those bastards accepted it.
It wasn't that Ginger Dan was a coward; it was that he was honestly and deeply surprised. The beating went down and was accepted like it would be for any other gang. No escalation. No posturing. The black-and-red blokes had been shut of it, and were now panicking about...about what? What was it that could send ap Danwyrith's people all scurrying and running? It wasn't that Ginger Dan didn't want to make the push. He really did. It was that this was the kind of gamble that could make him or break him, him and his Boys. This took thought. This took planning. This took real consideration.
The black-and-red had backed down. He couldn't remember that happening before. But they'd backed down.
"Fuck it," he said aloud. Then, louder, out his open door, "'EY, SYMON! Round up the blokes! We're makin' a call!"
It wasn't that Ginger Dan was impatient. It was that he knew an opportunity when he saw it.
-
Old Town rarely slept. There was always a murmur of action at any hour, dark or light; a frantic pace to the pulse of the quarter, energized by the machinations, struggles and business that was Old Town's life. So, despite the fact it was just a few minutes after twelve bells had rung the hour, it was to be expected that Old Town would be babbling with business, inhabitants about their work or their recreation or whatever it was they did when the two merged. Tonight, though, something was different.
Old Town rarely slept, but Old Town knew how to keep its head down.
Ginger Dan led his people through the lanes and the alleys in a procession that was proceeded like a parody of a victorious parade. Instead of proud citizens clapping work-worn hands, the window shutters clapped closed. Instead of children running to the street to dance and make merry, the alcoholics stumbled up from their curbs and made themselves scarce. Instead of celebrants in shining armor and fancy gowns, Ginger Dan led his mob filled with battered leather armor and warmagi's blood-tinged robes.
He hadn't exactly broken the bank to gather this mob, but it was a near thing. He'd hired magi and 'locks, bruisers and thugs, swordsmen and women, even called in a big favor for a couple of disgraced priests, all crawly with shadow. There'd be one good chance for this, and he wanted to make utterly sure he was the first one to seize this opportunity by the short n' curlies, when the seizing was good.
Dan was near the head of the crowd, but smart enough not to put himself in the very front; he had a pair of nice wide bruisers in front of him. So he wasn't sure, at first, why they halted in place. It brought the rest of the mob up short behind them, crowding the narrow lane and blocking the doorways. The bruisers shuffled in place and shared a glance before they looked back at Dan. Both wore bandannas tied about their mouths, but he could read the nervousness in their shifting eyes, and frowned at it.
"What's the hold up, here?" Dan shouldered past their stuttering replies to catch sight of the Pig and Whistle. It was lit from within with only a few windows lit with flickering lamplight. There was no force to meet their mob, no guns pointed from windowpanes, no drawn knives in the moonlight. The place looked practically deserted, or at least very slow on a night when by all rights it should have been hustling with drunks, Riders, and drunk Riders. There was only a single figure sitting on the stairs, smoking a cigarette. Dan was about to curse out the bruisers until the figure stood up, tall and fluid. She tossed down her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her boot, head raising to face the mob. The light from the Pig's windows glanced off an eye-patch and lit up an open eye tattooed on her throat.
Ginger Dan spat to the side and glanced around himself. He spied a woman in a dark robe standing nearby and motioned for her to follow him. Fireeater Felica was one of the 'locks he'd hired out of the Slaughtered Lamb for more than her weight in silver. Her head was cowled and her hands hidden under the wide sleeves of her robes, but Dan knew in times like this she had fire and shadow playing along burnt fingertips. He had Fireeater Felica for one night and one night only, but with folk like her along, he was certain he only needed the one night. That elf or not, it was still his mob of two score against just the one longeared bitch.
"Cheers," Ceil Nightfury greeted evenly as Dan approached her, with the cowled warlock at his side. He kept his eyes on Nightfury's face, though he noted with some confusion she wasn't dressed for a fight at all - with no blades visible, she wore a long skirt and a tunic that looked designed specifically not to protect important bits.
"Evenin'," he returned, somewhat gruffer. "Your folk are gonna have to find another place to drink from now on."
Nightfury raised her eyebrows, the right arched above her eye-patch. She seemed to consider Dan's order for a moment and his pulse jumped; this wasn't going to be an easy job, he had to be ready for any of the sly tricks these bastards were known for running. She glanced over her shoulder and called out,
"Hey, there, Audrian? Do you feel much like finding another place to drink tonight?"
There was a moment of silence while Dan tried to sort the name. He knew most of the Riders' muscle - it was hard not to. But the name didn't strike a cord. Nor did the face of the man that came to the top of the steps a moment later. The big blond man was just as wide as either of Dan's procession-leading bruisers, but showing off gear that was both far more expensive and well-kept; boiled leather, chainmail and flanged maces tied to his belt, shiny from care. The blond joined Nightfury, wider than two of her and a head shorter.
"Miss Elly just poured fresh rounds," Audrian replied with a scowl. He tugged loose one of the heavy maces from his belt. "Don't fancy wasting a good stout."
Nightfury smiled with a crooked edge and looked back to Dan. She spread her bare hands and give a simple little shrug. "I'm sorry, you've heard the man."
"I don't think you heard me, longear," Dan began, but stopped himself in alarm as Nightfury reached one hand for her hip. Fireeater Felica went whippet-straight and raised a hand of her own, sleeve falling back to reveal a globe of solid shadow in her palm, pulsing with muted screams.
"Oh, calm yourselves," Nightfury clucked her tongue, slowing down her movement to pull out a slim leather wallet. "Now, then. The Pig's where we're drinking. Audrian, myself, and a few of our fellows." She flipped open the wallet, revealing the badge of shining gold inside. As Ginger Dan stared at the emblem and recognition set in, his face slowly went as red as his name.
Audrian huffed a laugh, tapping the flanged head of his mace against his palm. "Seems a good place to drink, you know? So close to the Barracks and an'at."
Ginger Dan looked from the badge to the elf's face and her slightly curved grin sharpened. Next to him, Fireeater Felica was already pulling back, the globe of shadows in her hand had flickered out. As the mob realized what was happening, it rippled with an uncertain murmur. He didn't have to look back to know there were already folk splitting off, breaking away, slipping as far from the Pig and Whistle as they could get. As soon as Felica spoke a few words to them, his very expensive mob would splinter into nothing.
The folk he'd come mob-handed with were good folk for the job - bloody-minded and unflinching. Some of them had scores to settle with the black-and-red, some of them would want a hand in the business just to say they'd been there the night the Riders had been run out of Old Town, some of them just wanted a big damn fight. The problem, though, was that not a good goddamn one of them wanted to tangle with SI:7. Everyone in Old Town - in Stormwind - danced a fine-line, keeping out of the Service's eyes, keeping their heads just low enough to avoid anything worse than a few days in the Stocks, or at worst, a few weeks hard labor. The last mob that had stood up strong to the Service was all but wiped out; those still alive were toiling in a cave in Westfall, barely a thought on any one's mind any longer.
Nightfury walked from the front step of the Pig and close enough to Dan that he could smell the smoke still clinging to her skin.
"Ginger Dan, isn't it?" He didn't reply, only glanced down at her hand as she snapped the wallet closed and returned it to her hip pocket. She continued, staring with a single eye and smiling a pretty smile, "The west end's a good place for you to stay. I think right here's just too busy to fit another business venture, and no sign of anyone moving out any time soon." She glanced behind herself at the Pig and Whistle with an indulgent smile. He followed her gaze and caught a glance of a face in the window staring at him with dangerous eyes. His stomach twisted in panic and he took a step backwards, away from the elf, the Pig and his possibly impending doom.
"I didn't mean no--"
"But you did," Nightfury said softly and looked back to him, smile wiped from her face. There was a look in her eye that sent him back another panicked step. "You're smarter than the west end, Ginger Dan, but you're not smart enough for here."
She turned her back on Dan without care and walked back up the stairs, leaving him behind with shaking knees, a risen gorge and the remnants of a forty-man mob. The big SI:7 bruiser gave him a nasty smile and went back inside at Nightfury's side. They left the pub's door open, inviting in the warm night.
He mulled over the rumors he'd been hearing out of the east-side of Old Town for the last few days. Panic from the Pig and Whistle, Riders running all about willy-nilly, and even the temporary boss dropping out of sight. He didn't think it was all over one beating, even if it was a beating of a relation to that boss. That's what got him; no recourse, no recompense - it really did seem like they were even. Those bastards accepted it.
It wasn't that Ginger Dan was a coward; it was that he was honestly and deeply surprised. The beating went down and was accepted like it would be for any other gang. No escalation. No posturing. The black-and-red blokes had been shut of it, and were now panicking about...about what? What was it that could send ap Danwyrith's people all scurrying and running? It wasn't that Ginger Dan didn't want to make the push. He really did. It was that this was the kind of gamble that could make him or break him, him and his Boys. This took thought. This took planning. This took real consideration.
The black-and-red had backed down. He couldn't remember that happening before. But they'd backed down.
"Fuck it," he said aloud. Then, louder, out his open door, "'EY, SYMON! Round up the blokes! We're makin' a call!"
It wasn't that Ginger Dan was impatient. It was that he knew an opportunity when he saw it.
-
Old Town rarely slept. There was always a murmur of action at any hour, dark or light; a frantic pace to the pulse of the quarter, energized by the machinations, struggles and business that was Old Town's life. So, despite the fact it was just a few minutes after twelve bells had rung the hour, it was to be expected that Old Town would be babbling with business, inhabitants about their work or their recreation or whatever it was they did when the two merged. Tonight, though, something was different.
Old Town rarely slept, but Old Town knew how to keep its head down.
Ginger Dan led his people through the lanes and the alleys in a procession that was proceeded like a parody of a victorious parade. Instead of proud citizens clapping work-worn hands, the window shutters clapped closed. Instead of children running to the street to dance and make merry, the alcoholics stumbled up from their curbs and made themselves scarce. Instead of celebrants in shining armor and fancy gowns, Ginger Dan led his mob filled with battered leather armor and warmagi's blood-tinged robes.
He hadn't exactly broken the bank to gather this mob, but it was a near thing. He'd hired magi and 'locks, bruisers and thugs, swordsmen and women, even called in a big favor for a couple of disgraced priests, all crawly with shadow. There'd be one good chance for this, and he wanted to make utterly sure he was the first one to seize this opportunity by the short n' curlies, when the seizing was good.
Dan was near the head of the crowd, but smart enough not to put himself in the very front; he had a pair of nice wide bruisers in front of him. So he wasn't sure, at first, why they halted in place. It brought the rest of the mob up short behind them, crowding the narrow lane and blocking the doorways. The bruisers shuffled in place and shared a glance before they looked back at Dan. Both wore bandannas tied about their mouths, but he could read the nervousness in their shifting eyes, and frowned at it.
"What's the hold up, here?" Dan shouldered past their stuttering replies to catch sight of the Pig and Whistle. It was lit from within with only a few windows lit with flickering lamplight. There was no force to meet their mob, no guns pointed from windowpanes, no drawn knives in the moonlight. The place looked practically deserted, or at least very slow on a night when by all rights it should have been hustling with drunks, Riders, and drunk Riders. There was only a single figure sitting on the stairs, smoking a cigarette. Dan was about to curse out the bruisers until the figure stood up, tall and fluid. She tossed down her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her boot, head raising to face the mob. The light from the Pig's windows glanced off an eye-patch and lit up an open eye tattooed on her throat.
Ginger Dan spat to the side and glanced around himself. He spied a woman in a dark robe standing nearby and motioned for her to follow him. Fireeater Felica was one of the 'locks he'd hired out of the Slaughtered Lamb for more than her weight in silver. Her head was cowled and her hands hidden under the wide sleeves of her robes, but Dan knew in times like this she had fire and shadow playing along burnt fingertips. He had Fireeater Felica for one night and one night only, but with folk like her along, he was certain he only needed the one night. That elf or not, it was still his mob of two score against just the one longeared bitch.
"Cheers," Ceil Nightfury greeted evenly as Dan approached her, with the cowled warlock at his side. He kept his eyes on Nightfury's face, though he noted with some confusion she wasn't dressed for a fight at all - with no blades visible, she wore a long skirt and a tunic that looked designed specifically not to protect important bits.
"Evenin'," he returned, somewhat gruffer. "Your folk are gonna have to find another place to drink from now on."
Nightfury raised her eyebrows, the right arched above her eye-patch. She seemed to consider Dan's order for a moment and his pulse jumped; this wasn't going to be an easy job, he had to be ready for any of the sly tricks these bastards were known for running. She glanced over her shoulder and called out,
"Hey, there, Audrian? Do you feel much like finding another place to drink tonight?"
There was a moment of silence while Dan tried to sort the name. He knew most of the Riders' muscle - it was hard not to. But the name didn't strike a cord. Nor did the face of the man that came to the top of the steps a moment later. The big blond man was just as wide as either of Dan's procession-leading bruisers, but showing off gear that was both far more expensive and well-kept; boiled leather, chainmail and flanged maces tied to his belt, shiny from care. The blond joined Nightfury, wider than two of her and a head shorter.
"Miss Elly just poured fresh rounds," Audrian replied with a scowl. He tugged loose one of the heavy maces from his belt. "Don't fancy wasting a good stout."
Nightfury smiled with a crooked edge and looked back to Dan. She spread her bare hands and give a simple little shrug. "I'm sorry, you've heard the man."
"I don't think you heard me, longear," Dan began, but stopped himself in alarm as Nightfury reached one hand for her hip. Fireeater Felica went whippet-straight and raised a hand of her own, sleeve falling back to reveal a globe of solid shadow in her palm, pulsing with muted screams.
"Oh, calm yourselves," Nightfury clucked her tongue, slowing down her movement to pull out a slim leather wallet. "Now, then. The Pig's where we're drinking. Audrian, myself, and a few of our fellows." She flipped open the wallet, revealing the badge of shining gold inside. As Ginger Dan stared at the emblem and recognition set in, his face slowly went as red as his name.
Audrian huffed a laugh, tapping the flanged head of his mace against his palm. "Seems a good place to drink, you know? So close to the Barracks and an'at."
Ginger Dan looked from the badge to the elf's face and her slightly curved grin sharpened. Next to him, Fireeater Felica was already pulling back, the globe of shadows in her hand had flickered out. As the mob realized what was happening, it rippled with an uncertain murmur. He didn't have to look back to know there were already folk splitting off, breaking away, slipping as far from the Pig and Whistle as they could get. As soon as Felica spoke a few words to them, his very expensive mob would splinter into nothing.
The folk he'd come mob-handed with were good folk for the job - bloody-minded and unflinching. Some of them had scores to settle with the black-and-red, some of them would want a hand in the business just to say they'd been there the night the Riders had been run out of Old Town, some of them just wanted a big damn fight. The problem, though, was that not a good goddamn one of them wanted to tangle with SI:7. Everyone in Old Town - in Stormwind - danced a fine-line, keeping out of the Service's eyes, keeping their heads just low enough to avoid anything worse than a few days in the Stocks, or at worst, a few weeks hard labor. The last mob that had stood up strong to the Service was all but wiped out; those still alive were toiling in a cave in Westfall, barely a thought on any one's mind any longer.
Nightfury walked from the front step of the Pig and close enough to Dan that he could smell the smoke still clinging to her skin.
"Ginger Dan, isn't it?" He didn't reply, only glanced down at her hand as she snapped the wallet closed and returned it to her hip pocket. She continued, staring with a single eye and smiling a pretty smile, "The west end's a good place for you to stay. I think right here's just too busy to fit another business venture, and no sign of anyone moving out any time soon." She glanced behind herself at the Pig and Whistle with an indulgent smile. He followed her gaze and caught a glance of a face in the window staring at him with dangerous eyes. His stomach twisted in panic and he took a step backwards, away from the elf, the Pig and his possibly impending doom.
"I didn't mean no--"
"But you did," Nightfury said softly and looked back to him, smile wiped from her face. There was a look in her eye that sent him back another panicked step. "You're smarter than the west end, Ginger Dan, but you're not smart enough for here."
She turned her back on Dan without care and walked back up the stairs, leaving him behind with shaking knees, a risen gorge and the remnants of a forty-man mob. The big SI:7 bruiser gave him a nasty smile and went back inside at Nightfury's side. They left the pub's door open, inviting in the warm night.