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“Oh, no way. Zevemar? That’s Zevemar, isn’t it?”

From the direction of “The Drowsy Druid” came a four-bodied group, backlit by the tavern’s bright lantern-lit entrance way. As this group approaches, Zevemar, you recognize two of them as children from your past, children who took pleasure in tormenting you. The head of the group, and the one who had called you out, is lean and fairer skinned; a trait oft shared by those who lived deeper in the countryside of Illio. He wears a sleeveless tunic and flowing capris which reveal his lack of shoes and countless traditional tattoos. Zevemar, you remember his name is Hercules.

Beside him is Achillis, his tall and imposing right-hand man. He is dressed in all blue, matching his startling eyes, and you notice a new scar that cuts down his right cheek. Behind him was a nameless drunk, leaning on a sheathless and red-cheeked Belen, who is staring at Io with quickly shifting expressions.

It is only you three and this group of four on the streets. Perhaps this is what gives Hercules the courage to chuckle and lean forward immediately, eyes full of that familiar, raging fire of disgust and playful hatred.

“Zevemar, Pelor above.” Hercules approaches quickly and claps a hand onto your shoulder, “It’s been awhile, scummy. I thought you skipped town for good.”

“He wouldn’t leave behind the pixie. You know that.” Achillis says, and then his gaze drifts to Io and HORUS. “Speaking of, looks like he brought more in. Welcome.” He bows his head, hiding a smirk, and Hercules elbows his side and barks out a HORRENDOUS laugh.

“Zevemar, man, are you serious? I’m surprised you didn't bring back any scumskinned friends with ya as well, man. Maaan.” He holds out his hand to Io first, face twisted in a caricature of a friendly smile. “Nice to meet ya, pointy, the name’s Hercules. This is Achillis,” He points to the man on his left, “Belen,” He points to Belen, who has resigned himself to staring at his feet, “and Nyke. Now, who in the Nine Hells are you and your halfa friend?”

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For a second, Zevemar froze completely. Hercules and Achillis... it had been a long time since last he'd seen them and they weren't much changed. Oh, they were far taller, had rougher hands and their scars and tattoos spoke of them having experienced as much here in Alanla as Zev had at The Spire. But their voices, taunting smiles and casual malice were as familiar as the ache of the opening of an old wound, all the nastier for having been closed for so long.

As that second passed though, new life flooded into Zevemar's limbs and his mind raced. They might have learned little in the intervening years but the Half-Orc had studied from dawn till dusk almost every day. He had defeated all comers during the annual acolyte quarterstaff tournament and had earned the grudging respect of even the most jaded of tutors with his encyclopedic knowledge of magical lore. He was, as Io had just said, a promising young wizard, not the shy green child that these three remembered. There was no need for this encounter to follow the usual script, especially not with the support of the legendarily protective Iolanthe.

With his left hand, Zevemar closed his eyes and quietly made the sign of one of his favourite spells behind his back. It was a cantrip, one that just required a grasping motion with one hand to feel the position of the threads of fate. Once you know the shape of the future, you could plan exactly how to punch it in the face, after all. Rather than a rough approximation of what was coming though, he saw a clear picture of Hercules reeling backwards and himself holding his staff in a two handed grip. Opening his eyes, Zevemar locked gazes with Hercules and smiled.

"Glad we found you Hercules, I wanted to talk to you about paying off a debt. With interest."

And with one fluid motion, the wizard stepped back, shifted his weight onto the back foot, took a firm, well spaced grip on his staff and then drove it into the other youth's nose like a spear. There was a satisfying crunch and yelp from Hercules as he stumbled backwards and Zev adopted the position he'd seen himself in during his vision. As he did, he was hit with a sudden doubt.

"Uh... the debt was all the bullying and the repayment was me hitting you, I'm not sure I made that totally clear..."

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HORUS was having a pretty wonderful day until he ran into Zevemar and Iolanthe. His argument with elf already fueled his temper, but now with these even more unwelcome guests throwing around unwarranted comments about his heritage, he was fueled by rage. The half-Orc throwing the first punch helped validate HORUS’ next decision as he pushes past Iolanthe, approaching the one called Achillis. Without thinking of the consequences, HORUS takes a handaxe from his side and flips it over to the blunt end to whack him across the face.

A ghostly image dances over his shoulders, a light blue aura rippling down his arms to punctuate the attack. It’s likely just a trick on the eyes as the light creates an effect that is similar to multiple, transparent arms guiding HORUS through this encounter. The spectral force slams into Achillis, seeping through the wounds and throwing off his balance even further.

HORUS smirks at the blood dripping from a broken nose, eyes wild with an angry satisfaction.

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“Ow, fuck! I know what the debt is, you fucking—”

Hercules can barely get a word before another attack slams against his throat, driving the air from his lung. He stumbles back and winces as a flash of green warms the back of his eyelids. Beside him, Achillis cries out, burned by whatever spell the elf bitch cast. After shaking the stars from his vision Hercules straightens, fists clenching tightly as he shifts his left foot back and drops into an offensive stance. The tattoo on his arm is glowing slightly, imbued with some sort of magical energy.

“You’re not the only one who went off and trained, scummy.” He says, and after a brief moment of thought, he turns to Io and suddenly attempts to slam the club that had been sitting on his hip into her side. He whiffs completely as you manage to step back in time, Io, and whiffs again when he attempts to slam the back of his hand against your face. Hercules growls in rage, the tattoo on his arm sputtering back to it’s muted colors.

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It doesn't take long for regret to set in after doing something stupid, the length of time before regret generally being inversely proportionate to the impulsiveness of the action. In Zev's case, it took about half a second from the fight starting to him wishing he'd just kept his head down. Now there were swirling spiritual energies all around, Io's green flames flickering and even Hercules seemed to have conjured some sort of magical ability. It was all getting a little bit out of hand.

But when you can't unspill milk or unthrow a punch, the only way out is through. With that in mind, Zevemar's eyes found the reeling Achillis, who had just been struck twice by Hours and then singed by Io. The War Mages at The Spire had always taught the best enemies is the one that never gets to attack and Achillis' looked like a man who only needed a little push to be removed from play. It was sheer conicidence that he was the only person here that Zev harboured great resentment towards but hadn't yet attacked.

With a thought, the wizard channelled that resentment, all that stored up hatred and anger, into his staff and thrust it at Achillis. The air rippled as an unseen force flew between them, striking squarely into the human's chest. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Achillis' head jerked forward and he retched once, twice, three times and fell to his knees. For a moment, it looked like he might rise but with once last shudder, he collapsed into his own fluids on the dusty road.

Despite himself, Zevemar smirked in satisfaction.

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Nyke is, for all intents and purposes, fucking drunk. He sways from side to side, mumbling drinking lyrics under his breath and hanging on Belen as the two he usually followed were busy greeting their old “friend”. When the fighting started he considered hobbling away to avoid the issue, but Achillis falling at his feet spurred a fire within in his belly.

He steps to the side, passed Belen and Herc, and forward and draws what appears to be a curved blade from the sheath on his side. As one of the few guardsmen in Alanla, he is rather talented with a scimitar, but as a drunkard he is unable to practice any of his usual flourishes. He sways to the side and slashes at Zev’s side, aiming for a gutting slice. Zev, you act almost instinctually and raise up a hand, and from that hand an invisible shield protects you from the slash. The sword bounces off the wall, sending a ripple of light across the surface.

Nyke remains standing beside Hercules, cursing in a thick Illian accent, and he raises his sword to prepare for another strike.

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Belen stands completely still as chaos begins to rain around him. He is not a fighter, not in any sense of the word. He makes swords, dammit, he doesn’t use them. Killing things is a lot different than creating things that kill. So he stands completely still, caught up in feelings of dread, unable to even think of running off to find someone to stop the brawl. When Nyke releases him to go for his sword, Belen’s mouth falls open, and once Zevemar’s blood was spilled he shouts,

“Hey, guys, please! We don’t have to fight them, we can just go. Let’s just go…”

No one reacts, but Belen closes his fists and prepares to defend himself from any oncoming attacks. His eyes are intense with fear, and he looks about ready to run.

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How satisfying it is when the one you are fighting falls. He takes a step over Achillis now that he’s down, giving HORUS the perfect vantage to attack Hercules. He flips the handaxe in the air, watching it turn in the hair once, twice, three times as it lands in his hand once more. He strikes Hercules.

Again, the same light blue energy radiates from HORUS. It dances over his skin, the apparition sliding down his arm and injecting itself into Hercules as he is hit. He straightens his posture, smirking at the man as he reels back.

“You’re so focused on my new friends here, you’ve overlooked your biggest threat.” The same anger that grasped HORUS at the start of this fight continues to loom over him. His eyes glint with a hint of mischief.

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Hercules cursed as he is struck hard by HORUS, taking a single step back as a rush of cold seems to surround him. Something akin to the rage that is glossing over your eyes appears in his, HORUS, but it melts quickly as he turns and attempts to slam his club into Io again. While the strike appears to hit true after a shaky start, Io raises a hand in a similar fashion to Zevemar and the club cracks against a glittering, red shield.

“Fucking magic fuckers.” He muttered, and with another shaky push through the icy-blue aura that HORUS had infected him with Hercules punched through the glittering shield, clocking Iolanthe right across the jaw. Your lip splits, Io, and it aches as Herc pulls back and readies to strike you again despite giving Zev his full attention. It seems he is still trying to get a rise out of you despite his bloodied and bruised status.

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Seeing Io's shield shatter and Hercules' club crack off her chin, Zev snatched a small grey twig from his component pouch and crushed in his right hand, making a swirling motion with his left and muttering an incantation under his breath. From the open palm of his extended right hand, a brilliant bolt of pure white energy shot across the alleyway and took Hercules in the chest, lifting him off of his feet and flipping over to land heavily on his back. For a half second, the searing line of lightning stayed attached to the fallen Hercules but like a man restraining a rabid dog, Zevemar whipped his hand back and the energy dissipated with a crackling discharge.

Having some experience both with the danger of reckless casting and healing (as much as two terms working part time at the medica wing of The Spire could teach you), Zevemar was pretty sure that Hercules was in a much worst state than how he'd left Achillis, who'd probably wake up in a few hours feeling awful but was in no real danger. The redhead, however, looked to be hovering in that space between definitely alive and definitely not.

"Uh... Nyke, was it? Hercules isn't in a good way, I didn't think I hit him that hard but if one of us doesn't see to him, he might get worse quickly." And glancing at the Elf and Half-Elf to his right, Zev realised another thing. "It, uhm, it also looks like you're outnumbered. So maybe time to give it up?"

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The fall of Hercules almost seems to shock Nyke out of his drunken rage, but at Zev’s words he seems to turn red and lets out of howl pure anger. He presses forward again with his scimitar and tries to once again slash at you. The sword cuts into the flesh of your upper arm, splashing blood across the dusty cobblestone of the town square. Once again Zev, you raise your hand and that transparent shield blocks the sword before it can connect.

Nyke frowns as he pulls back, twisting his sword around in a tumbling flourish as he babbles, “I won-won’t let you get away with this, you dumb old orc!” He glances down at Hercules as if expecting praise, or a vocal noise of agreement, and his expression falters as he finally seems to notice Hercules is unresponsive and horribly bloodied. He seems to consider his next course of action a bit more carefully as he slides into a defensive position.

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Belen gasps at Hercules’ fall and Nyke’s strike on Zev, his surprise nearly knocking him off his feet as he scrambles back. He considers everything around him, his placement in this fight, his lack of weapons, and finally he stares at you, Zev, and seems to make a decision. He straightens up and bolts towards the street on which Io and Zev had made their way into the town square, using all the speed he can muster to push himself out of the fight.

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HORUS rolls his eyes. He wants to fight, he told them to hit him. He clearly doesn’t have any magic to deflect their blows and he’s been finishing them off effectively enough to be seen as a threat. But it seems like their grudges lay deeper than HORUS can even begin to comprehend.

He does know, however, that these guys picked the wrong bunch of pointy eared bastards to fight.

He snarls at the man taking a run for it, knowing that chasing after him wouldn’t do either of them much good anyway.

Currently standing over the man called Achillis, HORUS strides over him again in an uncaring manner to stand over their other fallen comrade, Hercules. Recklessly face to face with Nyke, HORUS shakes his braids over one shoulder and raises his hand axe again to hit him with the butt of it.

“Leave them alone, asshole!” HORUS yells to punctuate the statement of his strike, the anger set deep within him building up furth as he sees Nyke is somewhat hurt, but mostly unaffected. Perhaps he looks more frightened than earlier, but that is not enough to satisfy HORUS.

His soul is vibrating with an energy that feels natural to him, almost giving him a sense of safety.

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Io is momentarily distracted by a flash of nearly invisible red-white light. Zev's words of intelligence are drowned out by HORUS' cry against their shared enemies and her own personal distractions. She waits as if expecting another, more noticeable effect to take place beside the shimmer of magic in the air, and when nothing comes she returns her attention to a blubbering and shaky Nyke. Io flourishes her sword once, twice, and takes a step forward.

Nyke moves jerkily as if he just realized there was another threat, and the sword slices uselessly through the empty air as he nearly falls back onto his ass. Io mutters a curse, glances back again in a veiled moment of concern for the initial surge, and then prepares to strike again.

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Seeing that Nyke's focus was fully on the imposing figure of Horus, Zevemar dropped his staff to one side and knelt beside Hercules. For all that he disliked the other man, he didn't want to leave him as a smoking corpse in a back-alley, especially not after a loud brawl and with the telltale traces of magic on him. A small voice in the back of Zevemar's head (one that sounded remarkably like Quilla) suggested that dead men tell no tales while living ones do little else but the Half-Orc dismissed it.

With one green hand, he tested Hercules' breath and pulse and with the other began chest compressions. His strength was enough that it took only a little application of force before Zevemar's former bully went from stillness to slow, halting breaths. He was stable, for now, and was no more likely to pass beyond than Achillis, still asleep in his own bile.

Looking up at Nyke, Zevemar gave the other man a look somewhere between a scowl and a sigh of relief. "He's fine, not in any more danger. But really, you're outnumbered so it might be time to just, you know, go our separate ways?"

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Nyke, perhaps finally broken of whatever drunken spell he had placed upon himself, stumbles back and drops his weapon. It clatters to his feet, loud and clear in the quiet square, but he pays it no heed as he rushes to Hercules' side and hauls him up. He then glances towards Achillis, eyes impossibly wide. There is no more fight in him, only the assumed visible stupidity of a man who is unsure how to handle absconding from his current situation.

Whatever fear that spiked his mind seems to cool, somewhat, when the familiar shape of Belen returns to his side. Behind Belen is an even more familiar figure, one who looks impossibly calm despite exuding an aura of pure rage. Andrimar storms forward, ignoring the flapping Quilla on his shoulder who seems to be repeating the words "a fight! a fight!". Belen mutters a quick, "Let's go." as he grimaces and hauls Achillis up to his feet. The two men and their downed, bloodied, and vomit-covered friends vanish down the street leading passed The Drowsy Druid.

"Zevemar!" Andrimar calls, perhaps nearly roars, and before you even have a moment of reprise to respond you are pulled into a tight hug. He pulls away after the squeeze to inspect you for cuts and bruises, worry clear by the crease between his brow. "A fight on your first night back? Really, Zevemar? Really? I thought I raised you better than that." His scolding is as tight as the tension in his shoulders. Still, he takes a moment, breathes deeply, and glances at both Io and HORUS, with whom the latter he shares a curious look.

"Excuse... The outburst, and the people of this town." He bows his head, ashamed, maybe, or just hiding a flinch of swallowed anger. It's impossible to tell. "It seems you've gained another body in your little posse, son. Perhaps you can introduce them after you explain to me what happened here?"

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The last threads of HORUS’ anger leave him as he chucks his handaxe in the direction of the thugs, channeling the last of the raging energy into the throw. He is not exactly aiming to hit them, just hoping to scare them off a bit more… but the axe doesn’t go far as he’s taken aback by the extremely flustered elf before him. The father, HORUS assumes, is waiting for answers from his boy and only the sound of metal can be heard clanging to the cobblestone pavement of the town square.

HORUS snaps to attention, a weak smile gracing his features as he takes a step to the side to examine the man. He’s an elf, which leaves him a bit wary, but he seems relatively harmless as far as appearances go. Although, from studying his words and posture, HORUS can tell that this anger in him is foreign. So much unlike himself, the elf is tense and worried, shaken up from the prospect of the fight.

Maybe he should apologize? But... would that be speaking out of turn? Would the man think of that as rude? HORUS’ own posture begins to fail him, hands crossed behind his back as he prepares for the onslaught of discipline. It’s been a long while since he’s had a stern talking to, and he releases a heavy sigh remembering Javan’s strict rules and constant disappointment. Look what you’ve gotten yourself into now, Javan would say. Bothering these nice people, your temper getting the best of you again - how many times do I have to tell you this, boy? HORUS stares at his feet, brushing a stray braid over his ear and out of his face.

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With a snap of his fingers, Zevemar dismissed Quilla. It wasn’t that his dislike his familiar (not totally, anyway) but the bird never failed to make a difficult situation more difficult, hardly something he needed right now. He brushed one hand down his chest, straightening his rumpled robes, and glanced at Io to see whether she was badly hurt. She seemed only to have some light wounds, received from Hercules, but was still on her feet.

As for his father, Zevemar wasn’t sure how to tell him that he had actually been the one to start the fight. For a handful of frantic seconds he deliberated and then came to a conclusion; he simply wouldn’t.

“Uh, this is Horus, we were just talking to him when they… when it started. He was kind enough to stand beside us and even out the numbers a little.”

“What I think Zev means is that when those brutes–” Io waved her arm in a grand, empathic gesture, packing more emotion into the word than some poets put into entire epics, “–attacked us, unprovoked, he came to our aid.” She glanced over at Horus, feud momentarily forgotten (and mostly forgiven), before returning her attention to Andrimar. “Did I mention that they struck first? Because they did.”

Zevemar looked once at Io, once at his father, twice at Io and back to his father.

"Uh... Yes. What she said."

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Andrimar eyes HORUS, expression lax and eventually warm as Zevemar and Io vouch for his "innocent" inclusion in their matters. As for the fight itself, Andrimar's eyebrows raise and he slowly nods as he takes in both Zev's all too small explanation and Io's grand speech on how the fight itself started. He relaxes, straightens his back, and manages to tame his wild hair until it is back up in a casual updo. It must have fallen out in his rush to make sure everyone is okay.

"Well, I am glad you were able to defend yourselves, and you, HORUS," He reaches out and gives your hand a firm shake, HORUS, and he seems to ignore the stiffness in your smile. "Thank you for aiding my son. You are not from around here, right? I would love for you to join us for dinner, just to pay you back for your help and give you a little taste of, er, Alanla home cooking."

Andrimar bites his lower lip and elbows Zev, unable to hide his soft chuckle, "Well. It's an elf twist on Alanla cooking. I might require some aid in the kitchen, though, if any of you want to help." He bows his head in a quick thanks, "Come, come along. It's best to be inside after dark as of late." And Andrimar begins walking back towards the street he came from.

For those who choose to follow him and have half a mind to glance around through the darkened streets, you may notice a shift in the shadows, or the glint of something metallic of the few and far between lamp lights. Those manage to see through the dark, dark Illian night: for a second you swear you see a figure in one of the passing allies, rolling a poster or paint onto an empty brick wall, and when you pause for a millisecond to scope it out further you find a cloaked person. They turn to you, just for a moment, and you are greeted with a reflection of yourself in their completely featureless, mirror-like mask. The mask lingers, and then turns away, hidden again by the hood. The person returns to rolling on the poster after the brief pause and seems to pay you no mind.

You manage to catch a glimpse of the poster if you walk by it; it seems to be some sort of artwork of a woman's shadow, backlit by a holy blue light. There is no text. You are free to stop and inspect further if you wish. If not, you continue to follow Andrimar back home, where he welcomes you into the fire-warmed living room with open arms.

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