This is very much a rough draft and obviously not done yet, but I thought I'd try and get some feedback now and then go from there.I know where I'm going witht the story I just don't know if I need to include more about Corina's story or not. Personally I think she's a device, pretty fluff and doesn't deserve alot of "screen time". I know the sentence structure is pretty rough and very subject/verb in places, help me out if you want...
Blood In, Blood Out
The old metal mirror was worn and battered, much the same as the bitter, self-defeated countenance it now partially portrayed along its tarnished surface. Scratch dipped his hands in the now pink water of his basin and rinsed them, the leather skin of his hands scarred and weathered. Fresh blood dripped from his nose down into the bowl a red ball in pink waters then lengthening and fading into a sanguine ribbon before diffusing into the water like its predecessors. Scratch brought his palms out of the water to rinse his face but stopped short and stared at the thickness of his hands, at the power evident in his gnarled fingers, at the scars and callouses of a lifetime of hard labor, at the stumps where his last two fingers of his left hand had been claimed by a blade so many years before. He stared at them as if seeing them and the blood on them for the first time and his troubled life slipped through his memory like the water through his hands. Kartehane the Adventurer of Seven Stones, Kartehane the Hero of Bredlin’s Folly, Kartehane the Slayer of the Dragon Kijanke, Kartehane the Killer, Kartehane the Kinslayer, Kartehane the Fallen, Kartehane the Tavern Tough, Kartehane the Old, Kartehane the Forgotten. Another drop fell into the basin. This one was clear.
The swell of emotion in his breast, the deep ache and longing for some part of himself that was lost came upon Scratch like a cresting wave, sucking him into its depths before tossing him about on its tumultuous seas. He couldn’t breathe, he was wracked by sobs that clenched in his core. He couldn’t see, his eyes were rendered useless by the mixture of tears and blood that glazed over them. But he could hear and he could feel, hear the screams of the dying as he claimed their lives, hear the wails of their loved ones, feel the sickening crunch of bone under his hands, feel the spatter of blood as it slushed upon his skin. Sorrow built into frustration and turned to rage as Scratch fought for control over his own emotions. He slammed his fist into the wall of his bedroom shuddering the timbers behind the now cracked rough wood planked walls.
It’s what I am. It’s what I done. Too late for apologies now.
Scratch sat down on his pallet bed, its slats groaned both from age and from the strain of supporting a man who despite six decades of life was still powerfully built. Rubbing the swell of tears from his eyes he caught himself laughing at the young buck who had stirred his breakdown. What the lad couldn’t do with a punch, he had done with a fall.
Still the lad had been quick, he bloodied ya ‘fore you got ‘im.
* * *
The fight earlier had been brief and not all together noteworthy. Scratch or "Ol’ Scratch" as most knew him, liked his job as the bouncer at the Wayward Lass. Sure it got rough more nights than it didn’t. But they were clean fights and most often the winners helped the losers off the floor. Scratch thought of the patrons like siblings full of love for one another and damned likely to hurt the other at any given moment. The fight had started like many others with a harmless misunderstanding befuddled by too much drink. Two of the younger patrons were shouting insults back and forth and neither wanted to lose face in the game of respect. Scratch had sidled over to them and lain a restraining hand on each of the boys. One of the young men took the hint but the other had his blood up and took a swing at Ol’ Scratch connecting solidly with the bridge of his nose. Scratch hadn’t even seen the blow coming, but it lacked the follow through of an experienced fighter. Scratch’s hands were quicker than the young man had thought and with his left hand he gripped the young man’s shoulder and spun him around and with his right he had punched him in the kidney. The boy had gone down in a convulsing heap writhing in pain.
Bruised kidney’ll do that. He’ll be pissin’ blood for a bit. One-Eyed Earl, the barkeep added another scratch to the bouncer’s tally post above the bar.
* * *
Scratch stood up from his pallet, wincing as the muscles of his left shoulder cramped up. He worked the muscles over with his right arm and wiped the sweat from his brow before stepping out of his one room hovel and into the dim light of and chill of evening. He walked from the alley back to the main street that would lead to the Wayward Lass where Earl would be expecting him to return. Scratch pulled on his cleanest shirt, meaning it wasn’t walking on its own just yet, as he made his way down the street. He felt the brush of someone rushing past him as he pulled his head through the shirt and turned to see the form of a fleeing girl as she darted down the street. He turned back around in time to walk headlong into one of two men who were no doubt chasing the girl. The man careened to the side before crashing to the ground. The second man pulled up short glaring at the would-be roadblock in front of him.
"Watch where yer goin’, boy," Scratch growled.
"Out of the way old man."
"It’s a big road. Go around." Scratch spread his arms out wide and drew in a deep breath. He looked down his nose at the two men before him, each with small dirks drawn He knew he was being more belligerent than was necessary. In fact part of mind screamed at him to step aside, after all this was none of his business and the yellow scarves around their necks had to mean something. Probably one of these upstart gangs nobody knows about. But two men chasing a single girl just didn’t seem fair and besides he was already loosened up.
"Look old man, this ain’t none of your business."
"Name’s Scratch, and I’m saying it is."
The one of two men on his feet was tossing his dirk back and forth between both hands. It was showy and against most men it would have been intimidating, but Scratch wasn’t most men he counted the pace of the tosses and charged the man just as the blade left his hand. As Scratch had hoped the man was unprepared for the charge and fumbled the catch. The blade clattered along the cobblestoned street. Scratch immediately halted his charge and lashed out his open hand slapping the fallen man across the neck just as he began to stand. The force sent the man reeling to recover his balance. His partner recovered from his shock at being attacked went on the offensive hurling haphazard haymakers at Scratch. The older man danced back from the first two swings and then as the third swing came in he stepped in slamming his forehead into the nose of the man and following it up with uppercut under his chin. The man crumpled to the ground, his face a bloody pulp.
The first man had recovered his balance and now held his dirk ready in front of him, eyeing the old man in front of him as if sizing up his opponent for the first time. Scratch looked back at him and grinned.
* * *
The Wayward Lass was a dirt floor tavern with mismatched tables and chairs and a single bar that sold cheap beer and liquor that was good for stripping tar. The crowd was rowdy and raucous but the mood had stayed pretty jovial, especially since Ol’ Scratch had come back with a new dirty and bloody shirt and playing idly with a dirk he fancied. One-Eyed Earl waddled behind the bar, his sizable girth taking up more room than was behind the bar, serving drinks in passably clean clay cups. He had a chuckle at Ol’ Scratch’s appearance every time he looked in his direction.
"Sent you home for another shirt."
"This is my other shirt."
After dealing with the two men in the street Scratch had made his way here as quickly as he could. He wasn’t sure how much good he’d be in another row tonight, the fight in the street having left him more winded than he thought it should have, he had made a pretty big show of his new blade when he came in. Still as tired as he was he knew he had been followed. Scratch was pretty sure he hadn’t killed the either of the two men but he’d be surprised if they recouped quickly enough to follow him tonight. No, he had a pretty good idea who was doing the following.
Sure enough, ten minutes after Scratch rolled through the bar’s opened door, the form of a young woman darkened the opening. She stood at the door with wide eyes in obvious hesitation before darting into the room to sit at a table on the far side of the room from Ol’ Scratch. Scratch tried to ignore the girl, tried to ignore the way she was staring at him. Hell, he became downright friendly with the other customers just to break the tension. The man was short and small built especially when seen next to Ol’ Scratch, but Scratch could see the the lithe muscle beneath the man’s clothes and noticed the wear one the handles of the man’s blades. He was affable enough and soon Scratch and his new friend Cade were talking and jesting like old pals at a reunion too long overdue.
One-Eyed Earl jostled and squeezed his way to Scratch’s side of the bar. "Looks like you need to bounce one."
Scratch eyed the crowd suspiciously, "Which one?"
"Girl, there, been here a bit but ain’t buyin’ or sellin’."
Scratch looked over at the girl who was still watching him intently and fished a coin from his pocket. "This one’s delicate. Now she’s buyin’. Okay, Earl?"
Earl slid the coin from the counter into his apron and walked away muttering, "What she is or ain’t don’t confront me, long as I get my money."
With a huff Scratch decided that enough was enough and walked over to the girl’s table and took the seat opposite her.
"I..."
"Look lass, that, out there, that weren’t for you. I know you think I done you a solid, but that was just Ol’ Scratch having some fun with some youngsters. Weren’t ‘bout you."
"But... but you saved me."
"Men like them, they get notion to kill.. well there ain’t but one way to put an end to those plans. All I done was buy ya some time."
"They’re Night Vipers! They’re going to kill me!"
"That’s what I’m tellin’ ya." The name didn’t mean much to Scratch, but then current events weren’t his cup.
"You have to help me!"
"No, I don’t reckon I do." Scratch stood up from the table and turned to walk away.
"My name is Corina!" The words rushed out of her mouth like a hand grasping for a handhold on a cliff.
"Scratch." He walked away.
* * *
"Ever heard of Night Vipers?" Scratched startled Earl with his sudden question. Scratch had returned to his vigil at the end of the bar some ten minutes ago, all storm cloud brows and brood. Earl stared out at the crowd from behind the bar nearby idly sipping his beer. Scratch’s low gravel voice brought him out of his reverie.
"Huh? The snake?"
"No, dammit all, not the bleedin’ snake. Men. Yellow neckerchiefs or some such nonsense."
"Oh. Yeah, I know ‘em."
"Well?" Scratch barked impatiently.
"Bad news. Bad name. Blood in, blood out."
"What?"
"Well ‘Night Vipers’ is hardly original now is it?"
"No, blood in and out, what’s that?
"Oh, well, now that’s the crux isn’t it? It’s like this..."
Neither One-Eyed Earl nor Scratch seemed to notice the keen interest of the customer who sat idly sipping his cheap beer.
* * *
Damn women and damn gangs and damn me, why am I going after her? The same question, if not the same words had been running over and over through his head since he had left the Wayward Lass a half a bell ago. He still didn’t know the answer.
One-Eyed Earl had been a regular fount of information about the gang, seemed he knew it all. That worried Scratch more than a little, but he knew enough not to ask how Earl knew what he knew. That one eye saw more than most pairs. One-Eyed Earl had leaned in at the last moment and said in a whisper, "You ain’t gonna get in the thick is ya?"
"Nah... but you better hand me Maggie, just the same."
Maggie was Scratch’s old sword and One-Eyed Earl kept behind the bar just in case. The old falcata slid into his grip like it was made to be there, the creases in its weathered handle matching perfectly to the contours of Scratch’s gnarled hands.
"Missed ya, girlie." Scratch pulled the blade out of its many-notched scabbard about an inch and noted the tarnish that had marred the surface. "Scratch ain’t done right by you either. Sorry."
Ain’t nothin’ but a fool is ya, Ol’ Scratch? Scratch found himself walking hurriedly down alleyways and side streets hoping for a glimpse of Corina, hoping he wouldn’t be too late when he caught up to her, hoping he might be.
Up ahead at the mouth of the alley he had just turned down Scratch saw a woman crouching and peeking around the corner as if checking the road for threats. Scratch moved with all the quiet grace he could muster, but in his own ears he sounded like a wounded buffalo staggering down the alley. Still, as he covered half of that distance his own harsh whisper gave him a start.
"Corina!"
The girl’s head whipped around, her eyes opened wide, a frightened rabbit looking for an escape. "Scratch... but you said..."
"Knowin’ what I said girl, was there when I said it."
"So, you, you’re going to help me?"
"I’m entertainin’ the notion lass, but it won’t do no good if you die on the street ‘fore I makes up my mind, now will it? Knows a safe place for you to hide for a spell. Lemme get a thought or two in and then we’ll see what we’ll see."
"But..."
"One chance, lass." With that Ol’ Scratch turned and walked back down the alley toward his apartments. He never looked back to make sure, but he knew Corina was following him.
* * *
"So, lemme get this straight. You ain’t part of the gang, that’d be your brother, Micah. But turns out Micah gets himself a case of the weak knees and wants out. So they kills him. And now they gonna kill you too? Don’t make sense to me."
It was the third time, at least, she had gone through the whole story and she was getting frustrated, that much was obvious. "Look, before I got away I overheard the leader, DeVara, talking to some of his men about making me ‘an example to insure loyalty’. When I had the opportunity to get clear I took it."
"Easy, lass, weren’t sayin’ you was lyin’, just didn’t reconcile, ya know?"
"I’m sorry." But she was lying, or at least she wasn’t telling the old man everything. Part of her felt like the evil she had witnessed the last few days had tainted her, infected her soul and now colored her actions and motives. Mostly she was afraid, afraid that if she told him everything her last rung of hope would disappear.
"No apologies. I want you to do me one more thing. Tell me everything you can ‘bout that warehouse where they was holed up. Then get some shut eye. Ol’ Scratch has got some figurin’ to do."
* * *
