A Sellsword, A Cutpurse, and a Very Sordid Tale!

Warm sun shone down over the city-state with out a name. It was a den of sin, the home of blood thirsty mercenaries, of exotic brothels, ruthless thieves, and a mesh of technologies and cultures from the two great continents. This place was not touched by either, declared apart from the constant hatred and warfare between Shaemil of the east and Boren of the west. Two nations hell bent on destroying the other, no matter the cost. Yet each nation was held in thrall by the Gods and Demons. They influenced every action, and controlled the out come of every war. But here, here in this place set apart. The Gods and Demons had no influence. The men and woman here had no need for their petty influences, their need for power and control. This city was different, a neutral ground owned solely by men and mortal. In this place, each person controlled their own fate.

-

"'Ey girly! Get yer ass o'er 'ere!" A gruff voice shouted over the din of market. The voice's owner was a big burly man who's appearance would make even the toughest man think twice before picking a fight. Most of his face was covered by a thick matted beard or covered by the brim of his hat, and his general appearance was rough, dirty, and heavily armed. The girl, well woman, he was calling for was across the open square that was packed with stalls of vendors and people busily going about their business, none was dimwitted enough to see who was shouting. Rowan turned her head to peer across the cloud at Ivan. The dumb dolt was drawing attention to her, that she did not need at this moment; not with her pockets full of stolen coin. Ivan, who was leaning against the side of one of the brick buildings that lines the square, made an angry gesture, and the rage was plainly written in his posture. Adjusting her leather jacket with pockets jingles softly, Rowan turned to make her way toward the man; she slipped through the crowd with skilled ease, barely noticed by anyone.

Nearer to Ivan, Rowan slowed her hand going to one of the daggers hanging from her hip. "Ivan, love, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing? Are you wanting me to get pinched?" She hissed as she stopped just outside of reach from the fuming man. Even Rowan knew when to be wary of this giant.

Ivan whipped his hand out, yanking Rowan in closer, and she allowed him to do so. "Girly, you've been causin' me trouble again. I heard about yer little stunt down on the wharfs." He shoved his face close to hers. Rowan narrowed her eyes, trying not to gag at the stench of his breath. "Didn't think I'd figure who stolen my flesh?" The man shoved her against the brick, hand on her throat. Roawn looked up at the man calmly, not phased that the man towered over her and could probably snap her in two like a twigs; most men could, she wasn't a tall woman, and barely looked more than child. "Where are they girly? You have no right to be stealin' my slaves. That's gold outta my pocket, now you pay me, or you replace them." He shook her for emphasis.

Rowan smiled tightly and gasped for air, "You want me to talk... may want to remove your hand... from my throat." She yanked one her daggers free, shoving the tip against the sensitive inside portion of the man's wrist. With a snarl, he released her but stepped closer, trying to cow her. Rowan coughed and straightened herself up to her full height, barely more than five feet. "Now you great lummox, I did not steal your slaves. I'm not flesh dealer, and you know that."

Ivan snarled again and raised his hand as if to smack her, but Rowan was faster and ducked out of the way behind him. "You little twit! You think I don't know the rumors that you been freein' slaves from their pins in the middle of the night. We all know how high and mighty you are about the sellin' of woman and children."

Rowan laughed lightly, "Hardly. Where's the profit it in for me? When I ever done anything that didn't make me any gold. I'm not foolish. Even though I will not degrade myself with the selling of flesh, doesn't mean I'd interfere with your trade, or any other slavers. It'd be my death, and you know it." Her tone went from haughty to more seductive. "Don't be a cur, Ivan love, you've known me since I was a wee lass. I'd not do anything to cut your profits. I owe you my life, and I know that."

Ivan grumbled angrily rubbing his beard, "Aye lass, I'd never be one to call you of all women a fool." He shook his head, knowing this lass was always one who knew how to soothe him, even if she was the most likely culprit. "Fine, but mark me, girly. If I do ever find this is yer doin, you will regret it," he growled into her face.

Rowan smiled wickedly and gave him a wink, "I'll mark you Ivan, now come. I think you owe me an ale to ease my poor frightened heart." She put a gloved hand to her chest, watching his eyes linger. Rowan was a woman who knew how to play men, and Ivan was one of the easier ones to play. She had let he slaves free last night, but he would never get that out of her. She was far too clever for this great ox. "Let's go to the Wharf Rat, I know a wore there who owes me a favor. I'm sure she could ease your frustrations too." She winked again before slipping off into the crowd.

The wharves were where the fishing boats docked, nothing larger than that since large ships were easily lost at sea. No one ever dared go out of sight of the shores, and even then it was only around the city that the waters were safe even that close. Further along the inlet, to either side, the rocks and tides made it impossible to sail to the continents. The only way to travel without a guaranteed death was by land, and even then it was dangerous. With men like Ivan ready to ambush you and turn you into fresh meat for the slave markets. The Wharf Rat was the largest tavern in the city and where the worst of the thieves, mercenaries and whores congregated to drink, fight and generally have a violent good time.

"Dresh, ya' damn dog! At least don't break my fav-" was all that escaped in a high-pitched, somewhat girlish male voice, as the clatter and shattering of a wooden stool behaved as the herald to an explosion of splintered wood as Dresh slammed it on the back of a large, bulk-some fellow that almost matched Dresh in height. "Sorry, kid! Add it to my tab! Whoops, hold that thought!" Was the response from Dresh, a rather husky, deep and heavy voice that matched well with his features. Broad shouldered, his upper-torso bulky with muscle, deep chested, a lean and trimmed lower half of his body, and a chisled, high-profiled face with a rugged, deep beard that had a collection of several hues of red, blond, and brown. His hair was cut low and short, groomed very close to his skull and kept sharp. His often seen black hooded coat was absent, hanged off in his room just up above in the tavern's third floor, his red wool tunic with a deep "V' slash going down the middle exposing a well groomed yet thick display of chest hair, with a pair of darker red trousers that flared out at the bottom to allow comfort, mobility, and linger above his black, cow-hided hiking boots. It was another day of a brawl fight in the Wharf Rat, and not to the surprise of others, Dresh was right in the middle of it. Some people began to believe the man just wanted to try and get himself killed, just to see if it was even possible. In truth, or so that's what Dresh believed, he enjoyed a good thrill and a decent exercise and busting up a few people and earing some extra coin while he was it. That, and, it was a good way to get the lust drives kicking and the tavern whores and tramps hooked on a show of masculinity.

-

The man whom was subjected to Dresh's stool-lashing was sent face-first to the floor, with only a peg-leg left in his right hand as he ducked just in time to dodge a very sloppy, unprofessional jab aimed at his skull's flank. He shifted his weight, dropped down lower and sweeped the man's legs out from underneath him, swiftly jumping back up to a regained state of posture to only transition into a swing with the peg leg at a man's head, knocking him out cold with one swift "thump" against his skull. He twisted around on the heels of his feet, only to get rushed by a large, ox-like man in a charge. The man lifted him up, and slammed him into a support beam's pole, cracking it slightly and producing a groaning ache from Dresh. "Fucker!" Escaped Dresh's lips harshly as he slammed the peg leg directly down onto the man's neck, producing a bone-crunching noise that most likely resulted in the man's untimely death, for he instantly went slack and fell sideways to the ground, Dresh barely escaping the man's grip before he was caught in the deadweight. Up and at it again, with a few men scattered about the common area's middle section, Dresh had his hands up in a mock of a stance, really just putting up the show instead of expecting another to come at him. After just a few seconds of a dead pause, the tavern went back to the usual hussle and bussle that they always carried. So, Dresh began to loot the spoils from the knocked out men -- the one he sent flying to the ground from kicking out his feet had already ran like a coward -- and started to walk off to the bar. A few people wave and called out to him, though for the most part no one else came up to him. Everyone knew, unless you were going to offer a job, spread your legs, or give him a drink, you don't stop Dresh from him and his ale.

-

Most that frequent the tavern, knew of Dresh, and in turn knew of his constant fights he always held. There was a saying in no man's land that grew over the years, mostly around those that knew of Dresh's acomplishments and storied tales. "Follow a moan, you find a whore. Follow the blood, you find a closed door. Follow both, you'll find Dresh the Immortal!" Really, that all started up with a drunk "bard" who thought Dresh was the next big thing and his ticket to show-boating off fame and glory from another man's fame. Of course, you give the drunks something even remotely funny that's easy to remember, it spreads like the "clamp" does in a whore house. At first he tried to fight it down, but it became impossible, so he just rode with it. It had been, after all, nearly ten years since Dresh showed up in no man's land. Some said the demons and angels alike cried in woe and fear when the man strode into town, but really... He was just your usual sellsword who liked his women the same way he liked his ale: free, easy to hold, easy to handle, and puts you down for the whole damn night. The fact he hadn't lost a single duel yet, never turned down or failed a job, and never went out of his way to directly insult anyone who didn't have it coming to them, simply added to the mystery of the man called Dresh. "Sorry about your favorite stool there, kid." He said idly as he placed a sack of coins down on the table, one of the few he looted from one of the goons now left on the ground. They were starting to groan lightly, though the tavern's "bouncers" -- all they really did was clean up the mess left, espcially when it was Dresh's mess -- had already began to help them up and "kindly escort" them out of the tavern. With damaged egos and missing coin purses, it was going to be awhile before they showed their faces again.

-

"When ya' goin' to stop callin' me a "kid", Dresh? I'm only a few years younger than ya', ya' know?" Said the still obviously young boy across the counter. The kid was apart of the family that ran the joint, and was a fast-made, forever-held companion of Dresh, mostly because he was always bullied and toyed with and never respected when he tried to collect tabs in the tavern, and always had to rely on his elder siblings. That was, of course, until Dresh showed up. In fact, it was one of the very first things that started to get Dresh's name around in the first place. It was a half-joke made on the kid's own whims, Jevia, about how he'd have a life-time discount on all drinks if he'd make people respect him. Dresh, being a man who loves his ale almost as much as women, took him up on his offer without a second thought. Since then, Dresh had secured himself an almost forever-his-own room up on the third floor -- a bit on the shabby side, and drafty, but a bed is a bed in this big old city -- an almost accepting family of thieves, cut-throats, whores, and business owners that belonged to the family that owned the tavern, and of course: ale that's cheap in cost, but moderate in flavor! "'Cause kiddo', ya' like the little brother I never had, yeah? Only seems right the older brother calls the younger one kid all the time. Right? Speaking of seems right, I'm missin' my ale. A bit heavy this time, yeah?" He gave the scrawny, short, very thin and baby-faced young man a toothy grin as he pulled over a stool to sit right up in front of him, waiting for his ale to be served up.

-

For some reason, Dresh was happy today. Ready to explode with giddy color and elated desires. That only happened every so often, and usually that meant today was going to be his lucky day, or so said his gut. Frankly, this man's gut was never wrong, either.

The crowds outside the Wharf Rat were fairly thin. All things considered, most people were still at the jobs this time of day. Even if most of the city had their hands dirty in some way or another, they still had to put food on their tables and pay for a roof over their heads. From the ruckus coming from the inside of the tavern, Rowan guessed there was yet another brawl happening, and chances were, that that insufferable boar Dresh was in the middle. Green eyes flickered to Ivan, who was scowling at the open door of the tavern. "Ivan love, don't tell me frightened to go in there?" There was a cruel edge of mockery in her voice, and she smiled wickedly at the man when he turn his scowl on her. "The infamous Ivan the Terrible scared of Dresh?" She laughed as she sauntered toward the tavern entrance. Men didn't frighten her, even Dresh; though she was careful to keep away from him. No need to get mixed up with a bored sellsword, for that was just begging for trouble. A man dashed out of the tavern before Rowan entered. He was limping and bleeding and looked like he was being chased by a Demon, perhaps he was. Galven, the man on the run, was a fool who often helped Rowan, and now spotted her. He shook his head with a grimace of a smile, "Watch it lovely. That beast is in a mood." He laughed and then groan.

"Get your ass home," Rowan ordered, concerned. "And hopefully you will not be a stupid next time!" Galven grinned and limped off with a groan. As she stepped inside, Rowan wondered sometimes if that man did not have a death wish. It took just a moment for her eyes to adjust from the bright sun to the dimmer interior if the tavern. It seems she entered at the perfect moment, right as Dresh broke the neck of a man with a familiar face. Rowan watched with her lips pressed in a thin line as he took anything from Bulfar pockets. Rowan snapped her fingers at one of the men by the door, "Get poor Bulfar out of here. Take him home to his wife. I'm sure the poor woman will want to lay her fool of a husband to rest. Demons keep him." Her eyes flickered to Ivan as the men she'd spoken to started to collect the man's body, "You know, he was one of your men. Don't you think you should take care of such things?"

Ivan growled, "No. He was a fool like you said. No one challenges that demon and lives, his own fool fault. Now I'm going to get an ale." He moved off to a table in the back, filled with his other cronies. Rowan grimaced and followed, not fond of the idea of sitting with more boars, but that was the plight of being one of the few woman in this city who doesn't spread her legs for coin. A round of ales were brought, and Rowan snagged the one that was set before Ivan.

"Remember, love, you owe me a pint," she said seductively before moving out of reach when he tried to drag her close.

Ivan glowered at her, "And you remember you owe me a whore!"

Making her way to the bar, Rowan laughed lightly as a woman moved closer. Her dress barely contained her over large breast and her waist was cinched into of a corset. She wrapped her arm around Rowan's waist and kissed her cheek. "Roe! My darling," the woman purred. "I was hoping you'd show up today." Cat calls echoed from the man around them. Drii pressed her lips to Rowan's ear, "I do hope you've brought it." Her tone was panicked, though her face did not betray.

Rowan nodded and reached down her own shirt pulling out a small vial full of a brackish liquid, "This will be the death of you, Drii." The other woman reached for the vial, but Rowan moved away. "Payment first, lovey. I know your game."

Drii looked nervous, tucking a stray red lock of hair behind her, "Please, Roe, I don't have that. The day's still young. I need..." her voice trailed off.

Rowan's smile grew vicious, "Then I suppose I'll have to hold this till you do, or." Waving the vial under Drii's nose, She paused. "I made a promise to Ivan, and I think you can help." Drii nodded and snatched to offered vial. Rowan's smile widened as she watched the whore move toward the back of the tavern. "Barkeep, another ale for me, love."

Dresh turned his attention at the sound of a female's voice near the bar, one that he wasn't too familiar with. As he looked over the short woman, he cocked an eyebrow at her. She seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't really put a name to the face, or the waist. It took a moment or two to conclude she wasn't a service-provider at the Horned Heaven -- his personal favorite in terms of collecting eye-candy and other more base pursuits -- and brushed aside the lingering notion of trying to pry himself a new one. As much as he liked a challenge, he didn't treat all women like a bag of meat, at least while he was sober. She was his type, through and through however, and that was the main reason he didn't hammer into her. Lately he'd been getting that itch behind his neck, that voice in the back of his head, that feeling someone was watching him and his every move. He hired some of the best stalkers and and lookouts to follow him, check his surrounding area, and so forth yet nothing was ever found. Gold wasted, maybe, but he still couldn't shake that feeling that somewhere, somehow, someone or something was watching him, and for some reason it seemed to trickle even harder when the short woman walked into the tavern. "Hey, kid." He said idly with his deep, heavy voice lined with a husky tone. "Didn't ya' say that some kink of a fella' started sayin' an angel touched him last week? Went stark cravin' mad, killed three people, screamed a lot of mad sayings, then the following day he was seen in the middle of some two-bit tavern preaching to anyone and everyone while blind as a bat?" Jevia waved idly at him, his usual way of telling Dresh that he'd be there in a minute, since he was busying serving the new-comer's request. He looked a little nervous, but that was expected, too. Poor Jevia was a virgin still, and couldn't look a gal straight in the face without blushing and stuttering all over the place, probably why he kept so quiet around the girl. Eventually, he walked back over to Dresh, his own ale finally served up to him. As the young man began to recount, Dresh was drowning the ale down quite swiftly.
-
"Yea', he kicked the bucket last night, though. Odd thing is, his entire body was like... torn from the inside out. Big splatter of blood, his insides every where, and it was all shaped in the form of one of those painted angels. Real freaky stuff, Dresh. Someone wanted him dead, and has a real sick mind." He was polishing up the counter while he spoke, then looked up from the counter to Dresh, cocking an eye at him as his boyish cheeks rose up on his face, making him look like a child instead of a man. "Why ya' askin', Dresh? It's just another idiot dead." Dresh paused for a moment from his ale, setting it down lightly as he looked at his mug for a few seconds before looking back up to the boy. "Because, it's been thirty-two years since the last time Boren waged a Crusade against Shaemil. This is one of the several omens of war..." He paused for a moment again, looking down at his mug as he recited one of the many things that was drilled into his head as a child. "So ye' of Above shall descend upon mortal soil, and with thine holy soul, occupy mine own worthless shell. Yea, your words will be mine, your actions mine. Ye' shall be the messenger of truth, and with it salvation. Woe is to those, whom strike ye' down in my vessel. For with mine death, doth shall bear witness to a sea of blood; a mountain of corpses, an oprea of malicious hatred, wicked cruelty, and corrupt the very ground upon which your children, and their children, and their children, and so on shall be born victim to thine haughty demise, and with it the world shath be torn asunder, dividing son from mother, daughter from father. For it is spoken, so it shall be." As Dresh began to speak, his words riddled with morose and solemn tones, matched with a steely resolve, several patrons around became silent and focused on him. A few people knew of the propchies that were taught in the land of Boren's religious sect, but most didn't know all the verses or meaning. After a long pause of silence, the boyish bartender broke it with a question that held more weight than he probably knew. "What does that mean, Dresh? Sounds a bit, uh... cryptic, yeah. That's the right word, isn't it?" His tone was innocent, or rather ignorant -- there was no such thing as innocence, in Dresh's eyes -- as he peered at him with a look in his eyes that betrayed his ture curiousity.
-
"Kid, that's a question a lot of people ask. In my eyes, it simply means that the Gods above and their minions took ahold of some poor sap centuries ago so they could spread their will upon the mortals and subvert them to their doctrine. As holy and righteous as they are, the Demons refused to let the Gods gain total control over us "mortals", and so they possessed a man and killed the holy servant's vessel. With it, the Gods and Demons went to an endless war with each other, using the mortals as their soldiers, their kings, their pawns, their game of chess. As fate would have it, the world was torn asunder into two different bodies of land. We all know that much, anyways. What isn't know, is that those that were possessed are rumored to have been apart of the ruling family of Boren. See the connection, now? See, every few decades, a human sacrifice must be made to appease the Gods, or the Demons, or else Boren will be utterly destroyed without the favor of either. When the sacrifice is made, omens appear all across the world, in means to herald the events to play out. This time, the angel died.... the rest answers it self, kid." A good portion of the tavern became equally as morose as Dresh was, and near deathly quiet. Even though it was no-man's land, everyone was affected by the wars when Boren went on their Crusade. They would try to conscript -- as would their mortal rivals -- every man, woman, and child they could for their war efforts, especially from the neutral zone. It was tradition that they always set up shop on their respective bordering sides of the city-state for an entire month, conscripting and creating fortifcations and spying, performing subterfuge and all the while a very long, nearly pointless, parley would be conducted between both sides. For the past two centuries, not a single parley was successful in diverting the war's course in any shape or form. This bode ill for the occupants of no-man's land, for both armies felt that they had full rights and accounts to those inside the city-state during this time of war....
-
After a moment, people began to whisper and mutter amongst each other. While Dresh wasn't the most respected or loved man in the city, he was known as a reputable man who never once tried to play others as a fool with words or guile. He was blunt, honest, and harsh. Obviously he wasn't the first man to speak in such a matter either, since several people began to confirm what he said as stone-recorded, hard-proven facts. A few people began to panic and run out of the tavern as it spread around the room. "Of course, it'll be awhile before Boren has time to muster up its armies," he said after a long silence. "The political families like to be technical about who's in charge, and all that fancy crap. Shaemil, they know the omens well enough I'd bet for them to easily begun mustering and preparing to meet Boren and intercept their main army with a force comprised of elite units, officers, and then draft up an auxiliary army here at the city-state, and from their varied amount of captives, prisoners, outlaws, and whatever else ya' want to put in as their main fighting force here. Try to cripple Boren's main army with more elegant tactics, and leave the full force of their military in the rear. So, I can expect Shaemil will be here in a week's time. Boren, about two to three..." Most weren't listening to Dresh at this point, however. Most were either busy getting drunk, trying to find a cheap whore, or try to find something to make them forget the ill news they just heard. Such a lovely way to start off his week... "Hey, kid. Hit me up another round. Make it a double, too."

Listening to the barbarian question Jevia made Rowan smiled broadly at the boy when he simply waved off Dresh and came to give her ale with a shy smile. Rowan laid two coins down which was over the cost of the ale, and she gave a smile and a wink, "Thank ya, love." She'd grown up in and out of this tavern since her mother had been a set up in a brothel not far from here. After her mother's death, she'd had no one. She forced to the streets at a young with nothing but a promise to her mother that she would not share her fate. This tavern had been a starting place for her, though few remembered the tiny girl with long blonde curls, but she remembered all of them. This boy had saved her life once, risking a beating to give her a loaf of bread and a roof one cold rainy night. He didn't remember, but she always would. She turned her eyes to her pint of ale as Jevia moved down the bar, now did not seem to be the time to dwell on such memories. Sipping her ale, she listened halfheartedly as the boy described the gruesome death of some man who mattered so very little to her. As Dresh started prattled on, she just drank, but when he started to recite that prophesy her blood ran cold and drained from her face. Her mother had told her something similar once, but it was from Shaemil, warning on Boren's motives in such times.

And when Demons rise churning from the Western seas, the Gods will grant a Voice to guide the People. Her mother's voice whispered through her head, "Love you must know why I left Shaemil. You would be that Voice for a time, until the Gods used and destroyed you, and took any freedom from your children. I couldn't let them kill you."

"Aye, love" she muttered into her ale. "Shaemil will undoubtedly know the omens. I am certain they 'ave got their spies here already." They would be searching for her, if all of her mother's research, all of her guesses had been correct. The Demons were at war, and the Gods needed their vassal to combat them. "That is, of course, that your guesses are right." She turned to look at Dresh. She'd regained her composure, and was careful to keep it now. If Shaemil was here, then they wanted her. They would need her to be paraded about as Voice until the Gods could use her and give her a child, the true Voice. "I've heard no rumors of Shaemil's ill begotten bastard. Shaemil's always got one of those immortal spawn around the same time that Boren does. History doesn't change much on that fact, so if your right about these silly omens, then why have we heard nothing from Shaemil?"

"Perhaps they didn't get one this time. Maybe the Gods are leaving those filthy Shae to their fate this time!" Ivan called with a sneer. He'd been from Boren originally, and shared the hatred that they harbored against their continental neighbors. Drii was in his lap, her cold grey eyes glaring at Rowan.

"I suppose it could greatly shift the odds for Boren," Rowan said again before she downed her pint and smacked the glass onto. "Another, Jevia love. Ivan's buying me this round," she half turned and winked at Ivan who shrugged, bored of talk and had gone back groping to a very high Drii. "Shaemil will have been preparing for this for longer than you think, Dresh. I wouldn't be surprised if they are not more than a day or two from us." This thought made her panic, maybe it wasn't too safe for her here in no man's land. With Shaemil and Boren both vying for power of the city, all either would need is to figure out who she was. Have the wrong person remember her mother's tale, and try to think where that little blonde girl disappeared to. Her death, at the hands of either nation, could give them the edge. Rowan smiled as she gulped down another drink; she was far to sober to be contemplating her own tragic demise.

Dresh simply shrugged at the woman across from him at the bar. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Won't know until it all boils down and esclates into a war." He said with his usual husky voice, one that some might often relate toward a bear-like man, or a large brute, or a bulky blacksmith. As his two rounds were put before him, he began to sip idly from his mug as he mused over the curious woman's musings. That tingling in the back of his head wasn't going away, like it usually did after a few moments. It was like there was something special in the tavern's common room, now. Something supernatural, or ominous, or... just off, was all he could really put his finger on. "In regards to the omens, it should be said that they have to sacrifice someone to the Gods. In most cases they pick women, of course. Though how they go through the selection process is beyond me. Ya' seem a bit too interested in this for a simple bar-whore or a run-of-your-mill work hand, missy. They'll be takin' folks like me, or your friend there, for conscription 'fore they take a gal like ya'." He wasn't really too sure what to say to the woman, really. He didn't know her name, or her trade, or her reasons for shooting that statement out in the air. She knew him by name, too. Of course, he was real used to that by now, and didn't pay much heed to it. Anyone could figure out who he was just by asking a random person, or find someone who did just by asking said random person. Downfall of being known for a lot of things, he reckoned.
-
He kept on drinking from his mug, when he started to think about what was going to come. Obviously, they would hold forced conscriptions in the city after the initial wave of "volunteers" joining their roster. The only real difference was the fact you wouldn't be flogged and treated as an animal in the former, where as in the latter you either fought till you died, joined them, or hope you're a quick runner. Dresh imagined he was going to just lay it low, hide out in a run-down building somewhere deep in the heart of the city, and wait for it to blow all over. He was a sellsword by trade, but dying in some religious war for blinded moronic fools wasn't his prefered selection of untimely deaths. "If you're right about them, I reckon hidin' is the best choice to do. Both sides will simply conscript everyone and anyone they can, left and right, child to child-bearing-mother to old man who can't see for jack-crap. All they want us for, are meatshields and tools. What say ya', pretty lady? I'm sure ya' and I can get lost together quite easily in this large ole town." He said with a wink at her, his tone amiable than earlier. The joke would probably be easily spotted, since Dresh was trying to "break the ice" between her, and him. He liked short gals, and she was pretty damn short. Hell, if he was to stand up, he'd wager his own groin area would be far too ominously close to her own face. He mentally shook that thought out of his head, way too early to be contemplating perverted chit-chat, especially with a possible war on their heads and asses at the same time. The last war had a recorded death toll of almost half a million warriors on both sides, not counting the many people forced to fight from the city-state in no-man's land, and the countless slaves, prisoners, and captives forced to the slaughtering front lines on both sides. With such a terrible threat about to fall down upon them, he figured a light-hearted joke wouldn't be the worst thing he could do, anyways.

Rowan snorted at his comment. "Before they take me, eh?" She gave him a wicked grin before taking another drink. "I know I may not look like much, but I'm not run if the mill anything. I've got quite a few talents," she said with a suggestive wink though she wasn't sure why. Dresh was a boar even if he all but fit he bill for a man she'd willingly bed. She yanked her thoughts from that direction; no, she would not become one of his conquests. "The Shae have woman soldiers, and use them for scouting recon and as active battlefield medics. They're not the chauvinist pigs that the Boren are. Maybe they're worse than Boren, though. You know they only give women to the Gods? It's how they get their war leader. Regardless of gender, the bastard spawned will... should lead the Shae to victory." She paused and forced herself not to shudder at the thought of what that would mean for her. In her twenty three years, all of the lore and prophecies that her mother had taught her seemed like something she wouldn't ever really have to deal with. She was careful to stick with those with heritage in no man's land or Boren. Stayed away from merchants and thieves and slavers who had anything to do with Shaemil. It had just seemed easier that way. Now she was going have to deal with a whole army at her doorstep.

Smiling at Jevia, Rowan waved the young man over. "Something stronger for me, love." Resting her forearms on the bar, she leaned forward, shamelessly giving him a view down her low cut cotton shirt and open leather jacket. "I'm afraid I'm about to have a conversation with that brute of a friend of yours, and it's not really something I would like to do this sober," she said softly with a grin still on her lips. Chuckling softly, she leaned back and hopped off her stool. "Now, love," She said as she settled beside Dresh, sipping the drink Jevia had placed there for her. "Shaemil doesn't have their war leader, and whether or not I have an unnatural interest in this is not your business. Just like I'm not asking why the great Dresh the Immortal, the infamous sell sword here in no man's land, isn't joying for joy at the idea of a bloody war at his doorstep. You'd make a hefty profit off of what you could make, but that doesn't concern me, love." She paused, lowering her voice. "I know all about not wanting to die for the immortals." Gulping down the last of her drink, she sighed and dropped more coins on the bar top. "Jevia lovely, here's may tab and enough for this beast next drink." With another grin to Dresh, she leaned close and murmured, "If I wanted to get lost somewhere in the city to avoid a religious war, I would never choose you for a companion since you're in the habit of killing my friends and every one knows your face and reputation. I suppose it's also because I don't like you very much either." She decided against attempting to pickpocket Dresh, not really wanting to man him a true enemy. She had a feeling he'd be more likely to kill her then.

With a laugh, she slid off her stool and was out the door. Of course, she had noticed the strange man who had left before her after she had mentioned not wanting to die for immortals. He wasn't a face she'd ever seen at the tavern, and she knew his appearance couldn't be just coincidence, not with a war just weeks from starting. The Wharf Rat was set into a long rows of buildings which were mostly warehouses and fish shops, so luckily for Rowan, she was able to spot the man before he ducked into an alley three buildings down. Rowan sprinted after him yanking a dagger from her belt as she did. She slowed as she rounded the corner, surprised to see the man had stopped. Turning to face her, he had an almost giddy grin on his face. "I cannot believe I was the one to find you. Oh the Gods will surely reward me for this. You are Chosen." His eyes became crazed as he stepped toward her. "You belong to the Gods and have one purpose to deliver-"

His words were cut short as Rowan threw herself at him with daggers now in both hands. "No, I belong to no one," she growled when the man stumbled back away from her, drawing the sword that hung from waist.

"You will come. Willingly or not," he said as he raised his sword and shifted his feet.

"No," she said as the man lunged for her. Rowan turned out of the way, but the man adjusted mid swing forcing Rowan to deflect with a dagger. She slid forward with her blade grating against his, but the man shoved her back. Rowan bounced backwards, flinging her dagger at the man. The dagger hit the man's left shoulder with a wet thud, but the man didn't seem to notice as the crazed look grew. "You will be ours," he breathed throwing himself forward. The edge of his blade sliced into her thigh as the man swung low then spun trying to tackle Rowan against the brick wall that was now behind her. Rowan wincing managed to dodge left, further from the main causeway that they had come from. The man growled and swung the flat side of the blade at her head, meaning to knock her out. Rowan ducked and launched herself forward at the same time. Her second dagger plunged into the man's stomach, but he didn't seem phased as he grabbed her short hair in his free hand and yanked her back. Rowan grunted and kicked out, striking his knee full force with her heel. The man toppled to the left, and Rowan manged to yank her head free of his grip while pulling a thin dagger from her boot. "I will not be your martyr, find someone else," she sneered before driving the dagger into the man's temple.

Breathing heavily and shaking, she pressed her back against the brick and slid to the ground. She was terrified at what had just happen and what it meant. Shaemil was looking. "Damn," she murmured, quickly cutting a strip from the man's shirt and wrapping her thigh. It was a good sized gash, and she'd need to stitch it up once she was off the street.

Dresh, for the most part, let the woman rant and grate on her on whims. He was actually silent for the entire exchange, because beyond to facade he wore for everyone, his mind was a very tactical machine that performed delicate observations with keen attention to detail, even while under a drunken haze -- however, he was far from being even just a little tipsy, Dresh being quite the heavy drinker and able to hold his liquor -- and thusly paid little heed to the woman's more venom-lined words, and instead paid attention to her body language. She wasn't exatly the most confident of people, at least in his opinion. Something seemed to have set her at a skewered stance with him, when he never remembered ever associating with the woman. The comment about him killing her friends held some truth most likely, however it was never his intent to maim or kill people in a simple brawl or duel. It's a possible risk in the art of violence, the dance of death, the constant rumble-tumble of action and malicious events. More often than not, he didn't even pick the fights, or rather didn't intend to start them. A lot of people always want to tackle the big dog of the block, the alpha wolf, to assert their dominance and skill in one swift motion, instead of building it up in the true, honest manner Dresh did. Yeah, he was rather harsh, brutal even, and quite the image of a typical scrapper. That didn't mean he was a terrible man or the worst of the worst. He had morals, he had ethics, and he practiced honesty over everything else when it didn't directly conflict with his interests of surviving. However, there was something about how the woman addressed him at the end. She didn't raise her voice at all, and kept it near enough to where he'd most likely be the only person to hear her. That was the main reason he waited for a few minutes, before following directly after her.
-
When he was outside of the tavern, his hoodless cloak was attatched to his back, effectively covering up most of his sword's sheath, with only the inlaid hilt visible. He barely caught a glance of the woman as the sprinted off, and quickly began to dash off before he was confronted by a darkly dressed man in flowing robes, an unsheathed blade wielded with a dislay of moderate experience in grip, posture, and stance. "You will not interrupt this meeting, Immortal!" The man half-shouted at Dresh with a mad, ever familiar voice consumed with zealotry that Dresh easily reconginzed. Fanatical members of a religious order, whom many of Boren's own perverse, corrupted religion shared a same demented tone and level of dedication. The robed man charged at Dresh with his sword held upwards by both hands, underneath his left armpit, the left hand turned around in a full one-eighty of the natural angle one would hold a sword with, curled all around the hilt. Dresh had his sword out in a quick flash of steel, the crisp and sharp ringing of the sword's entrance into the field of death echoing down the walled streets, as he stepped forward with his right hand gripped loosely around the hilt, tighting only at the last instant as he slashed in an up-ward arc toward the man's blade, deflecting it with hardly any effort as he recovered quickly from the tiny amount of recoil from the connecting blades, rolling his double-jointed shoulder to quickly slash at the man's now exposed stomach with ease, carving effortlessly into the man's insides as the sword tore a jagged gash deep in the man's body. The robed man almost instantly slumped to the ground, the blade falling from his hands and bouncing loudly against the ground. "Poor fool, dying for another creature's amusement. May those above take your misguided soul, for those below will merely devour your spirit." He gave the man a more than honorable utterance of a prayer, mostly out of pity, as he wiped the blood off his blade on the man's robes, resheathing it as he quickly remembered why he ventured out here in the first place.
-
"Hey, weird gal that doesn't really like me! Ya' 'round? If not, that's fine! Also, no more religious freaks, please. I don't get paid to kill y'all." He said out-loud, the more than arrogant boasting due to the light amount of ale he consumed earlier. His voice wasn't slurred or distorted, however, and the deep, husky words carried far and loud down the walled alleyways. If he was randomly engaged by a zealot, and was ordered not to interrupt, obviously there was more than what met the eye in this situation. Especially since, the would-be-assassin called him an Immortal. It wasn't a term meant to indicate he was one of the God's or Demon's minions, but the fact it was a royal rank in the central religious army that enforced Boren's main political family, given only to the most skilled, talented, and ruthless killers. One whom Dresh was formerly appart of, as well.

Rowan wasted no time dragging the man further down the alley, though it took some effort. She cursed herself for not being stronger since normally her speed was sufficient, but strength would be convenient sometimes. Rummaging through his pockets, she found a small pouch of coins and a thin tube with some sort of document inside. She heard a man shout, but with her distance now from the causeway, she couldn't make out anything more than Immortal. With still shaking fingers, she rolled open the scroll pausing at the elegantly scribe letter.

A Voice is needed and must be heard. The Gods have spoken. Found her at all costs.

The language was different that the Common tongue that was spoken by most of the common peoples of Shaemil, Boren and here in the city. This was the script of the priests of the Order. Rowan stared at the words as her stomach churned with fear and hate. "Damnit," she growled before rolling the letter back up and sliding it into an inner pocket inside of her jacket. Trying to calm herself, she yanked her daggers free and cleaned them on the man's cloak. Time was not on her side here. If one was here, then most likely more would come. That meant that she was in more danger then she thought because the Gods still knew who she was, and if they were as all knowing as her mother had taught her, then her there was no where on the face of this earth she could hide. They would always come for her. She was about to disappear down the other side of the alley when she heard a familiar voice call. Wincing she paused. If Dresh had killed one, then he had helped her in some small way. With a disgusted sigh, she jogged back down to the board walk. Dresh stood not far from the entrance to the alley her attacker had gone down. "Please don't be yellin'. If there are more of them, I do not want to be here when they find their friends," she scolded with a frown and added mentally, Or me. She saw the body laying at his feet and moved out to do check this man's possessions as well. "I suppose I owe you a thank you," she murmured as she pulled yet another thin scroll case from this man's pockets. Rowan looked up from where she knelt, "I'm not weird. I am called Rowan, and Thank you." She slipped this case into the same pocket as the other one before yanking the coin purse off this man and tossing at Dresh. "The note I pulled ain't worth your time, so forget it. Did this one say anything to you? Any reason you killed him?" She got to her feet wincing slightly and shifting the weight off of her injured leg. "Not that I mind you killed him," she added as she folded her arm and peered up at Dresh, almost shocked at how tall he seemed now in comparison.

Dresh canted his head at the woman, arching a brow at her. Obviously, she was playing some kind of angle here, and her initial way of telling him that the note wasn't important tipped him off enough on that part. He idly caught the bag of coins, pocketing the contents after casually weighing it in his hand into another pouch at his waist. "If ya' want to know, he called me some Immortal. Don't really know why. He charged at me with his sword, so I killed him. Told me not to interrupt. I'm guessing you owed these men a lot of coin. Or a lot of your body. Or somethin' else, I don't really care. Besides, I doubt we have to worry about anymore trying, at least right now. Do you really think some third-rate swordsmen would want to tangle with me, sugar? Tell ya' what, Ro'," he said with his usual tone, though there was a far more peaceful, amiable edge to his words as he looked her up and down, noticing the make-shift gaw around her thigh. He didn't bother asking for her permission to call her a shortened version of her name or not, since the luxury of that pleasure was his in right -- or at least in his eyes -- simply due to the fact, she had been addressing him by name the entire night, without even introducing herself to him. "Ya' follow me, and we'll tend to that cut ya' got down there, and my associates will give a safe room; for the night, at least. Granted, you mind explanaing to me why you have zealots after your hide, and why they know me. Don't play coy, either, missy. I don't care -what- those rumors you hear about me say, I'm not a mindless goon. Your would be assassins, or whatever they are? They know me. They wanted you first. So, follow and get some free help, or go off on your own and risk ya's own ass. I don't do favors twice, missy." He said, his voice changing to a far more steely tone, a more serious edge, as he flexed his shoulders upward mid-conversation, making his deep-chested, muscled shoulders become more prominent and refined. He turned on his heels, heading the way he originaly had came, going at a mildly set pace.
-
If she elected to follow, she would discover that he wasn't answering any questions with anything more than a "Not right now. Wait until we get there," or a "Don't believe everything you hear about a fella'," if she questioned why he was helping her. Down the several alleyways that lead to his favorite tavern, twisting and turning, he kept going at random intervals that seemed like just a complex maze with no real general direction, always turning without giving warning. It was starting to get dark, the sun setting down lowly, and this portion of the city had little to absolutely no traffic at all. If anyone saw him or his companion, they didn't want to be seen or heard and kept completely silent and out of their way. This was, after all, Dresh's terrority. His home. His battleground. His den, lair of operations. There was a time when rumors said this section of the docks was "filled and swarmed by blood, corpses, cries, and regrets", however no such proof laid claims to any truth to those rumors now. Eventually, he ended up at a door with a simple marking on it, a crude shape of a wolf's head, etched in blue ink. Dresh banged on the door three times, before taking his sword from his sheath, presenting the inlaid hilt with the three emerald gems to the now-open eye-slit that opened up almost instantly. As quickly as it opened, with a pair of beady eyes appearing, it closed shut and low clicking could be heard off behind the door. It opened up swiftly, and Dresh turned around to see if his companion had kept following him, or not.