(One shouldnt write stuff at night, obviously. Not shakespeare, to say the least..)
Dour, heavy rain had been pouring down most of the afternoon. Sudden gusts of wind sent the wetness in under the bridge where Jorenn was seeking shelter from the bad weather. No refuge from the damp today, he figured. Even his breeches were going sour. Cold, miserable and very much broke. Some way of starting over. Still, it was better than what he was running from. And ran he had, far and fast. Nevertheless, sour memories and worse weather would not quench the growling of his stomach.
After picking up his meager belongings, he made his way out in the open and downpour. Looking as scruffy as he did, working for board and meal was out of the question. Steal or starve, yet again. Just another one in a long succession of really bad days, he figured, crossing a street and heading down an alley. Forget seeing the top of the buildings towering on his left and right - he doubted he\'d see his hand if he held it out at arms length. Mud slipped through the numerous holes in his boots. Another gust of wind made him pull down the hood even further. Icy needles of cold rain battered him nevertheless. By damnation, he thought. Things cannot get worse.
It\'s at times like these, gods are listening. A wall suddenly ran into Jorenn. Shielding himself from the rain as he was, he fell flat on his back, hurting his hand on the rough wall as he tried to catch himself before falling into the mud. With a great big schlop, at that. He caught a glimpse of something in a hurry scuttling down the alley in the direction he\'d come from. Growling, he went up on a knee, trying to compose himself again. A distant warning bell started to sound in the back of his head before he got further. That one had been in a hurry..
\"That he is. Get \'im!\" Sure enough. Pursuers. He rolled sideways to avoid getting trampled when they went after the bastard who provided a free mud bath. Steps. Running. Slowing down. Stopping. Why wou..
A quick kick in the stomach stopped the line of though quick enough. Choking, he was pulled to his feet by the pursuers lifting him up by the hood.
- \"\'kay, Lomprey.. we have tu ways we kinna do this\" one of his assailants said in a low, unforgiving voice.
- \"one, ye giv\' up the loot now, we hurt ye a bit fer show and call it e\'en\"
- \"two, ye giv\' us some more trouble, we tek the loot and hurt ye \'til you know not te grab stuff on meister Messers streets\"
A slight pause.
- \"three, we knock ye dead\". That had been the other goon. Lighter voice, more oafish. Obviously unable to count to three, Jorenn reflected.
What the heck. He\'d hurt people treating him better than this. They had no weapons he could spot through the rain. Kicking off against the wall, he rammed the talking one in the chin with his forehead. The man fell backwards into the opposite wall, losing the grip of Jorenns hood as he fell. The other man looked dumbstruck. So much the better he thought, unsheathing his dirk. and pointing it towards the bigger man. He really was huge, easily 6\'5. Mouth wide open and eyes staring. Even with a knife, Jorenn would have trouble with this one.
Then the man turned around and ran. The other one was leaned against the wall, very still.
Wed, muddy, bruised and angry, Jorenn staggered then ran back down the alley. One Lomprey character would be owing him some gold and a nice, cold mudbath.
