Zha'Gren - Mountain pass, traveling from Orzammar to Redcliffe
With a low snarl, Zha reluctantly dropped the mage and did a small hop backwards but kept the long scimitar in it's right hand firmly infront of it and clearly a little anxious to make use of it. The single drop of blood was slowly running down the blades edge. Flipping the mask upwards to reveal his face
, the long and hideous tongues slithered through the long crooked teeth on his jaw before it opened and let them out fully towards the blade where they slithered lightly along the edge where the mage had his blood on.
Oh how it wanted a little more of a taste. How he hated
Still.. Valmyria had given it an order not to attack so Zha had to respect her wishes. She wouldn't be around all the time though. Honor could be gained still from killing a strong and worthy opponent. Maybe the Qun? No.. Had to be the mage. Mages were disgusting, refusing to wield even a simple knife against a swarm of assailants. Poor reflexes and low stamina made them easy prey aslong as you avoided the magic part.
Better to wait.
Marcus Hammerstrike - Denerim; Above the underground blood pits. (Arena)
Quiet wasn't the word you'd use in a place like this, even above it you could hear the roar of the crowd and the rumbling of the rafters. Private was
one of the words you could use, however vaguely. Enjoying his 'quiet' meal turned out to be kind of a waste of time apparently. ALWAYS some idiot comin' in to places like these looking for a fight and always one of them thought it prudent to bother the smoking old man in the corner with the grey beard and the hood.
The idiot in the wall had his buddies come get him, Marcus assumed these were the result of a weak man with weak friends. A crowd. His steak only half done and his pipe still lit, the group sauntered in with blades at their sides. Two axes, three swords, and a dagger? Insulting.. "Hey old man, you got a lot of balls roughing up our buddy here!"
The taller one in the front all but shouted. Still a bit inaudible what with the fighting below and the shouting, but atleast he'd heard it. Not a very strong looking man, in his late 20's with spindly appendages and a short haircut. The others with him had the same kind of 'style' to them. "You hear me old man? I said,"
The mans axe bit into the table and through Marcus' steak. "HEY OLD MAN."
The group had a short laugh, trying their best to look intimidating. Wasn't working."You're paying for that steak, kid."
Marcus stated calmly, eyeing the axe with disinterest. "I doubt you could afford it though.""You got a deathwish old man?"
One of the others chimed in, drawing his sword. The others followed suite."Lets teach this old bastard what it means to have a little RESPECT!"
The one with the axe shouted, raising it from the table for an overhead chop, his friends sweeping in to block off any defensive routes Marcus could make. They failed to respect two simple things that should have been very obvious.
The bartender was ducking. Marcus wasn't.
With a growl that turned into a roar as he stood, Marcus shoved the bolted table right from the floor and into the attackers infront of him and sent them to the floor in a tangled mess. Out came Marcus' silver warhammer with a WHOOSH of retreating air as it sailed through the air into an attackers sides. He didn't hit the fellow with the hammer or spike head, but with the silver handed just below it, not fatal but still devastating. A crash and the sound of breaking glass accompanied the idiot with the daggers flight through the kitchen door.
Marcus put his opposite hand on an axe wielders face and pushed, him and some other idiot stumbled into each other before tripping to the floor in a heap of confusion. Right hook to the jaw and a few loose teeth, another assailant hit the floor and didn't get up.
Now the idiots with the table had gotten up and were angrier than before. Clearly they though numbers would win. Not the brightest fellows.
Marcus thought to himself, dropping his silver hammer back into it's loop on his belt in a quick and well practiced motion.
Both hands balled into stocky fists, Marcus went to work in a brutal display of sheer force. Every hit was met with a solid grunt of pain and the rush of air leaving lungs. Two attacks found themselves out a nearby wall into the street or through a window, one crashed into a group of chairs and patrons before scurrying out the door barking out curses.
One more left, the punk who'd started the whole thing earlier. Shaking like a frightened girl.
Out came both warhammers to rest in Marcus' hands, and with a deafening CRASH they thumped into each other with such force that they made the man stumble, fall down, and run racing to the door and into the street. A little wet trail on the floor was all that showed where he'd fallen.
Resting the warhammers again, Marcus looked over the carnage he'd just caused. "All of this for a bit of pipe tobacco... Desperate times..."
Marcus sighed, more from the exhaustion of age than of body weariness.
(If that don't get guards up in here, nothing will.)