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Patrol ~(D~M~G)~{~O~T~A~}~
Topic Started: Sat Apr 24, 2010 1:49 am (262 Views)
Hart
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Patrolling, patrolling. Not exactly fun but sure enough a good action to help the floating city of Cascadia. It was a pretty artistic city, sure. The buildings were crafted with style, there were artisans selling their works along the roads. Unfortunately like any other city or village, it was also subject to shadier workings, the criminal underbelly of the world which always reared its ugly head anywhere it went. And it was exactly these same rather nefarious acts which the vigilante known as Steam Punk sought to constantly bring to its knees. Sure, a nice flow of heroes through the city was already keeping the city pretty serene; the added threat of a masked hero flying around on an enchanted shield with a tricky ball of light wasn’t exactly aiding the shady business deals.

Ogre stopped at the edge of a building looking down into an alley, peering over with a bit of a sigh. Sure, he realized that the vigilante work was a constant requirement, nobody asked him to do it but he felt like it was a task he was born into. He worked a normal job for normal pay in the day, assisting in the blacksmith’s forge; the mutt had even gotten pretty good shaping metal himself.

The alley had criminal activity going on, as most did. Alleys were nice and safe away from the common views of the guards. The hero looked up to a full moon, closing his eyes and wishing that tomorrow night could just be one without any criminal activity, where for one day everything was just good and happy, where all he had to do after work was rest and look at the art along the streets. He wasn’t sure if the wish could come true, but for tonight somebody innocent was getting tricked into something, or mugged, he couldn’t really tell. He pushed his magical disc to hover over the criminal scum in the alley before jumping on it and bringing down the force of his weight on top of a metal object to weigh like the sins of the criminal against him with a non-fatal drop. He stood and looked to the person he had aided, a bit wearily.
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Sangre Azul
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The problem with being a one-armed orc was that, at the end of the day, merchant or not, well-spoken or not, shorter than average or not, more intelligent than half the population in the city of mages or not (admittedly, this was a happy byproduct of a rather unhappy master-slave relationship with one of those selfsame mages) you were still a green-skinned brute with one arm.

You'd be surprised how many people were willing to pick a fight with someone with an obvious disability.

They'd clobbered him after he had finished a round of drinking (and business transactions) by the Purple Dragon - it didn't really matter why, maybe they didn't like the way he walked or talked, maybe they had a thing against orcs, maybe one of their close kin, friends or themselves had been ambushed by an orc raiding party.

Maybe they were evil and doing it for [removed]s and giggles.

Unlikely.

They could have killed him right away. Gone for the jugular. They chose to play instead.

Two elves, a human. Sangre could make out that much when he woke. Orc fingernails were tougher than human ones. When they tore off the first he'd nearly managed to buck them off - one of them had some sort of strength enhancement spell though. Her dainty little hands had clamped down onto him calling him all sorts of elvish things that no doubt promised death and dismemberment.

He'd howled loud enough to wake the dead at the second one. No one noticed. Heh.

They'd gotten up to number of five (and no doubt planning other fun things) when something entirely unexpected happened.

Something out of a crazed mage's idea of a fun experiment dropped out of the sky on something round and compact (a shield? a frying pan? a giant rice bowl?) and brained one of the aggressors, dropping him. The female elf swore something unintelligible but no doubt unusually crude and ran, her human companion followed. Sangre fell to the ground, hand bleeding.

Sangre looked up and hoped he hadn't gotten out of one sticky situation only to find himself in the slaughterhouse.

"You have my thanks," Sangre said, grimacing as he got to his feet.

Wow, it was tall. And that mask was not precisely friendly.

He flexed his fingers and nearly howled again. While he'd taken a lot of punishment in the arena, it took a lot of effort to get used to pain - he'd been living the life of a merchant for the better part of the year. He'd grown soft.

When the figure didn't answer, Sangre asked, hiding his subsiding adrenaline rush and his wooziness, "if you need gold or..." he slid to a knee. Heh. Alcohol and a round of torture was enough to get him to this state. Pathetic.
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Hart
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Ogre looked at the person he had saved, giving a bit of a sigh as he saw it was a man. He was hoping for a damsel in distress, well, maybe he could save one later in the night. He stepped off of his shield and picked it up off of the mugger, putting a finger on the man’s throat to feel for a pulse, still alive, just with a lot of blood coming from his head. Eh, well, the guy seemed big enough to survive it, besides, he was evil so would it really matter?

Ogre dropped the somewhat un-heroic thoughts when the man dropped to the ground while speaking, rushing to him with genuine concern. Just because he wanted to have rather saved a damsel, a beautiful untaken one, instead of anything else, didn’t exactly mean he wasn’t still heroic by nature.

It wasn’t until now that he noticed two rather important things. First, this man was missing an arm, a veteran, second and less importantly, perhaps, this man was also an orc who had apparently been tortured for quite a while. Probably some racist act, if the man wasn’t injured by the creep, Ogre would have thrown in extra kick to dropping down on the man’s head.

“Okay, you are obviously not okay. I can get you to a healer or the Black River, right now I don’t really give a damn if I have to wake them up from a good night’s slumber.” Ogre said with a rushed tone, he didn’t want to see anybody injured, and no matter how it happened, he held veterans in great respect, and if it weren’t for the concern over the orc’s wounds, he would be kicking himself for pretty much making an ass out of himself. Luckily, though, he knew of a few healers close by, too bad none could replace an arm.
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Sangre Azul
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"It's fine," Sangre said, a little disconcerted by the somewhat contradictory effects of the imposing mask and the somewhat worried, almost innocent tone of the crusader in front of him. Not to mention the sudden and thankful shift from a likely death in a gutter and the rather more likely chance of survival now that that this was all over.

He'd half-expected to be asked protection money but that didn't seem to be the case at all.

(Still, odd line of work this. Saving people, was it? Couldn't be very rewarding, financially speaking. And the juggling of personas had to be killer on the brain. Not to mention sleep schedule.)

Sangre feverently hoped this wasn't some nutter. Or a wizard's idea of a good joke - what were artificial beings called again, homunculi? That mask was frankly made of nightmares, all knobs and flat surfaces and beady little reflections. Still, better the benefit of the doubt than some wild and crazy speculation. People went mad doing that. Well-established fact.

The merchant orc got up under his own willpower. "It's alright, it's alright. Used to th -" he flexed his fingers as if to show and nearly crumpled to the ground again. "Aheh. Maybe a dip in the black river would be a good idea after all," the orc admitted. "Let's not bother the healers over a few cuts like this."
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