No Rest for the Wicked [Visualspice] (M)

[Nightcrawler]

"Erm...later, I think," Fletch replied distractedly, and stood in place instead of taking the seat she'd pointed him towards. He glanced at the door again and his stomach turned. He couldn't help but be just a bit on edge. But it wasn't long before a man — a massive man — squeezed through the kitchen door and called what sounded like a woman's name. Wait, Fletcher realized. It was her name.

"Missendria?" he wheezed to himself, trying desperately to contain a smirk. "Well I'll be a rat's left nut. Skippy's got a bloody name. Fucking Missendria." It was such a flowery one, like something he'd expect of a noblewoman in a frilly dress. Not of...her. He thought she'd be a Faye, or a Morgana, or something hard and practical like that. He watched, still keeping his amusement just barely under wraps. And then he stared as the man he supposed was Ye'lard lifted Skippy off her feet and into a bone-crushing hug. His jaw hung open, now suddenly devoid of any hint of a smile. Was this how men were with women here? It seemed absurdly forward. But no — Skippy didn't seem particularly happy about it, either. She'd flushed furiously again as the man and his wife fussed over her.

Fletcher shrunk into the background, sizing these strangers up and eyeing the exit, but it was too late. The big guy spotted him. He stared back, unsure whether he was about to be embraced as well or whacked over the head with that menacing cast iron. Instead, the man looked him over, straightened, and barked a deafening laugh. "Missendry.. you didn't tell me you finally got yourself a man!"

Fletch choked, caught it, and turned it into an unconvincing cough. He tried to gauge how murderous Skippy was. He assumed the answer was 'very.' He cleared his throat again and did his damnedest to rein in his gruff sailor's mannerisms. "Erm. No. Sorry. Hate to disappoint, but er...Sk— I mean, Missy and I aren't — I don't think I'm exactly her type — look, d'you mind if we skip the formalities? The woman's been on that ruddy ankle more than is good for her, and I'm not a proper medic." There, he thought. Hopefully it was enough to keep her from shanking him later. As if on cue, his arm stung something fierce again. He winced at it and peeled back his coat sleeve.

"And er...I think I might need a bit of help, too," he added sheepishly, and brandished his sliced, bloodied forearm as proof. "If you wouldn't mind. I can pay."

[visualspice]

The big man raised a dark, shaggy brow. He looked the lankier man over.

"Oh? Ye saying yer not Missendry's gent yet?" He went on with a playful elbow to the other's ribs. "Do I gotta play her match maker?" He went on, waggling his brows. But then their situation was explained and the big man turned serious. 
"Land's end.. you poor blokes. Well, be off with yet jacket and you-" he pointed to Missendria with a finger. "Get off yer feet lass before ye make yer man upset. Seein' as he's worryin' about you and all like yer married. I'll go help fetch up some supplied with Nola. Since don't you go no where!" And he heated up the pan and called after Nola to get the bandages.

Missendrua dropped into a seat, sighing. She was happy to be off her feet, already working at the laces of her shoes and avoiding looking over at Fletch.

"You'll have to.. forgive Ye'lard. He's...very... friendly. "

[Nightcrawler]

Fletcher rubbed at his side where Ye'lard had elbowed him as he watched the man disappear into the kitchen again with a look he usually reserved for crazy people. He took in a sharp breath through his teeth. The spot was, incidentally, where Skippy's knife had nicked him a few minutes earlier. "Today just keeps getting better and better," he muttered. "Got more battle damage than from an actual sodding battle." Not that he'd ever been in one. Gingerly, he pulled his arm out of his ruined coat, then the other, and tossed it carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. He examined his front. His fingers brushed over a previous repair job: a row of perfect, neat stitches, sewn with care, that ran like a knitted scar across the fabric. He had no recollection of them. It was someone else's handiwork, but he couldn't seem to remember whose. He thought he could just see pale fingers and a needle glinting by the light of a campfire. He blinked and shook his head. "I think I need a new shirt on top of it all," he complained, more to himself than to her. "Not that I'll have the coin for it."

Fletch frowned and straightened up, returning his attention to Skippy. He thought he'd let her do her own shoes, this time. She'd probably kick him in the face if he tried to take them off again. Not to mention that the man in the kitchen would use it as fodder to insist that he was sweet on a complete fucking stranger. "Yeah, friendly's one word for it," he snorted, adopting his hardened, acerbic tone again. "And I think your friend needs his eyes checked. He's imagining things. Clearly," Fletcher added, as if his irritation wasn't already abundantly apparent. He looked her over. It wasn't that he wouldn't. She was plenty easy to look at. Something just...stood in the way. Like he'd been shackled to someone else's rules, and those rules had told him not to hurt her. He scowled. He didn't like that feeling at all.

Behind him, a little bell tinkled as the door swung open, breaking his train of thought. Fletcher turned, compelled by his intuition's insistence that they were still being followed. But the pair that had entered — two more city boys, by the looks of them — weren't the same as those he'd spotted before. He shrugged, dug around in his pocket, produced another cigarette, and popped it in his mouth. Maybe he'd been wrong, after all.

[visualspice]

Missendria sighed with relief once her damned shoes were off. She curled her toes, stretching as she winced. At his remarks she just gave him a look, before turning towards Nola as she approached Fletcher. 

"Can I see your arm? Ye'lard told me it's clawed up something fierce." 

She held a mixture of sine kind in a bowl held against her belly, and looked the man over with patient concern. 

[Nightcrawler]

"Mm. Yeah. Right. Gimme a mo'." Fletch nodded as he muttered around the cigarette. He'd just pulled out his match box as the woman approached, and he intended to use it. He slid one out and struck it against the rough surface of a nearby sconce. When he was satisfied that he'd lit up, he shook it out, licked his fingers, pinched the charred end, glanced about him expectantly, and, when he realized that this wasn't the kind of establishment that had spittoons, stowed it sheepishly in his pocket. He awkwardly cleared his throat again and proffered his bloodied, shredded, dirty arm.

"It just needs a bit better cleaning than whiskey'll do," he explained. "That's all." He sounded overly gruff even by his own ears. Under no circumstances did he want to have to explain that a cat did this to him, particularly not to this woman and her unhinged husband. He hoped she wouldn't ask. "Er...maybe some clean bandages, too," he added, and then, like the word was entirely foreign to him, he remembered: "Erm. Please."

[visualspice]

Nola gasped at the offered arm.
"What in land's name did that. Oh, you poor thing!" The old woman crooned. She didn't waste much time, fetching a water from a table and poured it over the cuts to do an initial cleaning. Then she gently pat it dry, apologizing.
"I bet these sting something fierce! Get in a fight with a mountain lion, love?"

'You could say that,' Missendria thought. While Nola fussed over Fletcher, Ye'lard returned and was tending to her leg. She lounged back in her chair while the big man set to work tightening up some bandages.  While he worked, she took a moment to study Fletcher.

What an odd fellow. He looked like he could be Adelan.. Essryni maybe. Or was he an islander? Strange how he reacted to the city.. as if he'd never been here before. Or so he had claimed.  Maybe he was an islander? Those folk were typically.. interesting. But why all the way inland here? The coast was several days travel and there were plenty of large cities he could have done any manner of business on the coast.

But he genuinely looked.. lost. It's perhaps why she took pity on the fool. Although she used to be sweet on those who were tall, dark and handsome- that quality now a days left her on edge.

One broken heart.. one cold chain was enough.

Nola was applying the ointment on the bowl now to Fletcher's wounds.
"This will keep off the pain and keep it from getting irritated or worse. Apply a few times and day and you just might keep that arm," She then added with a chuckle.

"Don't humor him, Nola. He already thinks those cat scratches mean he'll lose an arm. " she smirked at that, feeling a lot more at ease and comfortable in this place. She could joke.. relax abit... like it were a second home.

[Nightcrawler]

Fletch puffed away as the woman Nola got to work on his arm. He watched her, brow twitching, his expression a mix of bemusement and a distinctly uncharacteristic puppy-like wistfulness. He wasn't used to this. Being tended to. Being doted on. Even Roland used to just hand him the belt and tell him to bite down. "Yeah, no, it's...it's nothing," he murmured as she fussed about the pain she was causing him. "Erm. Heh. Something like that. Ma'am," he said rather distractedly when she asked if it had been a lion.

Skippy's sardonic voice snapped him out of it. "Don't humor him, Nola," she called from where she sat. "He already thinks those cat scratches mean he'll lose an arm."

Fletcher shot her a look over his shoulder like he was ready to smack her. "Not what I fu— " He remembered where they were and caught his tongue just in the nick of time. A breath hissed out through his nostrils as he deflated like a balloon. "Very funny," he grumbled. "She's a real joker." Then he took the salve from Nola and his expression softened right back up again. "Erm. Thank you, ma'am. Really," he told her, looking a bit sheepish now. "What do I owe you?" Behind her, the two new patrons shifted on their seats. Fletch pretended to ignore them. He kept his eyes trained squarely on Nola. There was something odd about them, though. Something unsettling. They hadn't ordered a damned thing. Just sat there, still, like they were waiting for someone.

The bell rang as the door opened once again. "You usually this busy at midday?" Fletch grinned at her, but his eyes had gone cold and fearful. "Must be a popular establishment, then."

[visualspice]

As Fletcher had mentioned the new folks, it seemed Ye'lard and Nola were quick to wave it off.
"Strange folk all the time. They'll eventually order. Probably waiting on the rest of their crew."

Missendria would have noticed the men's arrival were she not so distracted teasing Fletch and taking a moment to just... relax. As she remained reclined in her chair, bound leg propped up on another one, she let herself sigh away the stress she had been carrying.

"Say, Ye'lard. You got any pork and potatoe soup?" She asked sweetly.  In fact her demeanor had changed so much it seemed wrong she hadn't batted her lashes at the older man.

Ye'lard barked out a laugh.
"I think we have enough for a couple o'bowls."

"You relax," Nola said, gathering up her things.  "I'll go fetch you a bowl." She patted Fletch upon his shoulder in a motherly fashion before moving back into the kitchen. Ye'lard followed, promising a delicious roast quail special.

Missendria sighed again, lounging in her chair as she stared up at rhe ceiling. But instincts were instincts, and when another entered the place, she stiffened. 

The man who had entered was cloaked so you couldn't see much of his face and moved to a table opposite the room of the other men that had entered.  And as she let her eyes discreetly study the other two tables, she realized they had chosen places by each exit or window... and essentially had them boxed in. She would have just assumed the patrons wanted space were she not carrying a certain bit of cargo in her pocket. 

The men at the other tables were atleast being discrete if their intentions were nefarious...
But the new comer... he blatantly stared at their table from across the small room.

[Nightcrawler]

Fletcher had barely registered Skippy's change in tone, and he hadn't noticed Nola patting his shoulder at all. "I'll go fetch you a bowl," she'd said. "Sure, sure," Fletch mumbled distractedly, now intently not looking at the strangers in the room. The prickling at the back of his neck had amplified and shot like lightning down his arms, and now alarm bells were ringing in his ears. He was now dead certain of it: Skippy had been followed. She was a target, and she'd drawn one on his back just for looking chummy with her. Oh, that part made him furious, no doubt about it. For being so sneaky and tight-lipped, she sure had a bloody blind spot. But he wasn't going to tip these people off by saying a damned thing. Not just yet. Not while he had a moment to strategize.

He shoved his hands casually in his pockets and turned slowly in place like he was taking in the charm of the inn. He hummed a shanty while he did it just to underscore to any observers that he was relaxed. At ease. The front door was blocked. That much he'd suspected. And the only other door to this room went through the kitchen. He turned again. A particularly menacing-looking man sat in the corner by a window. Speaking of subtlety, Fletch thought. This man had anything but. It wasn't a good sign. It meant that they felt confident in their numbers. He finished turning and nonchalantly made his way back over to Skippy, plopping down across the table from her and nodding towards her leg.

"Did he fix you up? Can you walk?" he asked, trying desperately to keep the strain out of his voice. He took a puff. He met her gaze. Had she caught his meaning? How to get the woman to understand? he thought. He flashed a momentary expression of alarm, made certain she'd seen it, then glanced rather obviously towards the kitchen. We should make an exit, he tried to say. Come on, Skippy. Figure it out. Can we leave that way? Yes or no?

[visualspice]

Missendria paled at his concern. It was hard to keep the anxious fear out of her demeanor. 

"I've been walking on it the past hour. But I'm not sure we can out run these many men," She said, tone low as she leaned in closer to Fletch, to be more discrete. 

Shit. She wished she was allowed to know what was in the damn package. 

She peered at the kitchen from the corner of her eyes, Nola returning with two bowls of soup.

"Eat up loves. I need to help Ye'lard prepare the quail." It was then she took notice of the new comers and began to approach one of rhe tables, taking their orders for drink.

[Nightcrawler]

Fletch kept his eyes fixed on Skippy and held onto that same casual and collected expression. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he contemplated their next move. Or rather, his next move. She might not be able to run, but he could. He could cause a distraction and slip right out the door as they closed in on her. The question was, could he live with himself if he abandoned her to these thugs? And the answer was...no. For some confounding reason, he couldn't. Why do I give a flying fuck? He thought. His brow twitched again. He hated this. Whatever this was.

"Alright," he replied with a sigh. He made a show of admiring the decor again. Chandelier could drop, he thought. Chairs look sturdy, too. But it wasn't going to be enough. Not when all he had was one piddly little knife. "You any good in a brawl, love?" he asked Skippy. Then... "...is Big Man? Think you could go and get him? Even our odds?"

[visualspice]

It was then she remembered Ye'lard but frowned and shook her head.
"This isn't his problem.. nor should it be yours.."
She contemplated their options as Nola disappeared back into the kitchen. If only they could have grabbed the woman earlier. Told Nola to warn Ye'lard.

"It'll be too suspicious if we go to the kitchen."

[Nightcrawler]

"Yeah, no shit," Fletch snorted. He kept his voice low and his grin up. "But we're past 'shoulds' and we're past the point of sneaking out of this. You've been followed. We're trapped. So are your friends, now. This ain't a matter of if, sweetheart, it's when. You want to make it out of this alive? We're going to have to set it up on our terms." He lifted his spoon and pushed a potato around in the bowl. The soup was piping hot like it had just come out of a kettle over a fire. He arched an eyebrow at it. He glanced back up at Skippy. His eyes sparkled.

"Alright," he chuckled. Oh, she'd fucking love this, wouldn't she? "Hit me. Slap me hard across the face. Start a fight. Tell me I've, I don't know...insulted your mum, or I've been going behind your back with some tramp. Stand up, get loud, but let me stay close to the table. It'll buy us a couple of seconds...and it'll warn your friends."

[visualspice]

Missendria chewed over that.  Damn her contract. 

But then she was taken back by what he said. But things clicked quickly and-

Slap.

She may have hit him harder than was necessary, but she panicked and well..
He did say to slap hard.

She stood up in a huff.

"YOU GODS BE DAMNED BASTARD! I ought to ring you up by your ears!" She shouted, tapping into the years of frustrated energies towards her ex lover and.. it just all kind of came out.

"You sold me out! Sold me for your debts and own selfish ambitions! How dare you ask for a favor now! You're lucky I don't have you strung up like the beast of a pig you are!"

[Nightcrawler]

Well. She'd sold it. Maybe she'd sold it a little too hard, because now she'd smacked the fag out of his mouth and onto the floor. Fletch blinked the sparks away and gaped at her, dumbfounded. Now he was selling it, too. Right, he thought. Best get to it. "Really?" he cried in his best imitation of a lovers' quarrel. "We're going to do this here? Right now?" He found he didn't have to dig particularly deep for inspiration. As for why, well. No time for that now. Beneath the table, he fished his belt knife out and shoved it, blade exposed, into his coat pocket. He stood and knocked over his chair. He leaned over the table, hands strategically near the soup, and pulled some nonsense out of his arse. "Well maybe if you'd cared a little more from the beginning, I wouldn't have gotten so fucking desperate. But no, you didn't bloody well think of that, did you? It's always me, me, me, ey, sweetheart?"

It had worked. The other patrons now stood frozen in alarm, uncertain what to do — or whether they even had the right target. Now was his chance. Time for act two, he thought. He grabbed the bowl in front of him, winked at Skippy, spun, and lobbed it at the nearest one of them. The man cried out in surprise and stumbled backwards from the blinding impact. Fletch hooked a boot into one of the chair rungs and set it upright. He lifted it and brandished it like a weapon. "You want it? Huh? Well then let's fucking go, boys!" he shouted, and barreled towards the big one by the window. You owe me, Skippy, he thought.

[visualspice]

Missendria gasped as the bowl of soup was launched at one man, then Fletch was charging the others, chair in hand. Before she could even think of what to do, Ye'lard came out of the kitchen holding a large cast iron with simmering quail. His other hand held a cooking knife.

Missendria could only think of one quick thing to say, "Those men are trying to hurt us!"

And instantly Ye'lard's demeanor changed from big burly happy cook to big burly dangerous man as he smashed his heavy cast iron pit clean over the nearest man's head.

[Nightcrawler]

Skippy wasn't fighting. It was just as well. That ankle wouldn't heal if she —

Why in the name of the regent's holy sack do I care? he thought absently as he smashed the chair over the man's head. He wasn't one for heroics. He didn't just go around saving women for fun. And he wasn't exactly getting anything out of this for himself. She obviously wasn't the type. Someone's puppet strings were tangled around his throat and they kept yanking him around. And holy fucking emperor, it was pissing him off. He gripped the broken chair leg like a club and sneered at his opponent, his teeth bared like an attack dog loosed. At least he had a target to take it out on. At least there was that.

The man staggered. He should have dropped from the impact. He didn't. Instead, he swung a vicious left hook. Shit. Fletch narrowly dodged the blow and felt fingers graze his ear. He stumbled backwards just as the knife cut yet another slice out of his battered coat. Better that than skin and guts, he thought. He swung the chair leg. He missed. Behind him, thumping footsteps and the resounding clang of iron on skull announced Ye'lard's arrival. "A little help here, Big Man?!" he yelled.

[visualspice]

Somehow Ye'lard's heavy pan remained with sizzling quail, the man holding the heavy thing threateningly. He turned towards Fletch who called out for help, and and pointed a thick finger at his next opponent.

"I don't much care for violence in my establishment! Throw your own selves out or I'm about to get mad!" Ye'lard bellowed, taking a threatening step in the man's direction.

Instead of obliging, the man brandished a knife.

"Oh.. wrong choice my friend. That's going to be your last mistake." With expert finesse, Ye'lard swung back his pot holding hand before whipping it forward, not letting the handle go, as the sizzling quail and gravies went hurdling towards the man's head.

He managed to block, but the heat of rhe trailing gravy still managed to singe him as he swore... and the poor quail meat bounced across the table beside him, tumbling off to rest- meaty legs pointing up, as chaos continued to explode all around.

By this time, the first man Ye'lard knocked over was nursing his head, he had crowned him so hard it was a wonder how he wasn't unconscious. But by the time Ye'lard joined the other fight, 'soup face' was pissed and brandished his own knife, dark eyes cutting at Missendria.

Shit.

She took a few steps back, realizing she was unarmed and alone and was frantically thinking over her next move.

"Come on girly. Hand over the package before I slit your pretty little throat. "

Missendria bared her teeth.

"Why are all you type of men the same?" She snapped. "Thinking because I wear skirts I'm defensless."

He was likely not entirely wrong, Missendria was no trained warrior but..
She could improvise. And was not about to die over some 'package '.

So when the man inevitably charged, Missendria let out angered cries each time she grabbed something off the nearby table began throwing them at his head- forks, spoons, plates, mugs of ale- anything to keep soup face away with that damned large knife of his.

But he kept on coming!

Missendria eventually rushed to the opposing side of the table, trapped as she got her back to the damned wall. She couldn't go left or right, the man could just as easily followed, as he began to stalk her to the right, forcing her to move away from the direction of her companions and the chaos and flee to the backside of another round table, only putting her further away. But atleast this time she had more ammo, throwing more plates and a few half eaten potatoes at his head.

He only snickered.

"What you gonna do now, girly? Now.. hand over that package before I get creative with my knife. "

Missendria hated more than anything feeling trapped. She was already stuck to work for a damn crime Lord for things she hadn't personally owed.. and made the extra effort to be as inconspicuous with her jobs as possible.

What was in this damn package that she had been sniffed out?

She picked up a knife from the table and pointed it at the man.

"You'll have to get close enough to try it, first."

The man only laughed, and Missendria realized she was holding a damn fork.

[Nightcrawler]

Even with Ye'lard there, it quickly became clear that the odds weren't in their favor. What started in Fletcher's head as the sort of lively bar brawl of his youth had now shifted into a vicious fight for their lives. These trackers weren't scouts or petty thieves; they were experienced thugs. He jumped back to dodge yet another knife swing, only to be met again with the man's fist. This time, it connected squarely with his jaw — right where Skippy had walloped him. Fletch grunted and staggered back. The blow had loosened a tooth. He'd cut his lip. He spat the blood out, sniffed, and glowered at his opponent with a little more eye-bulging murder than before. "Ohohoho," he growled. "Now you're in for it, you great cunt — "

Clattering and crashing shattered his focus. "What you gonna do now, girly? Now...hand over that package before I get creative with my knife." One of the other two had cornered Skippy. And now, of course, he'd have to bail her out. Like he didn't have enough going on at the moment. You've got to be kidding me, Fletch thought as he danced and tripped to dodge more blows.

He shot a lightning glance at Ye'lard. The man seemed to have their fourth assailant under control. At least they had that much going for them. But he was just as busy as Fletcher was. She'd have to hold out just a little longer. Then he remembered it: the chandelier. The massive, heavy, wrought iron chandelier. It was a move out of some cheap, sensational novel. It was ridiculous. It was better than nothing. "Behind you, Skippy!" he bellowed, still keeping his eyes squarely on the man who was trying to gut him. "The rope! Drop it on his head."

He returned his focus to the fight and lobbed the splintered leg at his opponent, swapping it for the knife in his pocket. The man deflected the projectile with ease. Of course he did. Fletch backed up a little further and swung another chair up from the floor. Knife held firmly, chair legs pointing out, he charged. His voice was hoarse from the smoke and the war cries. His head spun from the vertigo again. He threw his weight square into the brute and felt his skull jostle from the impact as they slammed into the wall. Before the man could react, Fletcher went for the kill, reaching over the chair to shove his thumbs into eye sockets while his knee struck groin. His opponent flailed.

A blade passed through Fletcher's coat and into his side.

He roared, blinded by the overwhelming agony. But somehow, he could still breathe. By sheer luck, the knife must have glanced off of a rib. The man tried again. Too late. Enraged by this fresh assault on both his flesh and his clothing, Fletch swung and returned the favor directly into the thug's neck. "Fucking finally," he rasped, hand pressed to his wound as the brute slid to the floor, the bloodied chair creaking down the wall to land on top of his limp body. He wished he had time for a breather. Like she'd said, this wasn't even his fight. Didn't matter. He turned. Three more to go.

[visualspice]

Missendria made a face, looking up at the chandelier then following the rope. It was close.. but so was the man, and he knew exactly what her aim was. 

Good thing Nola got him by surprise, beating him suddenly over the head with a broom.
Distracted, she was able to go for the rope, un hooking it from where it kept the chandelier anchored and called over to Nola 

"Push him to the table!" She shouted, but that was easier said than done and soon Nola was over powered by the thug and Missendria panicked.  "No.." she couldn't let Nola get killed on her behalf. 

So instead of dropping the rope to unleash the chandelier- she held onto it, stepped up onto the table then launched herself Bodily at the man before he could cut Nola- the man (and herself) went down in a heap.