Old instincts took over in a flash as Barron rabbited down the alley in pursuit of the man that had fired the crossbow bolt at Sinikka . He hadn’t even stuck around long enough to see if the squire was okay before taking chase, and he was pleased to find that Burryaga was also coming along with him. Barron didn’t really know this group very well, having only recently joined them by happenstance in an effort to investigate the murder of Ysera , and he was pleased to find that they certainly didn’t appear to be swaggers.
The two men chased the figure around several corners and only barely noticed when the would-be assassin dove recklessly into a sewer grate, dropping out of view. Barron gritted his teeth in annoyance thinking of the impact the sewer was going to have on his outfit, but his pride would not allow him to give up now. And so, he grimaced and slid into the fetid darkness with Burryaga close behind, and they continued to take chase.
He felt a stitch beginning to form in his side as he ran. How could I have gotten out of shape so quickly? Barron wondered in annoyance. He had only been out of the game for a few months, and his “retirement” had been an exercise in outright brutality that he had only barely survived. His recovery had been slow and painful, and was still nowhere near complete, the headaches and stiff joints were a sore reminder to the beating he had suffered at the hands – and hammers – of his former comrades. Still it felt strange to feel so rusty; the streets are notoriously merciless to the ill-prepared, and he certainly didn’t feel like he was operating anywhere near the level he needed to be at in order to survive them. Would he even still be in any sort of fighting shape if and when they caught their assailant, or had those skills rusted away as well? Doubts gnawed at him, but still the two men pressed on, gaining ever so slightly upon their quarry with each footfall. They turned a sharp corner in the alley and Barron was unsurprised to find the man standing there, brandishing a dagger and breathing heavily. “You’ll pay for what you did,” he hissed as his dagger shot forward like a striking viper. Barron narrowly batted the weapon aside before it could strike home – grateful that at least his reflexes did not seem to be as rusty as the rest of him felt. He shifted around to position the man between himself and Burryaga and cut off any hope the man might have of escape.
Then, Burryaga was on the man in a flash, snapping out with a blazing fast front kick that the ruffian narrowly avoided, but following it up with a devastating elbow strike that connected soundly with the man’s temple – the loud crack the strike made echoed down the stone corridor. Mental note, this man is icy Barron noted approvingly. He has more focus and control than a street brawler…definitely well trained. Barron then grabbed the stunned thug by his shoulder and spun him to face him.
The ruffian spat a mouthful of blood back at him and sneered in defiance. “We avenge our o…” Barron interrupted his monologue with an uppercut that sent the man’s head flying back. There was as audible snap as his neck broke from the impact, and he slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap. Barron glanced over at Burryaga to see if the death of this man bothered him in any way. If there was any burden to his conscience, it certainly did not show on his face. This one is far icy.
Back at the Hound and Demon, Barron could not still his worried mind. Mordantyr and Marrow were speaking of a magical portal that had opened atop one of the nearby buildings, a topic which should have been fascinating to Barron, but he could not quell the quiet discomfort that he was feeling. He had found out that their attacker had been a member of the Yellow Dusters, one of the largest criminal elements in North Morley. They were powerful and ruthless, and they would not leave this group alone, as their Code demanded justice for their fallen fellows. And now, like it or not, Barron was also involved in their vendetta. While there were no witnesses to the killing in the sewers, there were plenty of people who witnessed the chase. It would not be difficult to put the pieces together when the body was finally discovered.
The tired but truthy barmaid brought a frothy mug of ale to him, plopping the mug wearily on the table in front of him, sending frothy foam overflowing the rim and puddling around the glass. When she murmured an apology and reached for a rag on her hip, Barron waved her off with a smile and slid a silver coin into her hand. If she noticed his generosity, it did not show on her face, and she hurried off to serve some bowls of sausage stew to the table beside theirs. Barron offered the mug to Nugget, the strange dog that Bexley had befriended while he and Burryaga had chased off after the Duster. The dog happily lapped up the foamy head of the ale with its spotted tongue, and then set about mopping up the puddle that decorated the table in front of Barron. There’s something about this dog’s eyes, Barron noted as he watched the dog drink. He seems almost…wise. The group had settled into a debate about what to do next. They were still no closer to finding Sera’s killer, and now they had several more mysteries to solve as well. The magic portal seemed to have captured everyone’s attention, since such a blatant, reckless use of the Old Art was so dangerous, rash, and rare – especially with an Inquisitor in town. Using magic when one of these was rumored to be in the City was likely to be an act of desperation - or of war.
After they debated a while longer, Bexley decided to use her contacts in the House of Records to see if they could try to get any information regarding the inhabitants of the building upon whose roof the portal had opened. Absent any other good ideas, the rest of the group acceded and the made to head out of the tavern, each tossing a few copper coins onto the table as they left.
The sun was still high overhead when they left the Hound and Demon, and they all began winding their way deeper into the City. The sense of unease still gnawed away at Barron as they walked, and he noted the hand signals and tails the group garnered as they wound their way down the street. This was going to end in blood unless something changed – he had seen this many times in the past, having been on both sides of such an exchange. He lagged behind the group by a few paces, watching as Marrow cut the shoulder of an adoring fan – an act that Barron still found strange. To be blooded by a gladiator was supposed to be a mark of courage for some reason. But as someone who had been in his share of fights, it seemed wiser to try to avoid being cut than to seek out a frivolous wound. The stupidity of the soft and weak, he thought to himself, lagging further behind the group in an effort to buy himself a little privacy.
He found his mark quickly, a skinny, hungry-looking man leaning against a storefront and watching the rest of the group with intense interest. Barron approached the man on his blindside, startling him from his reverie. Barron flashed the man a quick hand sign and fished a gold coin out of his pouch. What does this leave me with? Two more coins? God’s he needed to find more money, and soon. “I seek parlay,” he said to the nervous looking man, slipping the precious coin into his sweaty palm.
“I dun’ know what yer on about…” the man protested in a nasally tone, but he did slip the coin into a hidden pocket sewn into his cracked leather belt. Barron stared at him intently. “I seek parlay. Tell the Head baker that I need to speak to him.”
The man returned his gaze and eventually nodded, all pretense of nervousness washed away. “I’ll pass word, but there ain’ no guarantees.”
Barron nodded his head slightly, and then turned and hurried to catch up to the rest of his group, which were now nearly a block ahead of him.
He wasn’t sure what he could do – he certainly lacked the coin to buy their safety, and he lacked the clout to threaten for peace. But he knew that if they did nothing, this could quickly spiral out of control and none of them would be safe. So he did have one thing he could offer them, he realized grimly - his service. Sodding Fool. Did you really think you could quit the game?