faderift | (closed.)

WHO: Derrica + Loxley
WHAT: Dashing and extremely impressive heroics
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: Seedy Lowtown alleyways
NOTES: The only warning is for some awesome vigilante work from Loxley

The trouble with spending nights in Lowtown taverns is that the last ferry always occurs just slightly before most of the taverns close up. It's inconvenient. Even after nearly a year, she still hasn't gotten the timing of leaving her preferred haunts for the docks just right. However, now that Derrica's options for notifying Riftwatch when she's missed the ferry are either 1. Commander Flint or 2. Matthias, she has extreme motivation to try to avoid being stranded. She could theoretically spend more evenings in the Gallows rather than in Lowtown taverns, but who wants that?

Presently, her determination to catch the last ferry sees her dashing briskly up the narrow street, trying to tie up all her laces as she goes. After so long in quarantine, it had simply been nice to get out and enjoy a night of festivities.

The sound of footsteps doesn't raise any immediate alarm. Derrica's hardly the only person with this kind of routine, and she assumes she isn't the only one hustling to scramble on board the last ferry. The first sign of danger is when hands snag the fabric of her cloak and haul her backwards. She gives a startled shout, louder than intended, before twisting to swing a fist blindly upwards. If this mugging makes her miss the ferry—

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There is a moment of palpable confusion from all parties witnessing this dramatic entrance. Derrica can't decide whether she's amused or impressed, and is saved from having to decide on any specific response by being dragged in and clutched like a shield.

Annoying, but she doesn't exactly blame him when there's a sword on fire in his immediate vicinity.

"The lady?" is what she actually manages, slightly aggrieved, when the unfortunate fool behind her loosens his grip enough for her to draw in a breath. Derrica can't see from her present vantage point, but the would-be thieves are exchanging increasingly indecisive expressions. But the focus isn't on her, so she's free to stomp on his foot and drive an elbow into his ribs as she twists away. Between the sweaty man clutching her and the newcomer with the sword, Derrica opts for the newcomer with the sword.

With a sword of rolling green flame brightening the narrow street, it's a good distraction from the way Loxley's hand darts to his belt, throwing the knife that was there in the same motion of unsheathing it. It spins as it pitches across the space snake-fast, takes a slice out of the reprobate's reaching hand, more startling than injurious as he reels back.

The chap on the left takes the moment to close in, raising something -- a club, it would seem -- and Loxley pivots off the man he'd felled, fire ffwooshing with the circular sweep of the sword which lands enough of a mark for his target to cry out, guttural and pain and also-- well, angered.

"I'll take it from here!" he directs the lady. "You ought--"

Which is when the man on the ground goes from prone to moving in far too quick a time, barely even getting to his feet before he hurls himself at Loxley in a tackle.

Any actual questions are stalled by the chaos unfolding in this alley. Derrica has a moment of thinking that perhaps fire isn't the best element to introduce in close quarters, but what's the point in mentioning that now?

"Get off him!" is the first, useless thing that comes to mind right before her sweaty captor makes another wild grab at her cloak.

There are possibly means of retaliation with more finesse. If Derrica stopped to think about it for more than a minute, she'd possibly have come up with a better plan. But all she does in the moment is instinctively whip a fist backwards with such force that the blunt crack of her hand sends her would-be assailant staggering backward while she rushes forward to jump on the man attacking Loxley to try garroting him with his own tunic.

The tangle of violence currently Happening is far less elegant than how it began as Loxley barely has time to get his balance when the third man wraps his arms around around him just as Derrica peels the second away. But trying to hold onto Loxley is a little like wrestling a very large cat, wresting around and dragging his sword into the meat of this man's thigh, and this time the thug's yell is more wounded than enraged.

Green fire leaps from that point of injury and slams into the chest of the man that Derrica has by the neck, a flare of light as it catches on tunic and flesh that does not actually feel hot to her, but must be hot to him, given the way he joins in on the yelling.

The first would-be assailant, gripping his bleeding hand while he bleeds some more from a nose broken by Derrica's fist, stares at this struggle, and is quick to cut his losses. The sound of the narrow street is soon filled with the sound of heavy footsteps.

In all the chaos, it's hard to tell exactly how well this is going. The fire is Loxley's doing, she surmises, and she can hear one retreat, so she'll venture they're making some gains.

The burst of fire has her scrambling back anyway. It doesn't hurt, but she isn't going to wait to see if the spread of it has the ability to scorch her skin. It should be harder to extract Loxley, but he sticks out. She can grab him by the wrist of his free hand and tug.

"Come on, let's go!"

While one assailant is retreating and the other two are shrieking, it's a prime moment to get out of dodge, as far as Derrica is concerned.

Again, not how he imagined this going, with the damsel in distress in question taking up command of the situation. Loxley almost startles when Derrica grabs his arm, but a quick assessment of the scene moves him to agree.

The green flame that wreathes his sword goes out with nary a flicker of smoke, although he doesn't take the moment to resheath it -- he just bolts alongside her like perhaps he's run from trouble through the city streets approx one million times in his life.

The assailants don't seem terribly interested in hunting them down -- there's a bellow of some barely coherent cursing that doesn't follow them outside of the echo it creates, plodding footsteps, but it's more than just the three men that Loxley is fleeing from. The potential of city guard attention is just as -- if not more -- problematic.

Once they've run some distance, and they skid to a halt--

"Are you alright?"

At some point in their wild, thundering retreat, Derrica's concern had given way to laughter. Her grip shifts from Loxley's wrist to his arm, bracing herself as she tries to catch her breath.

"Oh, I'm fine."

Bruised, certainly. But nothing's broken, she isn't bleeding, and as far as she could tell no one's dead (just terribly burnt?) so the entire altercation turns into something vaguely hilarious rather than something she should be worried about. The laughter ebbs, fades into breathless satisfaction as she straightens up slightly and remembers that she should assess this person who appeared from nowhere with a flaming green sword.

"Did you jump down from the roof when you heard them try and grab me?"

Who needs to ask names when you can cut right to the dissection of a dramatic entrance?

Loxley is not unaware of the myriad of more negative reactions that this moment could inspire, even as he hopes for swooning gratitude -- but laughter is good enough and he casts a crooked smile her way as they catch their breath, mirroring her arm bracing, hand at her elbow.

"Oh," he says, "yes."

He stows his sword into its sheath, a weapon with a skinny blade and a heavy guard and grip, not terribly elaborate but a little nicer than Riftwatch standard issue. "I'd spied them lurking around for the past hour and thought I'd best keep an eye out, and lo. I was," he adds, in case she gets the wrong idea, "already on the roof."

(closed.)

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