(closed.)

[tender]

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—

Comments

[charmoffensive]

Soundlessly, a shape drops from above, springing from the slanted edge of anonymous roofing.

Noisily, it lands, crashing hard into another shape on the ground. It's the kind of cacophony that takes some of the chaos out of the moment that Derrica's wild swing bonks off the slab of a man's face, driving her attacker to haul her in with sudden violence as he pivots wildly. Derrica, too, can then see: a Lowtown thug sprawled face down, and a tall, lithe figure standing with a boot planted on the downed man's back a little like he's posing with a trophy kill.

No one's dead. Yet. The man on the ground is groaning, stunned, but alive, and the third of this little troupe of villainy has backed up across the other side of the narrow street. Loxley grips the hilt of his rapier and draws it with a flourish from his belt, and womf, green fire suddenly races from guard to blade tip. The sickly green light gives off a little detail, like yes, his skin is a silvery grey, and yes, those are curling horns sprouting through the black curls of his hair.

He grins, fangs visible.

"Now," he says, prim and proper, "which one of you bitches wants to dance?"

He points his sword at the one still clutching Derrica. "Unhand the lady, and we can get started."