[color=lightgray][h1][center][color=9354FF]Ryn[/color] & [color=ab274f]Prince Wulfric[/color] - Part IV[/center][/h1]
[center][b][u][color=red]FLASHBACK:[/color][/u][/b] Sola, 27th[/center]
[hr][hr]
The stench hit before anything else—stale beer, old grease, sweat, and something fishier lurking underneath. The Seafarer’s Slop Shack had probably been named by someone with a gift for accuracy, if not marketing. It had the sort of honest grubbiness that came from years of people making do with very little.

What little light from outside made it through the grimy windows seemed embarrassed to be there, leaving most of the illumination to oil lamps whose glass had not seen a good polish since the last king’s reign. The doorframe listed to one side like a drunken sailor, and generations of spilled drinks, food, and who knew what else had worked their way into the warped floorboards.

Ryn paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior while cataloging exits with the absent habit of someone who learned young that knowing how to leave a place was as important as knowing how to enter it. Main door at his back, a narrow back door half-hidden behind a crooked shelf of bottles, and what looked like a cellar hatch behind the bar.

Like water finding its level, the evening crowd began to seep in. Over at the main table, dock workers fresh from their shift hunched over a card game. Heads bent close together in one corner, two women shared whispers, while another woman in a threadbare dress that might once have been fine leaned against the far wall, watching the room with hollow eyes. A patron who started their evening several hours too early was teaching the shadows how to snore. Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair wiped down the bar top with a rag that had seen better days. The brass spigots of the beer barrels behind her had been polished to a shine that seemed out of place among the general grime.

He caught the barkeep’s eye with the universal nod of someone who spent all day doing honest work and was ready to undo it with dishonest drink.

[color=9354FF]“What’s good?”[/color] he asked, laying down copper for two.

The barkeep snorted. [color=white]“Nothing’s good. But the fish stew won’t kill you and the ale’s wet.”[/color]

[color=9354FF]“Sold,”[/color] said Ryn cheerfully.

Wulfric scoped out the inn upon entry, and found Hendrix doing the same. Strolling alongside the count, he sat down by the bar. [color=ab274f]“Brew them yourself?”[/color] he wondered, to which the barkeep grunted. She slid over two glasses topped with murky yellowish ale. The prince drank a mouthful, then another, discovering he was thirstier than he had realized. The liquid was thicker than expected, and somewhat sticky, the drink clinging to his palate. Yet, it was as if the flavour had been washed out; the ale was barely bitter, almost stale despite its lightness, carrying an elusive hint of citrus, and a strange metallic tang. The alcohol content was so low, one would need several glasses to even start feeling drunk. It wasn’t quite like drinking water, but hydration did seem to be the main purpose of the drink. [color=ab274f]“It’s not bad,”[/color] he commented, which drew a hefty snort from her. [color=white]“Ain’t that a compliment.”[/color] 

The fish stew which followed shifted his opinion - in comparison to the food, the drink was downright [i]decent[/i]. His plate emanated such a pungent scent, he honestly wondered how it was possible for cooked fish to smell worse than when it was fresh and gutted. Did they put a rotten carcass in? The fish head floating in his portion supported that idea. Deciding it was best to get it over with, he treated the stew as he would medicine; he ate as much of it as he could fast enough not to taste any of it. Even so, the putridness lingered in his mouth, eliciting disquieting roiling from his stomach. [color=ab274f]“I’m done,”[/color] he pushed the plate away, and grabbed the ale as if it might be his saving line. Unfortunately, it did little to wash away the aftertaste of dead fish. 

How the count was able to eat with a straight face was a mystery in itself. 

[color=ab274f]“Do you have anything stronger?”[/color] The barkeep shrugged. [color=white]“Sure, ‘s long ‘s you pay.”[/color] For a few coppers, he received a sampling of her specialty moonshine. He took a cautious sip, and immediately grimaced, though he managed to swallow down the harshly burning liquid. [color=ab274f]“This…isn’t acid, is it?”[/color] he half-joked. The woman only laughed. [color=white]“Best stick to the ale, lad.”[/color] Wulfric silently agreed. As far as he was concerned, the moonshine was for anyone looking to get knocked out fast, which he was not. He had to give credit where it was due, though; the one sip had burned away all else, aggressively cleansing his mouth and throat. 

[color=9354FF]“Thanks for the meal.”[/color] Ryn slid his empty bowl forward, earning a grunt of acknowledgement from the iron-haired woman as she whisked it away. The clattering of dishes nearly drowned out the ongoing card game behind them, where colorful curses suggested someone was having a streak of particularly bad luck.

Turning to Prince Wulfric, who still looked faintly green around the edges from his encounter with the stew, Ryn asked, [color=9354FF]“The night’s still young. Anything else you’d want to see before we call it a day?”[/color]

Having managed to win his battle against nausea, Wulfric turned around in his seat, so his back was facing the bar. [color=ab274f]“Hmmm,”[/color] he casually perused the patrons. There was at least one familiar face among the players at the large table, the two women were still fiercely whispering to one another, and the lady he presumed was a prostitute remained quietly watchful. [color=ab274f]“Play a game or two, talk, soak in the atmosphere.”[/color] Gather information, in other words. [color=ab274f]“I would like to explore the area at night, though it might be tricky without a light source of our own.”[/color] He stretched languidly, and slid down from his seat. [color=ab274f]“Might as well have some fun, hm?”[/color] 

The prince strolled towards the card table, waving to the worker he recognized, and brought a chair over. It was so crowded the players were knocking elbows. No one had anything against fresh blood though, so all Wulfric had to do was sit back till a new round started, and he was dealt in. He chatted to the dockers about this and that, but at best, they shared mundane rumours and tid-bits of local news. The third round in, the fishmonger entered the joint, pipe in hand. Spotting the two new faces he’d directed to the docks that morning, his gaze travelled from the count to the prince, and he invited them to join him at a separate table with a head tilt. 

The three met up, drinking and talking to each other for a bit. The fishmonger, or ‘old man Gus’, as he introduced himself, was true to his word, and told them about what he’d seen throughout the years. Small time gangs coming in and out, rumours of one organization behind the disappearance of some, and the flourishing of others. There were other prominent groups, but there was one which was feared - or respected - the most. Apparently, a few of the regulars of the Shack may or may not know someone who knew someone…and so on, until somewhere down the line there [i]might[/i] be someone with ties to the Black Rose. Gus had a policy of plausible deniability, and even a few whiskeys in, he would mumble things like, [color=white]“Ne’er mind me, jus’ an old man.”[/color]  

Of course, as soon as Wulfric heard there were others in the bar who might have information – well. Naturally, he had to prod them a bit more. A part of him was counting on something coming out of it. As it was said, so it was true: Those looking for trouble would find it.

It was well into the night when four men entered the pub with purpose. [color=white]“You’re the fella stickin’ yer nose into our business?”[/color] One of them asked, a burly man with a bush of hair and beard. 

[color=ab274f]“What? Me?”[/color] Wulfric feigned innocence, though he didn’t put any true effort in the attempt, sporting a mocking smirk. The second largest man, a tough looking bruiser spoke up, cracking his fingers. [color=white]“There another one?”[/color] To which the prince laughed. [color=ab274f]“I’m enough to take you all on,”[/color] he bragged. 

At the corner of his periphery he saw Hendrix turn to him, [color=9354FF]“... Really?”[/color] It wasn’t a question about whether Wulfric could take them all on, but an entirely different one: [i]This[/i] is how you want to spend the rest of the night?

The prince shrugged, conveying in one single motion a sense of, ‘I gave you the chance to stay out of it.’ His provocation had riled up the four as expected, but one sharp, [color=white]“OY!”[/color] from the barkeep was enough to restrain them. [color=white]“Tch,”[/color] the largest one still looked like he might pick a fight right there and then, neck vein pulsing, but had stopped himself for some reason. Did the owner here have some sort of a deal with them, or was her property under someone else’s protection? So much for causing enough chaos indoors to secure an escape route. The remaining few patrons were very firmly minding their own business. 

[color=white]“You. I’ll deal with you,”[/color] the bushy haired man glared at him. [color=white]“You two. Don’t let him run.”[/color] Two lackeys surrounded the disguised royal, and he followed without protest. At his left was a pony-tailed man with a knife sheathed at his back, and at his right a shaggy haired fellow who struck him as disinterested in what was going on. [color=white]“You, get him.”[/color] The bruiser was directed to Hendrix. Now that it was clear the ruffians knew they were together, Wulfric fully turned towards the count for a moment. Eyebrow arching, he seemed to be asking without words, [color=ab274f][i]You can handle this, yes?[/i][/color]

Hendrix shook his head in what looked more like resignation.

Despite his companion’s lack of enthusiasm, Wulfric wasn’t worried. They were definitely being underestimated. The leader was so confident all would be fine, he lumbered ahead. The moment the giant of a hoodlum opened the front door and stepped onto the first of the three wooden steps, the prince took advantage of his inattention. Wulfric had been compliantly walking behind, all easy going and unhurried, but within the blink of an eye, he jumped into action. He grabbed the knife wielder, and kicked him down the stairs in the same motion he snatched his knife. [color=white]“You–!”[/color] The burly thug leader turned around at the commotion, then stumbled as one of his men was sent flying into him. The two tumbled down, the front door slamming shut behind them as Wulfric faced off against one of the men remaining indoors, and the count against the other.

Ryn was not what one would call a proponent of violence. Oh, he had nothing against recreational violence or even a friendly bout of fisticuffs to work off frustrations. Although he declined Prince Wulfric’s earlier offer, Ryn did enjoy a good sparring match on occasion—the dance of it, the rush, the way your blood sang when you landed a perfect hit or dodged a blow. But brawling in establishments? That had a way of escalating from “just a scuffle” to “explaining to the city guard why that load-bearing beam now had a person pinned to it by an axe.” And frankly, paperwork for the property damage was its own special kind of violence.

As he sidestepped a meaty fist that whooshed past his ear, Ryn found himself wondering, as one does in such moments, how often the Slop Shack saw this sort of excitement. By the looks of it, perhaps not that many. For all its well-earned grubbiness, most of the damage seemed to come from time and the relentless assault of sea air rather than flying bodies and furniture. Either the locals knew better than to start trouble here, or the iron-haired woman behind the bar had ways of dealing with those who did.

[color=white]“Hold still, you weaselly little sh*t,”[/color] the man growled, overextending on another punch that Ryn simply was not there to receive.

[color=9354FF]“Ah, but then you’d hit me,”[/color] Ryn replied, ducking under another swing. [color=9354FF]“And I’ve grown rather attached to my face. Known it all my life, you see.”[/color]

The bruiser chuckled at that, before trying to grab him. [color=white]“Just trying to rearrange it a bit. Add some character to that pretty face of yours.”[/color]

[color=9354FF]“That’s nice of you,”[/color] Ryn said, [color=9354FF]“but I prefer my scars to come with heroic stories. ‘Got these while rescuing a princess from a dragon’ sounds much more impressive at parties.”[/color] They had completed nearly a full orbit of the room now, Ryn staying just beyond reach, the big man getting progressively more winded and frustrated.

[color=white]“You talk too much,”[/color] the bruiser announced, charging forward like a bull that spotted the red cape.

[color=9354FF]“I get that a lot,”[/color] Ryn agreed, then added helpfully, [color=9354FF]“Oh, watch that loose board there—”[/color] The other man’s boot caught exactly where Ryn had noticed a warped plank earlier, sending him stumbling, arms windmilling, directly into the path of Prince Wulfric.

[color=9354FF]“Adel,”[/color] Ryn called out.

One thug had just fallen down, kneed in the chin, when the other oh-so-handily stumbled his way, all wide-eyed and undefended. With nary a glance in the count’s direction, Wulfric understood the signal, and was ready to take advantage of the opening his ally had created. 

A twist, a grab, a throw, and the bruiser was sent careening—

[i]Slam![/i]

Body met wood, yet though the chair creaked and protested, the rickety piece of furniture didn’t break. Which was just as well, because he had set that particular chair to block off the front doors. The shaggy haired fellow had been disabled moments before, lying disarmed and unconscious on the floor. [color=white]“Hnnng,”[/color] the pugilist, meanwhile, was only dazed, but taken care of for the moment. 

[color=ab274f]“Well done,”[/color] the prince gave Hendrix an appreciative look. Fritz had not only carefully kept track of the flow of the whole battle, he had strategically manipulated it in their favour. Wulfric found it comfortable to fight alongside the other man. It was as if they had done it countless times before. Almost as if they could [i]trust[/i]—

[b]THUD![/b]

A sound akin to a battering ram striking a castle’s barred gates interrupted his momentary reverie. Only, it was a man instead of a ram, and a feeble shack rather than a castle. By the sounds of it, the thug leader was none too pleased at Wulfric’s actions. With one more charge, the chair was dislodged from under the doorknob. The man Wulfric had thrown into that seat jostled at the force of it, and he appeared to realize he was in his friends’ way. The unconscious shaggy haired thug was starting to stir as well. [color=ab274f]“That is our cue to leave,”[/color] Wulfric suggested.

Dashing towards the back exit, he stopped only long enough to empty his pocket onto the bar counter. Along with the coins, he handed over the stolen knife as well. [color=ab274f]“Sorry for the trouble,”[/color] he gave the bartender a charming smile. The stern old woman looked ready to inflict some serious violence, her narrow-eyed gaze mellowing only the slightest at the offered appeasement. Unfortunately, he had nothing else to give, and if their escape was to be successful, he was in rather a hurry.

Despite the need to hurry, Ryn had one last bit of business to attend to. He dropped a handful of coins on the counter. [color=9354FF]“Plus a little extra,”[/color] he said.

The barkeep snorted, sweeping up the coins while eyeing the chaos they caused. [color=white]“Next time, just lose at cards like everyone else.”[/color] The words were gruff, but the wrinkles around her eyes suggested she penciled them into her mental list of acceptable regulars.

[color=9354FF]“Duly noted,”[/color] Ryn touched the brim of his hat.

On his way out, Ryn slipped his remaining coins into the hands of the hollow-eyed woman. She startled from her daze, blinking at him as if he were a dream not quite remembered. He answered with a wink and a wave to the room at large. [color=9354FF]“Have a good one, folks!”[/color]

An unusually loud [i]smack[/i] resounded when Wulfric opened the back door. Apparently, the now knifeless knife-wielder had been sent the other way around, and had arrived with truly unfortunate timing. Wulfric recovered faster than his opponent, and punched the pony-tailed thug in the chin. A quick glance back confirmed the burly leader was inside the shack now, kicking the shaggy man to consciousness. The bruiser was already charging towards them. The prince closed the door as soon as both he and the count were out, and leaned his full weight onto it. [color=ab274f]“Go on,”[/color] he urged Fritz. [color=ab274f]“I will follow right behind.”[/color]

[color=9354FF]“Or,”[/color] Ryn wedged a length of iron that had been propped against the wall through the door handle. [color=9354FF]“We could skip the heroic last stand entirely and go together now rather than later. It’d save so much time.”[/color] He grabbed Prince Wulfric’s arm and flashed a quick grin. [color=9354FF]“Come on.”[/color] 

When his hand was grasped, his mind flashed to several years past. To his cousin, who had been the first to befriend him. To yet another friend, later, who— The moment passed. The unfamiliar touch was still there, but the thrill of the chase prevailed. 

[color=ab274f]“I wasn’t making a [i]last stand,[/i]”[/color] Wulfric protested with a laugh, sprinting after Hendrix at his cue.[/color]