Gilead II: The Town of Tull
He ended up where he started, in the middle of the deserted main street. He had shot and killed thirty-nine men, fourteen women, and five children. He had shot and killed everyone in Tull.
"Someone's going to want a fight," Jaymesin murmurs calmly. "I'll try and keep it to fists, but if the knives come out, do I have to lose?" His eyes flick to Eric, and then he's looking out over the saloon again.
"If there's a fight, Jaymesin, I expect you to never lose unless it serves a purpose," Eric says, oh so casually.
Nisha chuckles quietly at the mention of a possible fight. "Might not be knives. Bottles, glasses," she suggests. She crosses her legs under the table, and flashes a smile to one of the gentlemen at the bar.
Emma's lips twist, briefly, as she overhears Jaymesin and Eric's conversation. "Yes. Please don't lose," she agrees, before absently checking her hip for the comforting weight of the pistol.
Jaymesin smiles faintly at Eric's reply. "Which is why I asked," he points out. "I don't know our purpose here, other than finding food and resting the horses."
Miriam's expression turns curious. "Why's someone going to want a fight?" she asks them then.
Eric shrugs. "Food and rest. This is not our destination."
Nisha leaves the reasoning for fighting to someone other than herself. Her gaze is scanning the room, attempting to pick up snatches of conversation. "We won't be here long," she does murmur, absently.
Jaymesin nods to Eric, then gives Miriam a faint smile. "We aren't from around here," he murmurs, his native accent still being politely smoothed into intelligibility. "People are drinking, this place is dangerout enough that we're openly armed, and the two men with you are big verging on huge. Hopefully we're impressive enough that no-one will try it, but the longer we're here, the more likely a fight gets."
"Also, it's a saloon," Emma adds in. "There's bound to be a fight." She glances up, as the whiskey arrives - a bottle and a heavy shot glass for each.
Eric takes up the bottle and begins pouring shots for one and all. "What do you have for a meal?" he asks the person that brought the drinks.
Miriam ohhs quietly, thinking that over. "I've never learned to fight. I'm afraid I'll be useless." she says to them, her tone apologetic as she looks towards the drinks Eric is pouring.
Nisha notes to Miriam, "I'm not much of a fighter, myself. That was always my twin's role." She smiles to the one that brings the whiskey, murmuring thanks in smooth tones.
Jaymesin too nods to the booze-bringer, but his conversation stays quiet. "Which is one reason I'm along, I think, my lady," Jaymesin assures Miriam. When his glass has been poured, he reaches out to pull it closer.
Emma reaches for one of the glasses. "Oh, I'm harmless, too," she says, easily. Her expression turns a little wry, as she adds, less lightly. "We all have our uses, else we wouldn't -be- here."
"Some of us are just here to look fantastic," Eric says, showing his best Orbitz Gum Smile. If meals are to be had he orders for them then tosses back his shot of whisky, refilling their rounds right after.
Miriam smiles some to the others, then nods. Eric's comment causes her to laugh though, and then she covers her mouth as though she hadn't intended to be so loud. "I can defend myself some, but I don't know what might just make things worse. How these people would react to my 'sorcery'."
"And some of us are just here so that there's someone to paint the histories of it," Nisha says wryly. She attempts to mimic Eric's tossing back of the shot, but hers ends with a wince and a hissed, "Blessed Inana."
Jaymesin grins at that, teeth gleaming. "I didn't want to steal your thunder, sire," he agrees with Eric - though there's no denying that he's dressed somewhat for effect as well, and side-by-side a touch of resemblance is notable. He tosses back his own shot, exhaling happily after swallowing. "That's more like it."
Miriam doesn't down her shot like the others. She sips it.
Emma rolls her eyes, before tossing back her own shot. "That explains so much." She gives Nisha a sympathetic look, though, as she sets her glass down. "And if you two start arguing over who's the prettiest, I'm going to kick both of your asses."
Emma looks between Eric and Jay, when she says that.
"You will try," Eric says to Emma, as if that's all she'll do. Try. He is a supremely confident person. To Miriam, Eric answers, "I am certain they'd call you a witch, or worse, and make some mention of bonfires or drownings."
Miriam's eyes widen some. "Drowning would be a problem. For me. Putting me in a fire would only scare them more. I'll just let you gentlemen protect me." She seems perfectly fine with that.
Nisha spends a few moments regaining her voice, before she comments quietly, "Atleast I can't drown." She glances between her brother and father, with a soft laughter.
Jaymesin doesn't seem to feel a need to add more than a grin to Eric's response to Emma; he's got plenty of confidence of his own. And then that grin's turned on Nisha. "Sorry, I thought you knew we'd be drinking paint-stripper," he says cheerfully.
Emma merely gives Eric a wide smile, and refrains from whatever cheeky reply she's got in mind. She does, however, look to Miriam with lifted brows. "Just the gentlemen, hm? As you wish, my lady."
Eric downs another shot of the paint stripper and looks around the bar again. The song has changed; the singing is no better.
"Forgot about whiskey," Nisha returns to Jaymesin. Still, she nudges her glass towards the bottle for another shot. "Maybe slower is better, this time around." She sounds hopeful, as she notes, "Whomever wants to protect me is more than welcome to."
Miriam looks to Emma, then. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. My guards have always been male, and I've trusted myself to Eric for this trip. I've never been so far from home." She takes a slightly bigger sip from her shotglass.
Jaymesin's grin is aimed at Emma. "You're harmless, my lady," he reminds the woman. "You said so - and if a fight starts, it won't be you they go for first."
"It might be; that one seems attracted to red hair, at least." Eric nods towards a gentleman, to call it nicely, at the bar who is staring rather rudely at the group. Meals are coming, too, it seems.
Emma turns a long, steady look on Miriam, which is then turned upon Jaymesin. "As you say, then," she says, flatly. She reaches for the bottle, pouring herself another shot.
Nisha does try sipping, this time. If there's a wince, it's at least mostly hidden by the glass. She slants a look towards the one bringing their meals, and then the 'gentleman' at the bar.
Miriam glances in that direction as well, but she's not the one with red hair. Just ghost-white skin and eyes, and silver eyelashes and brows.
Privately, to Eric, Emma isn't, necessarily, taking the mention of someone attracted to red hair overly seriously. She's busy sulking.
Jaymesin's grin vanishes as though it had never been; the look he turns on Emma now is calm, flat, and heavy. "I trust you with my back, sleeping and in battle," he points out quietly to the Countess. "That should tell you everything." And then his pale eyes are lifting to the one who's staring at Emma, his expression unchanging.
Eric eases his chair back slightly, subtly giving himself the room needed to draw his revolvers if it comes to it. He watches the food being brought - on trays held too high to actually show what it is until the dishes are delivered.
Emma looks to Jaymesin with slightly lifted brows, then drinks her shot down in a single gulp. Witty reply, that.
Despite that this might be a time for restraint, in anticipation of whatever they cann 'food' here Miriam finally finishes off her shot and lets her glass be refilled.
The staring becomes more pronounced, and as Eric predicted, much of it -is- directed at Emma. A grizzly-looking man spits into a cannister on the counter then mutters something to the first staring gentleman. Might've been something about carpets and drapes.
Jaymesin elegantly ensures that the cuffs of his shirt are sitting just right within the sleeves of his coat, his gaze fixed on the patron with an unhealthy interest in Emma. And then he's downing his shot without looking away from the bar, trusting to the others to make sure the rest of the room is monitored.
Nisha is still sticking with the sipping of whiskey, though her gaze is now moving over what parts of the room she can see. Despite earlier protests of being no good in a fight, the grip on her glass has changed enough to suggest she may have been in a few bar brawls in her years.
The burly bartender sets down the tray of food at the center of the table. On it are large bowls of dirty pottery. And in each is something a little different, though all along a similar theme. Closest to Miriam is a human head, before Jaymesin the delicacy of a man's previously dangly bits - now braised, Nisha has a pair of boiled feet and so on. And the flies raise up like a cloud of angry buzzing things when the tray thumps against the table.
Emma stares down at the tray and it's less-than-savory offerings, and says, "Eric, maybe you should refrain from partaking in any of the working girls' services tonight." She waves a hand, batting flies from her face. Mean while, one of the boys at the bar has gotten up, and is swaggering over.
There is... a lot of staring. Miriam looks completely incapable of forming a reaction to this. At least she can't get any more pale. Her lips part as though she wants to say something, but there's no words.
Jaymesin looks down at his bowl. "Hmm, not quite the usual meat and two veg," he says, then looks up at the bartender, his eyes as cold as the ice they resemble. He rises gracefully to his feet, hands meeting in front of him.
First come the smiles. Eric's is bright, and none too warm as he regards the bartender. Then come the lies. "Your service has been impeccable this evening, barkeep." Last is gunfire. Like his son, Eric rises smoothly from the table. The guns come out quickly and a single loud bang heralds the first bullet; the one that wipes the grin from the face of the bartend. His blood is black, his skin is fake, and scales wait beneath.
Nisha spends a moment looking at the meal of feet that's placed before her, then to the bartender. Like her father, she smiles. It's brilliant, and she's very much Eric's daughter in that moment. She does not blink at the sound of gunfire, even with it so very close. She does, however, finally put down her whiskey glass.
The gunfire momentarily deters the staring man from the bar, in his approach, but a moment later, there's an uproar of protest from just about everyone else in the saloon. The piano playing comes to a raucous halt, and one of the whores that's leaning across it gives an overdone shriek.
"Aaand there's the fight," Emma says, moving to rise to her feet, as well.
Jaymesin's hands part again, a throwing knife in each - and he's suddenly wearing what seems to be the family smile, albeit with a more malevolent air than Eric started with. The knives flip in his hands without being watched, caught by the flat near the points and held ready to fly. "Back door, sire?" The knives are flicked at the two closest targets, and Jaymesin's hands move together again.
There might be twenty people in the bar left standing. "Back doors are for servants," Eric says to Jaymesin. "I'll use the front." Even though the entire bar seems to be roused against them. He lifts both guns level as if it might be a detterent; but it's not.
Miriam continues to look completely overwhelmed, at first. "They're... They're... Can they think I'm a witch now?" They're lizards. Maybe trying not to stand out is over-rated in this case.
Nisha opines, "Miriam, I believe that accusations of witchcraft would matter very little at this point. They're reptiles." She moves so that she's behind those with guns, unarmed as she currently is.
Emma chimes in, "Screw witchcraft. If you got it, use it." That is, of course, when she gets grabbed from behind by one of the charmers from the bar, and hauled away from the group. Not that she doesn't struggle, of course.
"Oh goodie," Jaymesin says happily. "Can someone grab my throws as we go?" His hands part again, and this time it's fighting knives he's holding, with black blades and glittering edges. But then Emma's grabbed, and with a bestial snarl Jaymesin launches himself after the Countess.
*BAM* *BAM* go two more shots from Eric's pistols, the bullets slamming into the chest of a man who was in the middle of pulling off his mask; his head is very Ratish. He sees Jaymesin going after Emma and so focuses on the next closest enemy.
From the far corner a man in black stands, his eyes wild, his hair a bit greasy and dirty, and his clothing black entirely. He puts on his broad brimmed hat and ducks out the door in a nonchallant manner.
"On it," is Nisha's reply to Jaymesin. She stays low to the floor, avoiding friendly fire, as she moves to steal the blades out of corpses. And hey, that beltbuckle's pretty nice, too.
Miriam accepts that hiding herself is pointless, and with a gust that comes from nowhere her hat comes off so she can see better who and what are where. There's a deep frown, and then she makes a motion as though sweeping at one of the people advancing on them. There are words from her that aren't Thari, as she curses the man with a sudden clumsiness.
Emma is all kicking and scratching, as she tries to get away from the larger man who's grabbed her. She'd probably bite, too, if she could find something to bite. As it is, the man's hand is somewhere entirely inappropriate, and he's looking all too pleased with himself, until he sees Jaymesin approaching. Then, Emma becomes a human shield. And the grabber may have just wet his pants.
Eric steps over in front of Miriam, his leg lashing out to catch the table just so and send it flying towards a pair of men who find their knees suddenly broken, and bullets flying into the men behind them. The splatter of brains and blood dirties the bar's top.
With another snarl, Jaymesin leaves a knife in the arm holding Emma. No human throat should be able to produce that sound, but despite the obvious rage in his eyes, he's turning away a moment later and pulling another fighting knife from a boot. It's at the mass of patrons that he leaps, now, launching himself at them bodily with knives going first.
With Jaymesin's throwing blades in hand now, Nisha at least isn't unarmed. She's even holding the correct ends. But then her brother is launching himself into the crowd, and she's still holding the blades. She murmurs something under her breath in Tane, and lets one of the blades fly, with hope.
Apparently, Miriam really is a witch. At least, she gestures as though casting some manner of spell on their opponents. They are curses, after all. Hers is a language that hasn't been heard since Tir vanished, as she forces her will on those having her attention. Meanwhile, a breezes swirls around her dramatically, freeing her hair from her scarf to whip around her face.
The man who holds Emma is fairly well-deterred by the knife in his arm. He gives a shriek of his own, releasing her. It only takes another moment for Emma to turn on him, rip the knife from his arm, and slash it across his throat in a single, violent motion. Oh, yes, there's spatter, and before the man has even fallen to the floor, the redhead has one of her pistols free and is backing toward the door. The front door.
The retort of Eric's pistols go in quick succession until the softer *click* *click* of an empty chamber stops further firing. He flicks his wrists, a deft motion of practiced fingers opening the chambers and spilling spent brass casings on the floor in a jingle. He begins reloading after another chair is kicked into a feathered harlot, her head snapping back and neck breaking form the impact.
This is, when it comes down to it, Jaymesin's sort of fight. Lots of people in a cramped space, and him with a knife in each fist. He doesn't have Eric's sheer style, or Eric's skill with firearms, but he's got a style of his own, and the knives are wielded as though they're almost a part of him. Deft slashes open arteries, and he's soon covered in blood. Apparently a black outfit was an inspired choice.
Nisha does, at least, hit her target. It's not a killing blow, but atleast it does slow down the man that was moving for the group. She mutters something, and grabs one of the splintered chairs to use the leg as a club.
A close in fight like this is not ideal for Miriam, on the other hand. She settles for staying behind Eric as much as possible and playing up the witch bit with her gestures. It's quite breezy in here now, sending very light things swirling across the room.
Emma keeps Jaymesin's knife in one hand, firing her pistol with the other. Her marksmanship isn't perfect, but it's good enough. She continues to back toward the door, aiming, then firing, and repeating the sequence.
Eric reloads and flicks the cylinders of the guns closed with a satisfying snap. Not before a less-than-well aimed whiskey bottle explodes against his shoulder, however. A reflexive blow of his hand sends slams into what proves to be a small child. But he doesn't slow or show remorse. The weapons are lifted again and fired to make an opening. One bullet at a time. The bar runs black with blood from them all, and freedom... Freedom is at hand, but the streets are coming to life with more who would stop them from leaving.
Jaymesin finishes dealing with his section of the saloon's occupants, then goes to help clear the door for Miriam. He's still got his firearms, and for whatever reason he hasn't drawn them yet, preferring to work with the knives instead. His close-lipped smile is bright, threatening to turn into a beaming grin at any moment.
Nisha notices the sounds outside, those of movement and rousing and what's sure to be trouble. "We're about to be seriously outnumbered," she gives in warning. She's quick to deliver the chairleg to the side of a man's head, and pull the previously thrown blade out of him.
A hand clutches at Emma's skirts, and she glances down to see who it is. It's a woman, long past her prime, but still clad in the scanty clothing of a working girl. There's a plea in her eyes, and the Feldane hesitates for a moment, agonized, before pressing the end of her pistol to the woman's forehead. Emma closes her eyes, even as the shot echoes out, then turns and flees, pushing her way to the door, blindly.
There's no more death to deal in the saloon and the way out is clear. Eric pushes into what has become night. The entire town seems to have come out; some human, some desolate, some clearly the half animals like the ratface, the snake man and the bird woman of inside. Four children with wicked knives in hand rush towards the group.
Miriam takes a deeper breath once they're outside and in the open air. Her milky eyes are dark with displeasure, and now those winds build quickly around the small group. Her gestures are sweeping as she calls the air to her, and it's visible as it swirls and seems to coelesce before lashing out strongly at the children with the knives.
Jaymesin follows Eric out, dropping his gunbelts on the saloon steps and tugging his bandana up before he heads straight at the children. His already-black knives are now gleaming, slick with black blood, and seems to be quite keen on shedding more.
Nisha escapes the saloon with the others, and Jaymesin's throwing knives, along with a bruise on her cheek from where the man she was attacking managed to land a punch. She curses under her breath, and then moves to stand behind Eric once more. "We need to talk to our travel agent," she says, before picking up Jaymesin's discarded gunbelts. Weapons collector.
Emma bursts out of the door, skidding to a halt when she sees the children, her eyes wide. "Oh, no. No, no, no," she breathes, shaking her head. "Eric, we need to just -leave-."
Emma's hesitation allows one of the little brats to swip his butcher knife at her leg. It's not the first swing of a knife, by far, nor the last.
Retreat sounds easy but proves far harder. The villagers of Tull do not give up; not the children, not the women, not the men who swing pickaxes from the mine or great clubs of wood. In the end, whether killed by knife, lead or magic, the entire town is decimated and the weary group trudges back towards the wagons.
At least there used to be wagons; now there's fire and ashes caught up in the wind and a cackling voice from the dark. "You've forgotten the face of your father!" calls out the man in black who ran from the bar earlier. And he turns on his horse, riding across the desert and into the darkness...
"Someone's going to want a fight," Jaymesin murmurs calmly. "I'll try and keep it to fists, but if the knives come out, do I have to lose?" His eyes flick to Eric, and then he's looking out over the saloon again.
"If there's a fight, Jaymesin, I expect you to never lose unless it serves a purpose," Eric says, oh so casually.
Nisha chuckles quietly at the mention of a possible fight. "Might not be knives. Bottles, glasses," she suggests. She crosses her legs under the table, and flashes a smile to one of the gentlemen at the bar.
Emma's lips twist, briefly, as she overhears Jaymesin and Eric's conversation. "Yes. Please don't lose," she agrees, before absently checking her hip for the comforting weight of the pistol.
Jaymesin smiles faintly at Eric's reply. "Which is why I asked," he points out. "I don't know our purpose here, other than finding food and resting the horses."
Miriam's expression turns curious. "Why's someone going to want a fight?" she asks them then.
Eric shrugs. "Food and rest. This is not our destination."
Nisha leaves the reasoning for fighting to someone other than herself. Her gaze is scanning the room, attempting to pick up snatches of conversation. "We won't be here long," she does murmur, absently.
Jaymesin nods to Eric, then gives Miriam a faint smile. "We aren't from around here," he murmurs, his native accent still being politely smoothed into intelligibility. "People are drinking, this place is dangerout enough that we're openly armed, and the two men with you are big verging on huge. Hopefully we're impressive enough that no-one will try it, but the longer we're here, the more likely a fight gets."
"Also, it's a saloon," Emma adds in. "There's bound to be a fight." She glances up, as the whiskey arrives - a bottle and a heavy shot glass for each.
Eric takes up the bottle and begins pouring shots for one and all. "What do you have for a meal?" he asks the person that brought the drinks.
Miriam ohhs quietly, thinking that over. "I've never learned to fight. I'm afraid I'll be useless." she says to them, her tone apologetic as she looks towards the drinks Eric is pouring.
Nisha notes to Miriam, "I'm not much of a fighter, myself. That was always my twin's role." She smiles to the one that brings the whiskey, murmuring thanks in smooth tones.
Jaymesin too nods to the booze-bringer, but his conversation stays quiet. "Which is one reason I'm along, I think, my lady," Jaymesin assures Miriam. When his glass has been poured, he reaches out to pull it closer.
Emma reaches for one of the glasses. "Oh, I'm harmless, too," she says, easily. Her expression turns a little wry, as she adds, less lightly. "We all have our uses, else we wouldn't -be- here."
"Some of us are just here to look fantastic," Eric says, showing his best Orbitz Gum Smile. If meals are to be had he orders for them then tosses back his shot of whisky, refilling their rounds right after.
Miriam smiles some to the others, then nods. Eric's comment causes her to laugh though, and then she covers her mouth as though she hadn't intended to be so loud. "I can defend myself some, but I don't know what might just make things worse. How these people would react to my 'sorcery'."
"And some of us are just here so that there's someone to paint the histories of it," Nisha says wryly. She attempts to mimic Eric's tossing back of the shot, but hers ends with a wince and a hissed, "Blessed Inana."
Jaymesin grins at that, teeth gleaming. "I didn't want to steal your thunder, sire," he agrees with Eric - though there's no denying that he's dressed somewhat for effect as well, and side-by-side a touch of resemblance is notable. He tosses back his own shot, exhaling happily after swallowing. "That's more like it."
Miriam doesn't down her shot like the others. She sips it.
Emma rolls her eyes, before tossing back her own shot. "That explains so much." She gives Nisha a sympathetic look, though, as she sets her glass down. "And if you two start arguing over who's the prettiest, I'm going to kick both of your asses."
Emma looks between Eric and Jay, when she says that.
"You will try," Eric says to Emma, as if that's all she'll do. Try. He is a supremely confident person. To Miriam, Eric answers, "I am certain they'd call you a witch, or worse, and make some mention of bonfires or drownings."
Miriam's eyes widen some. "Drowning would be a problem. For me. Putting me in a fire would only scare them more. I'll just let you gentlemen protect me." She seems perfectly fine with that.
Nisha spends a few moments regaining her voice, before she comments quietly, "Atleast I can't drown." She glances between her brother and father, with a soft laughter.
Jaymesin doesn't seem to feel a need to add more than a grin to Eric's response to Emma; he's got plenty of confidence of his own. And then that grin's turned on Nisha. "Sorry, I thought you knew we'd be drinking paint-stripper," he says cheerfully.
Emma merely gives Eric a wide smile, and refrains from whatever cheeky reply she's got in mind. She does, however, look to Miriam with lifted brows. "Just the gentlemen, hm? As you wish, my lady."
Eric downs another shot of the paint stripper and looks around the bar again. The song has changed; the singing is no better.
"Forgot about whiskey," Nisha returns to Jaymesin. Still, she nudges her glass towards the bottle for another shot. "Maybe slower is better, this time around." She sounds hopeful, as she notes, "Whomever wants to protect me is more than welcome to."
Miriam looks to Emma, then. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. My guards have always been male, and I've trusted myself to Eric for this trip. I've never been so far from home." She takes a slightly bigger sip from her shotglass.
Jaymesin's grin is aimed at Emma. "You're harmless, my lady," he reminds the woman. "You said so - and if a fight starts, it won't be you they go for first."
"It might be; that one seems attracted to red hair, at least." Eric nods towards a gentleman, to call it nicely, at the bar who is staring rather rudely at the group. Meals are coming, too, it seems.
Emma turns a long, steady look on Miriam, which is then turned upon Jaymesin. "As you say, then," she says, flatly. She reaches for the bottle, pouring herself another shot.
Nisha does try sipping, this time. If there's a wince, it's at least mostly hidden by the glass. She slants a look towards the one bringing their meals, and then the 'gentleman' at the bar.
Miriam glances in that direction as well, but she's not the one with red hair. Just ghost-white skin and eyes, and silver eyelashes and brows.
Privately, to Eric, Emma isn't, necessarily, taking the mention of someone attracted to red hair overly seriously. She's busy sulking.
Jaymesin's grin vanishes as though it had never been; the look he turns on Emma now is calm, flat, and heavy. "I trust you with my back, sleeping and in battle," he points out quietly to the Countess. "That should tell you everything." And then his pale eyes are lifting to the one who's staring at Emma, his expression unchanging.
Eric eases his chair back slightly, subtly giving himself the room needed to draw his revolvers if it comes to it. He watches the food being brought - on trays held too high to actually show what it is until the dishes are delivered.
Emma looks to Jaymesin with slightly lifted brows, then drinks her shot down in a single gulp. Witty reply, that.
Despite that this might be a time for restraint, in anticipation of whatever they cann 'food' here Miriam finally finishes off her shot and lets her glass be refilled.
The staring becomes more pronounced, and as Eric predicted, much of it -is- directed at Emma. A grizzly-looking man spits into a cannister on the counter then mutters something to the first staring gentleman. Might've been something about carpets and drapes.
Jaymesin elegantly ensures that the cuffs of his shirt are sitting just right within the sleeves of his coat, his gaze fixed on the patron with an unhealthy interest in Emma. And then he's downing his shot without looking away from the bar, trusting to the others to make sure the rest of the room is monitored.
Nisha is still sticking with the sipping of whiskey, though her gaze is now moving over what parts of the room she can see. Despite earlier protests of being no good in a fight, the grip on her glass has changed enough to suggest she may have been in a few bar brawls in her years.
The burly bartender sets down the tray of food at the center of the table. On it are large bowls of dirty pottery. And in each is something a little different, though all along a similar theme. Closest to Miriam is a human head, before Jaymesin the delicacy of a man's previously dangly bits - now braised, Nisha has a pair of boiled feet and so on. And the flies raise up like a cloud of angry buzzing things when the tray thumps against the table.
Emma stares down at the tray and it's less-than-savory offerings, and says, "Eric, maybe you should refrain from partaking in any of the working girls' services tonight." She waves a hand, batting flies from her face. Mean while, one of the boys at the bar has gotten up, and is swaggering over.
There is... a lot of staring. Miriam looks completely incapable of forming a reaction to this. At least she can't get any more pale. Her lips part as though she wants to say something, but there's no words.
Jaymesin looks down at his bowl. "Hmm, not quite the usual meat and two veg," he says, then looks up at the bartender, his eyes as cold as the ice they resemble. He rises gracefully to his feet, hands meeting in front of him.
First come the smiles. Eric's is bright, and none too warm as he regards the bartender. Then come the lies. "Your service has been impeccable this evening, barkeep." Last is gunfire. Like his son, Eric rises smoothly from the table. The guns come out quickly and a single loud bang heralds the first bullet; the one that wipes the grin from the face of the bartend. His blood is black, his skin is fake, and scales wait beneath.
Nisha spends a moment looking at the meal of feet that's placed before her, then to the bartender. Like her father, she smiles. It's brilliant, and she's very much Eric's daughter in that moment. She does not blink at the sound of gunfire, even with it so very close. She does, however, finally put down her whiskey glass.
The gunfire momentarily deters the staring man from the bar, in his approach, but a moment later, there's an uproar of protest from just about everyone else in the saloon. The piano playing comes to a raucous halt, and one of the whores that's leaning across it gives an overdone shriek.
"Aaand there's the fight," Emma says, moving to rise to her feet, as well.
Jaymesin's hands part again, a throwing knife in each - and he's suddenly wearing what seems to be the family smile, albeit with a more malevolent air than Eric started with. The knives flip in his hands without being watched, caught by the flat near the points and held ready to fly. "Back door, sire?" The knives are flicked at the two closest targets, and Jaymesin's hands move together again.
There might be twenty people in the bar left standing. "Back doors are for servants," Eric says to Jaymesin. "I'll use the front." Even though the entire bar seems to be roused against them. He lifts both guns level as if it might be a detterent; but it's not.
Miriam continues to look completely overwhelmed, at first. "They're... They're... Can they think I'm a witch now?" They're lizards. Maybe trying not to stand out is over-rated in this case.
Nisha opines, "Miriam, I believe that accusations of witchcraft would matter very little at this point. They're reptiles." She moves so that she's behind those with guns, unarmed as she currently is.
Emma chimes in, "Screw witchcraft. If you got it, use it." That is, of course, when she gets grabbed from behind by one of the charmers from the bar, and hauled away from the group. Not that she doesn't struggle, of course.
"Oh goodie," Jaymesin says happily. "Can someone grab my throws as we go?" His hands part again, and this time it's fighting knives he's holding, with black blades and glittering edges. But then Emma's grabbed, and with a bestial snarl Jaymesin launches himself after the Countess.
*BAM* *BAM* go two more shots from Eric's pistols, the bullets slamming into the chest of a man who was in the middle of pulling off his mask; his head is very Ratish. He sees Jaymesin going after Emma and so focuses on the next closest enemy.
From the far corner a man in black stands, his eyes wild, his hair a bit greasy and dirty, and his clothing black entirely. He puts on his broad brimmed hat and ducks out the door in a nonchallant manner.
"On it," is Nisha's reply to Jaymesin. She stays low to the floor, avoiding friendly fire, as she moves to steal the blades out of corpses. And hey, that beltbuckle's pretty nice, too.
Miriam accepts that hiding herself is pointless, and with a gust that comes from nowhere her hat comes off so she can see better who and what are where. There's a deep frown, and then she makes a motion as though sweeping at one of the people advancing on them. There are words from her that aren't Thari, as she curses the man with a sudden clumsiness.
Emma is all kicking and scratching, as she tries to get away from the larger man who's grabbed her. She'd probably bite, too, if she could find something to bite. As it is, the man's hand is somewhere entirely inappropriate, and he's looking all too pleased with himself, until he sees Jaymesin approaching. Then, Emma becomes a human shield. And the grabber may have just wet his pants.
Eric steps over in front of Miriam, his leg lashing out to catch the table just so and send it flying towards a pair of men who find their knees suddenly broken, and bullets flying into the men behind them. The splatter of brains and blood dirties the bar's top.
With another snarl, Jaymesin leaves a knife in the arm holding Emma. No human throat should be able to produce that sound, but despite the obvious rage in his eyes, he's turning away a moment later and pulling another fighting knife from a boot. It's at the mass of patrons that he leaps, now, launching himself at them bodily with knives going first.
With Jaymesin's throwing blades in hand now, Nisha at least isn't unarmed. She's even holding the correct ends. But then her brother is launching himself into the crowd, and she's still holding the blades. She murmurs something under her breath in Tane, and lets one of the blades fly, with hope.
Apparently, Miriam really is a witch. At least, she gestures as though casting some manner of spell on their opponents. They are curses, after all. Hers is a language that hasn't been heard since Tir vanished, as she forces her will on those having her attention. Meanwhile, a breezes swirls around her dramatically, freeing her hair from her scarf to whip around her face.
The man who holds Emma is fairly well-deterred by the knife in his arm. He gives a shriek of his own, releasing her. It only takes another moment for Emma to turn on him, rip the knife from his arm, and slash it across his throat in a single, violent motion. Oh, yes, there's spatter, and before the man has even fallen to the floor, the redhead has one of her pistols free and is backing toward the door. The front door.
The retort of Eric's pistols go in quick succession until the softer *click* *click* of an empty chamber stops further firing. He flicks his wrists, a deft motion of practiced fingers opening the chambers and spilling spent brass casings on the floor in a jingle. He begins reloading after another chair is kicked into a feathered harlot, her head snapping back and neck breaking form the impact.
This is, when it comes down to it, Jaymesin's sort of fight. Lots of people in a cramped space, and him with a knife in each fist. He doesn't have Eric's sheer style, or Eric's skill with firearms, but he's got a style of his own, and the knives are wielded as though they're almost a part of him. Deft slashes open arteries, and he's soon covered in blood. Apparently a black outfit was an inspired choice.
Nisha does, at least, hit her target. It's not a killing blow, but atleast it does slow down the man that was moving for the group. She mutters something, and grabs one of the splintered chairs to use the leg as a club.
A close in fight like this is not ideal for Miriam, on the other hand. She settles for staying behind Eric as much as possible and playing up the witch bit with her gestures. It's quite breezy in here now, sending very light things swirling across the room.
Emma keeps Jaymesin's knife in one hand, firing her pistol with the other. Her marksmanship isn't perfect, but it's good enough. She continues to back toward the door, aiming, then firing, and repeating the sequence.
Eric reloads and flicks the cylinders of the guns closed with a satisfying snap. Not before a less-than-well aimed whiskey bottle explodes against his shoulder, however. A reflexive blow of his hand sends slams into what proves to be a small child. But he doesn't slow or show remorse. The weapons are lifted again and fired to make an opening. One bullet at a time. The bar runs black with blood from them all, and freedom... Freedom is at hand, but the streets are coming to life with more who would stop them from leaving.
Jaymesin finishes dealing with his section of the saloon's occupants, then goes to help clear the door for Miriam. He's still got his firearms, and for whatever reason he hasn't drawn them yet, preferring to work with the knives instead. His close-lipped smile is bright, threatening to turn into a beaming grin at any moment.
Nisha notices the sounds outside, those of movement and rousing and what's sure to be trouble. "We're about to be seriously outnumbered," she gives in warning. She's quick to deliver the chairleg to the side of a man's head, and pull the previously thrown blade out of him.
A hand clutches at Emma's skirts, and she glances down to see who it is. It's a woman, long past her prime, but still clad in the scanty clothing of a working girl. There's a plea in her eyes, and the Feldane hesitates for a moment, agonized, before pressing the end of her pistol to the woman's forehead. Emma closes her eyes, even as the shot echoes out, then turns and flees, pushing her way to the door, blindly.
There's no more death to deal in the saloon and the way out is clear. Eric pushes into what has become night. The entire town seems to have come out; some human, some desolate, some clearly the half animals like the ratface, the snake man and the bird woman of inside. Four children with wicked knives in hand rush towards the group.
Miriam takes a deeper breath once they're outside and in the open air. Her milky eyes are dark with displeasure, and now those winds build quickly around the small group. Her gestures are sweeping as she calls the air to her, and it's visible as it swirls and seems to coelesce before lashing out strongly at the children with the knives.
Jaymesin follows Eric out, dropping his gunbelts on the saloon steps and tugging his bandana up before he heads straight at the children. His already-black knives are now gleaming, slick with black blood, and seems to be quite keen on shedding more.
Nisha escapes the saloon with the others, and Jaymesin's throwing knives, along with a bruise on her cheek from where the man she was attacking managed to land a punch. She curses under her breath, and then moves to stand behind Eric once more. "We need to talk to our travel agent," she says, before picking up Jaymesin's discarded gunbelts. Weapons collector.
Emma bursts out of the door, skidding to a halt when she sees the children, her eyes wide. "Oh, no. No, no, no," she breathes, shaking her head. "Eric, we need to just -leave-."
Emma's hesitation allows one of the little brats to swip his butcher knife at her leg. It's not the first swing of a knife, by far, nor the last.
Retreat sounds easy but proves far harder. The villagers of Tull do not give up; not the children, not the women, not the men who swing pickaxes from the mine or great clubs of wood. In the end, whether killed by knife, lead or magic, the entire town is decimated and the weary group trudges back towards the wagons.
At least there used to be wagons; now there's fire and ashes caught up in the wind and a cackling voice from the dark. "You've forgotten the face of your father!" calls out the man in black who ran from the bar earlier. And he turns on his horse, riding across the desert and into the darkness...