Friends in Low Places [Markab]

[Tirael]

On a hot, muggy day like this one, the waters of the River Moss were like a breath of fresh air winding its way through the trees. It was taking all of Tirael's self-control not to cast aside his things and dive headfirst into the river, although it was at least relatively cool and breezy along its banks. The otter had been making his way along the edge of the water for almost an hour now, his blue eyes peeled for any sight of useful medicinal herbs or flowers. He'd collected a few bundles already, which he'd tucked safely away into his bag, but was not to be satisfied until he'd found some calendula.

"Oh!" he chimed softly as he finally spotted a patch of the little orange flowers. Picking his way through the underbrush, the healer got to his knees and began picking the best specimens, humming snatches of a song to himself as he did. He could, he supposed, grow many of these plants in the Abbey; in fact, there already was a section of the gardens set aside for the use of the Infirmary Keeper, one which he'd long since filled with a variety of useful samples. But he felt there was something to be said for plants which had grown in the wild.

And besides, Tirael rather enjoyed these lone journeys into Mossflower. He could talk to himself, hum, or even sing without having to worry someone would hear and think he had gone nutty.

At least, that was usually the case. Unfortunately for the otter, he had failed to notice the small band of vermin watching him from deeper in the forest. They had been skulking nearby for a while now, making certain that their lone target really was alone. After all, he was almost too tantalizing a victim: unarmed, head in the clouds, and with a bag that could very well be bulging with food and valuables. Even if he had nothing for them to rob, the otter could likely make an excellent slave once he was trained into it.

Tirael's ear flicked, then swiveled back as he heard someone approaching from behind. He barely had time to look back before a rat and a stoat had rushed him, knocking him over and scattering his bundle of calendula across the soft earth of the riverbank. The otter struggled to get away, but froze as the stoat pressed the blade of a dagger to his throat. "That's right," the leader of the gang, a wiry-looking weasel, said to his captive. "Don't give us a reason to hurt you, and we won't...much."

The healer was too terrified to say anything in response. He stood stock-still as the rat pulled off his medicine bag and tossed it to the weasel, the metal against his throat keeping him acutely aware of how precarious his situation was. At a nod from the weasel, the rat then grabbed Tirael's paws and pulled them behind him, looping a length of cord around his wrists to bind the otter. Tirael's heart was beating so rapidly that he felt certain it was going to burst out of his chest; he could only hope that whatever real fate he had to look forward to wouldn't be something even worse.

[markab]

The day had been...atypical, as far as Keta's went. And that wasn't what he liked. Mossflower was big, but on most days he could run across something to tangle himself up in; traveling woodlanders, old gravesites, vermin gangs, some unsuspecting traveler completely unprepared for Mossflower's particular brand of hostility. Today -- today he hadn't run into so much as a woodpigeon, which was just disappointing as far as he was concerned. Just the insistent chirping of birds hidden somewhere too high up in the trees for him to see, the buzz of insects, the stifling muggy heat that was insistent on his skin even with his summer fur.

And even though he'd never felt so much as a pinch, he could feel temperature, when it was like this.

He was keeping to the stream, something that he normally didn't do, but he'd make an exception today. His fur was cleaner than he remembered it being in weeks, free of the sizable amount of blood that had accumulated on it, feathers combed neatly down against his back to keep them from washing away in the current. The difference between sticky heat and sharp river-cold was good -- it was sensation, and that was something, and today the heat was strong enough to make the temperature difference enough to feel, if only barely.

So it had been just about three hours hopping in and out of the water as soon as the air had dried his fur enough to make him forget the sensation of cold, and he was still warming up from his latest dive into the water, walking steadily along the soft, muddy riverbank with quiet footsteps, when he heard rustling. Noise.

For a moment he went still, ears flicking upwards, straining to hear over the rush of the water. When there was nothing, he started forwards again, more quickly this time. Interested. The increased speed did nothing to hide his movements; the knives and glass jars strung along his belt and tucked in his cloth pack jangled against each other with sharp noises, but if Keta had ever understood the concept of self-preservation he'd lost that particular knowledge long ago.

He brushed through the trees and bushes to...something of a scene. A rat, a stoat, a weasel -- typical vermin gang, something to fight, nobody in that kind of group stood around to chat. Handfuls of calendula scattered across the ground, something Keta used frequently enough for his injuries, and in front of the stoat, dagger pressed into his throat and paws bound behind his back, a terrified-looking otter.

The otter was, frankly, secondary. Keta couldn't imagine he would want to fight, or even put up a fight, considering everything else going on around him. 

The weasel was barely a sword-length away from Keta as it was, apparently supervising the two visible henchbeasts -- if there were any others, they would come out. Keta didn't much care. He'd already turned, possibly alerted by Keta's rather noisy approach. All the better for him, then. He pulled out his cutlass, smiling with far too much enthusiasm for someone outnumbered three-to-one. Probably just enough for someone outnumbered three-to-one who'd never so much as felt a sword cut in their life.

"It's good to meet you!" Keta chirped, almost bird-like. "This day's been getting boring."

His sword came down, all brute force -- the only way he really knew how to fight. He almost hoped the weasel would get some sense into him and dodge. Otherwise it would hardly be fun.

[Tirael]

Tirael could only gulp nervously as he watched the bandit leader rooting through his medicine bag. It was obvious that the weasel was getting frustrated with the lack of any valuables inside; there wasn't even any food he could steal, other than what few plants the otter had harvested which could be used for cooking as well as medicine. He found it difficult to care much about his property being taken, however, as the steel blade pressed against his neck was capturing far more of his attention. He wished he could find his voice, say something to help himself, but it was as though an icy hand was squeezing his insides and preventing him from doing anything useful. Underneath the fear, the healer couldn't help but feel an undercurrent of shame. He was useless, and he was going to pay for it now.

"Nothing," the weasel spat as he dumped Tirael's satchel on the ground. He locked eyes with his captive, who shrank back as much as he could while being held in place by the other vermin. "I-I haven't got a-anything to give you," the otter stammered, surprised that he could say anything at all. "Please, just--just let me go--"
"Let me go, let me go," the weasel mimicked in a mocking, high-pitched tone. Sneering at Tirael, he leaned in close, his voice becoming low and cold. "Forget it, otter. You go walkin' around in my woods without payin' the toll, you're mine."

Before Tirael could answer (not that there was much he could really retort), someone else walked in on the scene. The otter's blue eyes flicked over to take in the new arrival. At first, it seemed that the sable was probably just another one of the group; he was grinning, likely just as pleased with the new prisoner as the rest of his cohorts. His appearance seemed wilder than the others', though that could simply have been a matter of the sable's personal fashion preferences. Really, his feathery, bric-a-brac-laden visage might have been fascinating, had Tirael not currently had good reason to find it just as frightening as everything else in this mess.

"It's good to meet you! This day's been getting boring."

Neither the vermin gang nor their captive quite knew how to react to the greeting. Fortunately for the latter, Keta's intentions soon became inescapably clear. His sword swing was less inescapable, although the weasel barely escaped being chopped in half. Blurting out a curse in alarm, he pulled his own rusty sword out and swung it in retaliation. The other members of the gang drew their own weapons as well, preparing to help fight off the intruder; only the stoat remained where he was, keeping his dagger on Tirael's throat while essentially using the helpless otter as a meat shield.

Tirael himself gaped at the scene, clearly not having expected to see the sable come to his aid. Not that he was complaining, mind you, it was just...surprising. He supposed he should feel a bit guilty for having judged Keta so quickly, but then again, his circumstances made for about as good an excuse as one could expect. Besides, it would do no good to stand there feeling guilty while the sable did all the work of saving him; he had to contribute somehow. Thanking his (sort-of) lucky stars that his footpaws weren't bound, he stuck one out to trip a rat who'd gone to rush at Keta. It was a small contribution, but hey--at least he wasn't entirely useless.

[markab]

((feel free 2 yell @ me if you'd rather i not play members of the gang like this, i just went ahead because my post would be...quite short otherwise))

The weasel ducked, narrowly avoiding the sword swing. Keta hadn't quite put his full weight behind it, at least, recovered...quickly enough. He straightened back up, grinning, as the weasel fumbled for his own blade -- a rusty affair, chipped and rather nasty-looking, that Keta would have been best served to dodge. He knew that, but couldn't bring himself to care. And there was even calendula right there, as if specifically for this particular fight.

He laughed, cheerfully, and drew his sword back. Oh, this was going to be good. He hadn't had an actual fight that wasn't ambushing travelers to pick apart in too long.

He was vaguely aware of the group of vermin around him drawing blades as well, just enough to notice and discard them as unimportant. What was important was the sword now coming down directly on him. He whipped his own cutlass up and the blades skidded harmlessly off each other with the sharp, distinct scream of metal-on-metal. Slowed to a near-crawl, Keta's free paw snapped up and wrapped tightly around the blade of the weasel's sword. No pain, of course -- there never was, he had to assume, because it didn't stop him like it did to anyone else -- just faint, insistent pressure, and the familiar feeling of slick blood oozing across his pawpads, barely noticeable at all if he wasn't searching for it. 

With the other paw, he slid his cutlass neatly off the weasel's. Tightened his grip, still smiling brightly, and thrust his sword directly into his opponent's stomach. It was funny how instantly the pressure from the weasel's blade vanished; he uncurled his fingers from around it, let the rusty blade, dripping his blood, clatter to the dirt, the weasel following shortly after as he pulled his cutlass free. The weasel curled into the dirt with his paws pressed into the bleeding wound in his stomach.

Well, there was probably no getting up from that, in this situation. Keta withdrew his injured paw, fingers flexing and splattering blood just about everywhere, noticing as he did a rat trip over the otter's outstretched paw, try to recover, and catapult rather spectacularly to the ground only a short distance from his footpaws, far closer than any of the other vermin who seemed slightly startled by Keta's particular method of handling his latest victim.

Huh. Keta eyed the otter in question, who was still bound, knife still pressed to his throat. Nice of him. Keta inched a bit forward to whip his cutlass down at the rat's neatly exposed neck.

In the ensuing silence, he licked the oozing blood off his paw, just enough that it wouldn't be quite as slippery, and grinned toothily around at the vermin remaining. "Better." He wiggled his cutlass, eyes bright and wide, feeling the sharpness of the adrenaline, the too-fast beat of his heart in his ears, the slick stickiness of blood oozing in rivulets between his fingers, how dead still he felt despite all that. "And yet. Hardly worth my time." He looked between them, waiting. It was good that there were more, that they'd seen him catch the weasel's sword without so much as a flinch. Maybe they would take him more seriously now. Fighting was only as good as the amount of blood involved.

[Tirael]

It was safe to say that no one, least of all the bandit leader, had expected this fight to go down the way it did. His teeth clenched in determination as sword met sword, the impact reverberating through both blades. Truth be told, the weasel enjoyed a decent fight almost as much as his adversary; robbing the weak and defenseless, while practical and profitable, didn't usually provide much in the way of real satisfaction. His hope for an entertaining battle and fulfilling victory turned to horror, however, when Keta gripped his cutlass blade without so much as a slight wince of pain.

It was almost as shocking as being run through a moment later,

Tirael and the other gang members watched in stunned fascination. Even despite the continuing precariousness of his situation, the healer couldn't help but begin speculating as to why the torrent of blood was apparently beneath Keta's notice. He had read that badgers under the effects of Bloodwrath were oblivious to pain, allowing them to lay waste to their enemies until their thirst for battle was sated. The phenomenon, mysterious as it was, was relatively well-documented; accounts of creatures other than badgers exhibiting similar symptoms was rather less so. Of course, the sable seemed entirely too cheerful--too mentally present--to be experiencing Bloodwrath in this scenario. Whatever was going on, though, it concerned Tirael for a number of reasons.

His captors were also concerned, albeit more about their own safety than their attacker's health. With the weasel bleeding out and the rat now suffering an even grislier demise, two of their compatriots lost their nerve and fled into the woods. The stoat was no more eager to fight, but could not bring himself to run, either. Instead, he remained frozen where he was, cowering behind a prisoner who was noticeably shorter and less bulky than himself. Had it not been so frightening, Tirael might have actually found the situation comical.

Only one bandit, a female ferret, stood her ground. Pointing a spear at Keta, she did her best to mask her fear with a hateful scowl. "What'd we do to you, eh? What's this about?" Jerking her head at Tirael, she demanded, "Is this about the otter? He worth somethin' to you?" The idea had apparently never occurred to the stoat, who began babbling almost as soon as his last remaining companion stopped speaking. "I-if that's what you want, then you can have him, just--just leave us alone!" Tirael could only give Keta a hopeful, yet fearful, glance; he could hardly tell yet if being handed over to the sable would even be preferable to his initial predicament.

[[Do whatever you want with them, they're disposable NPCs ]]

[markab]

Keta stood, cutlass held in one paw, dripping blood onto the dirt with the other, and watched every set of eyes arrayed around him widen, watched everything go still and soft and quiet -- the kind of unnerving silence before something dramatic happened -- besides the weasel whining and groaning on the ground as he scrabbled desperately, with bloody paws, at the gash rent in his stomach. Of course Keta could put him out of his misery; but there was something fascinating about watching pain, about seeing something so profoundly alien to him he could barely understand it, played out in full detail before him. Like it was every time he brought someone down, watched them gasp and scream over something that he knew would feel like nothing more than pressure and warmth to him.

And so, of course, the least interesting thing that could have happened in that moment did; a ferret and a stoat, standing near the edges of the clearing, decided discretion was the better part of valor and ran, disappearing before Keta could even reach for a knife to try and catch one of them in the back.

The cheery, bright expression stuck on his face up to this point morphed into a disappointed frown. Of course. Well, he still had three -- two -- left; the stoat, still with his knife up to the otter's throat, and a ferret with a spear pointed in his direction, scowling at him. Both looked -- mostly frozen. Just as frightened as the two who'd run into the woods, but for some reason they hadn't done the smart thing and tried to run too. That just meant more fun. Keta took a step in the ferret's direction, grinning toothily again as the spear wavered and stopped, fixed in the direction of his chest.

"What'd we do to you, eh? What's this about? Is this about the otter? He worth somethin' to you?"

Keta cackled, but before he could say anything the stoat cut in.

"I-if that's what you want, then you can have him, just--just leave us alone!"

The fear was practically palpable here. Keta spared a moment to imagine just what a scene he would have caused if he'd let the weasel cut into his shoulder, instead -- let it lodge there and then killed him. Maybe left the blade in for good measure, if it went deep enough. That kind of panic would have been a sight. He snorted, took another step closer. There was always next time, anyways.

Of course he didn't care about the otter, but for a moment he stayed quiet, walked himself as close to the spear as he dared, just enough space left that he could catch any jab in his paws before it went too deep into his stomach. To the side, he saw the otter glance at him -- of course his intervention here had not meant to be helpful for anyone, but it seemed as if it would work that way. "You can run," he said, brightly, eyes gleaming with curious excitement, a predator staring at its prey. Tapped the gleaming row of knives on his belt. "If you move fast enough, I might even miss!"

[Tirael]

Tirael wasn't sure what to make of of Keta's disappointed expression as the two bandits fled into the woods. Unlike the sable, he had no thirst for violence, took no pleasure in seeing anybeast harmed--even those who had, only minutes before, fully intended to kidnap and enslave him. Perhaps that was just what being a warrior was like? The otter had read the accounts of many of Redwall's fabled heroes through the ages, and a common trait all had shared was a determination to see things through to the end. Maybe that was why Tirael was just an unremarkable healer rather than anyone's hero.

While he hadn't been certain what to think about the disappointment, Tirael knew he didn't care for the eager grin that took its place when Keta realized two of the bandits had yet to run away. That made it rather clear to the otter that Keta was enjoying the slaughter, which raised the question of what his intentions were toward Tirael himself. At the very least, he'd been reasonably certain that the bandit gang wouldn't kill him as long as he cooperated with them. Keta might just kill him for the thrill of it.

"You can run. If you move fast enough, I might even miss!"

The murderous comment was more than enough for the stoat, who seemingly came back to life the moment the last word left Keta's mouth. Pulling his dagger away from Tirael's throat, he shoved the bound otter toward the sable and broke off in a sprint, tearing through the underbrush in a desperate bid for escape. His companion, apparently considering the stumbling otter as enough of a distraction, likewise decided today wasn't going to be her last and ran in a different direction.

Tirael, who had definitely not been expecting the push, could only his best to keep from actually running into Keta. In the process, he tripped over the fallen rat (the irony of which somehow occurred to him deep, deep down in his mind) and hit the earth in front of his unintended rescuer with a thump. Fear now lanced through the otter like a lightning bolt, and he scrambled to get up as quickly as he could. When he got to his knees, though, he froze, realizing a grim truth: he was still entirely at Keta's mercy. He had no distractions to cover an escape, and the very idea of him fighting the sable off would have been laughable even if his paws hadn't been tied behind his back.

The revelation left an icy pit in Tirael's gut. He sighed, getting to his feet and leveling an expression mixing fear, resignation, and determination at Keta. "T-thank you," he managed to say, determined not to turn nasty or cowardly in what might be his final moments. "F-for saving me."

[markab]

One paw rested delicately atop the row of knives in his belt, which as it turned out appeared to be for the best as no sooner had he spoken than the stoat flung his captive towards Keta and dashed for the woods in a dead sprint that the sable hadn't expected of him. He disappeared quickly among the brush as the otter stumbled and fell at Keta's paws, while the ferret took a brief second to flee in a different direction. The second was all Keta needed; she hadn't quite disappeared when a blade came flying after her, and though she made a sound when it thudded into her back she kept running. Keta wrinkled his nose, disappointed. Might still be fatal, if she didn't treat it.

That wasn't the real tragedy of the thing, though.

"That was one of my best knives," Keta pouted, tapping the now-vacated space in the same way one might probe with their tongue at the gap of a missing tooth. "And she just took it." The nerve of some beasts. He cast his gaze around the now thoroughly-ruined area; the serene riverbank that might have existed only ten minutes ago was now a mess of scattered flowers pressed into the mud by fleeing paws, blood, dead and dying vermin, and the single otter struggling to get himself to his knees with both paws bound behind his back.

The weasel's groans were getting weaker as his blood spilled out across the mud, but Keta wasn't worried about any backstab from him of all beasts. Instead he watched, curious, as the otter painstakingly picked himself up and onto his feet, again with paws still bound, and somehow without slipping in the mud kicked up by the chaos that had just occurred.

There was a little fear in the expression he leveled at Keta -- fear was something the sable knew, could practically scent like a shark smelling blood in the water -- but there was something else, something steely, behind it, despite the fact he'd been a prisoner only moments before. Whether he'd been fighting or not Keta couldn't say, but he'd put his guess on not -- there were few enough 'woodlanders' that could actually wield a blade and none that he'd seen who also picked flowers in their spare time.

"T-thank you. F-for saving me."

Keta huffed a sharp, almost manic laugh, and patted him on the shoulder, with his bleeding paw. He'd dissected otters before, living and dead; this one offered no new interest to him. The concept that he was doing this to save anyone, though, was laughable. "I said, it's been a boring day. Though this wasn't exactly...thrilling." He held up the paw, still oozing blood, examining it briefly and then whipping his pack around to dig out a needle and thread. 

"This is all I get out of it," he muttered to himself. If he was going to have to do stitches the vermin who caused it could have the courtesy to give him an actual injury. Having his paw cut, even practically to the bone as it was, was by no means novel.

Finally catching sight of his medical kit, he popped it open, and frowned. Glanced at the riverbank. The calendula flowers were thoroughly stomped into the mud, though there were enough left blooming on the sides of the river that it was probably fine. Hm. He eyed the otter. "Calendula. You're a healer, right?"