faderift | [Semi-closed] A tisket, a tasket

The rest of the crowd pauses as they look at what's happened, one guy on the ice, one tossed back, and one whimpering in pain.

"You can leave," Anders says, making sure to project. He doesn't want this fight. He wants to heal in Darktown, not leave some residents bleeding in the streets.

One leaves from the back, followed by a couple more seconds later. They're down to ten people facing them, including the three who had come against them.

"I won't keep track of your faces, I won't seek revenge." Begging would be risky. But giving them an easy out, that's something that shouldn't backfire too hard. He will remember their faces, he can't help it, but that means he knows to be wary of those specific faces in the future.

"I won't keep track of your faces, I won't seek revenge."

A generous offer--though, in Kit's estimation, the time for such generosity has passed. If these folks were going to be moved by words, they'd need something a little more concrete, more visceral, to back them up. He doesn't say a word, but reaches slowly for the mean war axes sheathed across his shoulders, and watches to see whether this threat is enough to get the remaining brawlers to see sense.

One more slips away, but the rest seem determined to do this. Anders takes a breath and readies his staff. There will be a high price to pay later. At least he's given them every out, and he's certain the rumors from the dozens of watching eyes will reflect that even if they call him a coward along with it. He can take the name of cowardice. Murderer is the one he's afraid of, this being spun into him killing people for disagreeing with him or some other twist he can't predict.

"Sometimes I wish I believed the Maker gave a care," he mutters. It seems to be the cue people were waiting for as the group rushes forward. Four run headlong into a hastily erected ice wall, but the haste of the casting made it narrow enough it doesn't stop any more.

Injured-arm is howling something and swinging a club; Anders aims the blunt end of his staff into the man's midsection and Injured-arm crumples. There's no follow-up, no finishing blow given. If he can get through this without killing anyone it may make things more complicated for him in the long run but they'll be less complicated in the short when it comes to the Inquisition.

Nine against two. Well. He's faced worse odds before.

The axes come out when the remaining brawlers charge forward, and the ones that manage to skirt around the edges of Anders' ice wall find themselves on the receiving end of both Anders' staff blade, and the blunt end of Kit's axe. Kit swings it in a brutal upper cut that would be powerful enough to knock a guy's jaw clean from his head, if that's where Kit was aiming. Instead, he checks the swing so that it crashes into the assailant's chest instead; it's enough to crack some ribs and send him staggering back. The strike of the haft to the attacker's kneecap is what takes him out of the game.

"Anders," he calls out, "you all right?" and turns quickly to see what support he can offer his new friend.

"So far! You?"

Two of them are down and not getting back up. He can see the indecision in their friends' faces, especially as the one with cracked ribs fails to even sit up with a cry of pain. Anders weaves creation magic through his immediate vicinity, getting a good sense of Kit's shape as well as former injuries the people surrounding them have suffered. Wanting to finish breaking their wavering resolve, he goes for the one with a previously broken leg and hits the exact same spot, feeling the bone give way against his staff.

Five make a break for it at that point, swearing profusely, as the newly injured man crumples. One man is left standing and staring at his three downed friends before he looks up and raises his hands. "Mercy," he asks, and Anders just feels annoyance and disgust. No, he doesn't want to strike down the guy, but if it was him who was alone asking for mercy, he's quiet certain they wouldn't have given it to him.

As if sensing some of Anders' thoughts, Kit steps forward to stand beside him, watching him in profile. "It's done," he reminds him quietly, and turns a harsh glare on the one pleading for mercy just to reinforce that yes, this is done, and they should all be glad they walked away from this with their lives.

"Go on," he barks at him, lifting his axe threateningly, and that is enough to send the last able-bodied man scrambling desperately away from the scene. The injured men below them cower now that they have been bested; Kit regards them all with something like pity, grimacing. Poor idiots.

"I know," he says quietly. Justice wouldn't have let the man pass, but he's no longer possessed. Instead, Mercy is pressing close, waiting for him to make another decision that he doesn't want to make.

With a heavy, aggravated sigh, Anders puts his staff back in the holster on his back and kneels at the closest man writing in agony, hands glowing green. They may have wanted to kill him, but leaving someone this injured down here will spell their death in return. He is no longer Vengeance. He is Anders, and while he is also quite angry, he is here to heal.

"Fucking assholes," he mutters as he works. All three injured men are looking at him in various stages of surprise which is the very first thing he can't fault them for. "Stab them if they try to stab me while I do this?"

The wounded men exchange worried looks at Anders' directive to Kit, and turn their wide eyes on the dwarf who now looms ominously behind Anders with his thick arms folded over his chest. If they're expecting to find an ally in Kit, they're looking at the wrong dwarf.

Kit raises his eyebrows. "You heard 'im," he says. "Don't give me a reason."

Wisely, they do not.

Once the healer's work is done and the men have made themselves scarce, Kit allows himself a weary exhale and chafes a hand against his bald head. "Sodding Paragons," he grouses, "let's not do that again."

He grunts in agreement, taking a breath before he gets back up to his feet.

"Thank you." His voice is quiet, eyes downcast. He'd needed someone to save him yet again. "I'm sorry. I appreciate the backup, but I'm sorry you got caught in it. Can I buy you a drink? Pay you back a little?"

Kit dusts some dirt off his armour and manages a grim little laugh. "No need to apologize, salroka--I'm just glad I got here in time to help. I'll take that drink though," he adds, smiling. "I'm plum out of coin for buying my own."

He can hear the smile in Kit's voice and it has him looking over at the Dwarf and giving him a faint smile back. There are times he forgets that some people are friendly and nice and don't hold it against him.

"Hanged Man, or do you have another preference?" He dusts off his own robes and turns toward the exit of Darktown; there may be chores left undone today but he's done down here for now.

"Hanged Man is good enough for me," Kit replies; he doesn't sound cheerful, exactly, but he's the kind of guy who learned early on how to bounce back from a fight. It was a requirement for survival, both in Dust Town and the Deep Roads.

When Anders turns to leave, Kit falls into step beside him, equally glad to put this place behind them.

[Semi-closed] A tisket, a tasket

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