#is he shootin a target or a victim? who knows

[canine-teethed-sheets]

yknow what it's already march 18 for me, have an early birthday gift @cruz-simp

mr. cruz man tryna get a target for you <3

[thebreakfastreport-blog]

Trying Not To Learn

My favorite documentary is called Hearts and Minds.  It's a 1974 protest film about the Vietnam War (released while the war was still happening), and there's a scene in there that is lingering in my head.  They interview a pilot who did countless bombing missions and you get to watch a real-time revelation take place as he talks about how Americans have never experienced the level of devastation that we were unleashing upon the Vietnamese.  He talks about how he never had to see a child burned by napalm from his position in the cockpit.  He then thinks about his own children having to suffer from what he was dropping from the air, and he breaks down crying.  After a pause, the interviewer asks, "do you think we've learned anything from all of this?"  To which the pilot responds, "I think we're trying not to."

I feel like this is the darkest truth of the American identity.  We refuse to even acknowledge when we do something wrong.  I remember being told when I was younger that the Vietnam War ended in "a tie."  That we've never lost a war.  That we're a perfect nation, that we represent freedom, yet our history is laced with absolute atrocities.  We have to say #blacklivesmatter because we apparently need to be reminded.  I grew up in Saginaw Township and now I live east of the river, and having done a ton of interviews for my documentary, for non-profits, for community organizations trying to make positive change, I wanted to share some thoughts.  I do not intend this as a manor of virtue signaling, but a message to my white friends who still may not get it.  Please feel free to jump in with corrections if I misspeak.  I'm a work in progress, and I'm angry.

There is White America and there is Black America.  White America, at large, doesn't seem to care about Black America.  The Township attitude towards the east side that I remember was that people "over there" are just lazy, that they need to pull themselves up by the bootstraps.  Racist passing remarks about welfare queens, broad stereotypes, and the overt use of slurs.  I remember being stuck in a conversation with someone at an event in Bay City, and when I told them I was involved with community work in Saginaw, he lowered his voice, leaned in closer, and said, "You wanna know what the real problem is?  All those monkeys running around shootin' eachother."

My generation was raised to think the older generation dealt with these problems in the 60s.  We were told that a black man made a speech that made us all feel better.  We were told about Jim Crow like it was just as far away as slavery.  We never learned about redlining.  We never learned about the string of race riots that were started by false rumors which prompted white people to burn entire black neighborhoods and kill people in the streets.  We didn't talk about domestic terrorism by white supremacists, and today we continue to refuse to acknowledge that it even exists ("Very fine people on both sides," said the President of the United States on neo-nazi's marching in the streets, yelling about Jews, and murdering an innocent person).  We didn't learn about discriminatory (but "colorblind") legislation that absolutely decimated black communities.  We didn't talk about how the dream of a national interstate highway system came at the expense of the complete annihilation of black neighborhoods.  We didn't learn about the war on drugs in any meaningful way other than "don't do drugs."  We didn't learn about the prevalence of police brutality.  We didn't learn about the Klan being directly integrated with the Sheriff's Department.  We were taught the Pledge of Allegiance and told to respect the badge.  

This country is fucked.  This is why the youth is so disillusioned.  An entire part of the country is in this bullshit daydream, just distanced enough from the real problems of the world so they can look down upon them.  Sitting in a suburban enclave, never once being targeted for driving down the street while white.  When I was a teenager, I made a short film where I wore all black and had a convincing rifle with a scope on it, all for a dumb student film about a "hitman."  And then I think about Tamir Rice and realize that making a dumb skit could've cost me my life if I was black and in a different zipcode.  

This has been simmering for decades.  Centuries.  We've never settled racial tensions in America.  Riots don't happen because people want to steal a TV.  That's called opportunism.  Unrest comes from a deep, deep place that White America has never understood.  Nor has White America even tried to listen in any earnest way.  Any discussion of race is treated as if you're fanning flames.  Any critique of police brutality is taken as an assault on police, and you can see the projection take place in real time as white people are quick to make an assumption on the "deservedness" of a murder, based on the fact that the victim is black.  

If you're a police officer reading this, and you're thinking about how these are things that YOU don't do, good for you.  That's great.  We need this type of shit to stop and maybe you are part of the solution.  Maybe there's workplace accountability that needs to happen.  I shouldn't need to show you the photo of the group of police officers standing by while George Floyd was murdered.  If you think someone deserves to be choked to death for a counterfeit $20 or selling loose cigarettes, and I mean this with all the respect I can muster, go fuck yourself.  The seriousness of this problem has me struggling to be less candid on social media, but living in a predominantly black neighborhood, feeling the lack of resources firsthand, getting a sinking feeling of hopelessness as White America obliviously flounders about, bursting with entitlement in an SUV full of today's haul from Bed Bath and Beyond.... I'm just furious.  I'm furious that my friends are targeted and beaten for being black, yet it can't even be explained without a white person attempting to diminish the experience.  I'm tired of White America thinking that being poor and white and being poor and black is the same thing, and being lectured with self-righteous tales of endurance, while my black friends tell me about family homes being stripped away; family landmarks being destroyed.  Stories that require an unimaginable level of endurance and tenacity, while the biggest complaint in White America is that we can't get haircuts right now.  Something is going to give, and it's not going to be good.  

I don't even know what else to say.  In doing my documentary, I remember being stunned by the glaring differences between the way white people and black people talked about Milton Hall's murder.  Yet somehow, I have found that discussions around race with the black community are productive while the conversation can't even begin with white people.  The feeling of helplessness really sets in when you realize we're not even living in the same reality.  My fascination with old buildings and trying to understand what happened to downtown Saginaw morphed into the realization that nearly every single change in the last 80 years has been soaked in racism.  I know people love to say "slavery was 150 years ago," but that's just a chapter in the Black American experience.  In fact, it's chapter one.  Keep reading.  Listen more.  Just shut up and listen.  For the first time in history, Black America has a platform that doesn't need to go through CNN to reach millions of people.  And they're sharing video after video of police brutality.  The murder of George Floyd was exceptionally brazen, yet it just seems like "another one."  Being a respectable nation takes consistent effort, and I feel like half the country has just given up.

[fantazeerps]

His name is Flees Screaming. A name--more of a title, really--bestowed upon him by the oracles of his clan, based upon the features of his life for which he’d be most known for. Absolutely no one called him that to his face, but every goblin in the clan had their fair share of jokes at his expense... Behind closed doors, and in hushed tones, just in case he may have been listening. No one got on Flees’ bad side and lasted very long.

Flees is a goblin, but one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. He’s tall as three goblins stacked atop one another, wide as three goblins standing side to side, and ugly as all six of those measurement goblins put together. His unique size and shape prompting the occasional whisper that he might be half-ogre or half-giant, or perhaps he had a bit of bugbear, or even barghest, in his blood. Whatever he is, he isn’t normal.

Whatever he is, he isn’t scared. Of anything. In complete defiance of typical goblin nature and his prophetic title, Flees has never once actually turned and fled from anything he’s ever encountered. Whether this was to spite the oracle that granted his title or simply because he was born that way anyway is just another thing to be whispered of and bickered about among his smaller clanmates. Whatever the case may be, Flees is almost suicidally confident in his strength, meaning spots in his gang are paradoxically both coveted and viewed as extremely dangerous. Flees is the type of goblin to lead raids and hunts for the clan, and thus anyone in his gang always got first pick of whatever hauls were brought back, but he has a habit of always choosing the biggest, toughest, most dangerous, and most well-defended targets available.

Which is what had brought him to Mourning Ridge this day.

Her name was Mocks Many. A name--more of a title, really--bestowed upon her by the oracles of her clan, based upon the features of her life for which she’d be most known for.

She had lived up to that name--Above and beyond it, actually. It no longer really fit her anymore, now that she’s calmed down so, and thus she was now known as Mox Meni. Said aloud it was basically the same thing, but it’s the spelling that was truly important to her. ... That, and the alliteration. She liked alliteration.

Mox is the type of person to keep her ear to the ground. Easy to do, being so close to it--she was short, even for a goblin, not even reaching three feet tall. She heard more or less everything that happened in Mourning Ridge, one way or another. Not so much a network of informants as it was simply parking her cart in the center of Mourning Ridge, the major walkway. Anyone going anywhere would pass by her, and she always knew what questions to ask to which people to nudge those grapevines into growing around her.

It was through this rumor network she had learned of an approaching raid of goblins. Well, “raid” was a strong word; it was maybe twelve or so. Certainly not enough to trouble anyone in Mourning Ridge if proper defenses were mounted, and they were. Goblin raids of any size had a tragically low success rate when their targeted victim knew they were coming, and the scouts had been sloppy.

So sloppy.

It would take her hours to clean them up. A task for later this afternoon, maybe. After this situation was dealt with.

--------------

“Scout back yet?” Grumbles Flees.

“Nope. Ain’t seen ‘em.” Answered Spyglass Savant, clacking his namesake tool closed and tucking it in his pocket. They spoke to one another in Goblin, which to the untrained ear would sound like horrid squabbling. A trained ear would know that the harsh tone and impatience present in both voices was because Flees was currently holding Savant by his head and hoisting him above the treeline. Neither of them were particularly happy about this--Flees because he was risking his arm getting shot by anyone paying attention, Savant because he was risking his entire body getting shot by anyone paying attention, and the tension between both of them was making Flees squeeze. His grip was strong as iron, threatening to fracture Savant’s skull. “Now lemme go ‘fore you pop m’head like a grape,”

Flees obliged. There was a squeal of panic, followed by the sound of 20 pounds of delicate (by goblin standards) equipment and 60 pounds of goblin hitting three branches and coming to a stop on the fourth. Luckily for both parties involved, Flees didn’t hear the next few words out of Savant.

“Prolly dead ‘r caught, then.” Flees concluded, not at all bothered. Hoarse Cough was never the stealthiest one in the clan, and he’d been looking for an excuse to get rid of her without actually doing the deed himself for a while. It wasn’t unusual for one goblin to kill another for the slightest of mistakes, but Flees liked to think himself better than that. He liked to think he had a more even temper.

“That mean we’re goin’ home? Cuz I gotta bad feelin’ ‘bout this.” And thus was his temper tested again by his clan of cowards.

Flees leapt down from his perch in the tree, hitting the ground with enough force to bury himself up to the ankles and enough noise to make the town guards nearly three-quarters of a mile away stand at attention, believing that somewhere in the surrounding woods, a tree may have fallen. Pulling his feet from the ground, he surveyed his raid group, noticing than more than a few of them were starting to have doubts. Usually the scout at least made it back to the group before dying; when they didn’t come back at all, it was a bad sign.

It was worse when guards--very scary, very big guards--were already setting up a barricade aimed in their direction. But that wouldn’t be a problem for Shatters Walls or Shatters Stones, two of the best demolition experts (in that they hadn’t died from their own bombs) in the clan. If a door was shut, they’d make a new one.

“Shatters!” Flees barked, both goblins immediately on their tiptoes, glancing at their boss for only a half second before realizing the other was standing and directing heated glares at one another. “Y’all’re in charge ‘a blowin’ whatever defense they got. Sparks, Flash?”

Sends Sparks, Sparking Hands, and Blinding Flash all stood up. Three goblins who could work a bit of magic, two of which actually had good control over it. “Nine outta ten that they got some good archers. Y’all’re gonna make ‘em not have good archers.”

ping. a sound at the edge of the ear.

“uh, boss.” a sound a bit higher up. Barely heard over Flees’ fervor as he started getting worked up over his plan, getting into his war sone.

“Sling, Eyes, Cups, Birds,” those last two were In Her Cups, living up to her name with her fourth shot since the group had woken up this morning, and Murders Birds, who had provided breakfast, “Y’all’re gonna make ‘em not have any archers n’ make sure them swords folk ain’t gonna get close without gettin’ hurt. You, ‘specially, Sling. Yer gonna be the one shootin’ Shatters’ bombs this time.”

ping. another sound, soft, but closer.

“boss?” another sound, still high up. More worried, more insistent, but that didn’t matter to Flees. Not when Sling was making his dismay at the prospect of shooting hair-trigger explosives out of a slingshot very clear. The two began to bicker, and bickering was always settled quickly in Flees’ group. Everyone was always more scared of him than whatever it was they were fighting.

Ping. Louder. Closer. Something in the bushes.

“Boss!” Cried Spyglass Savant, who was readying one of his disposable pair of binoculars as an impromptu projectile (all they were good for, really) to get Flees’ attention. Luckily and unluckily, he got it before he needed to throw.

“WHAT?!” Roared the war boss, halfway through giving Sling’s leg a legendary Indian burn. Wouldn’t do to hurt either of Sling’s arms, obviously, but he still had to be punished.

“Uh. S’a goblin. Ain’t one-a ours.” Savant had spotted them from a literal mile away, at first thinking they were the scout, having claimed some loot. But as they drew closer, it was increasingly obvious that this was an entirely new goblin.

A goblin with a coin in her hand, just ever-so-casually flipping it.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

“Weeeeell... Weeeeell... Weeeell...” To describe the way those words left the newcomer’s mouth as a ‘purr’ would be insulting to cats. It was like someone trying to purr the words after getting over strep throat. The owner of that awful voice passed around a small tree, letting the entire raid of goblins see her.

Small, smaller than almost every goblin here. Splotchy skin, as if she had gotten chemical burns from food coloring. A strange apron that was covered in glass vials, cloth sacks, and surgical instruments with fresh, red blood on them. No one asked him, not for hours, but Bloodhound’s Bane’s uncannily keen nose knew it to be goblin blood.

An alien-looking metal helmet dotted in tiny switches, knobs, and levers covered the entire top half of her head, obscuring her eyes and seemingly forcing her ears into a downward tilt. The lenses were pitch black but for twin dots of glowing red light that made her wide, toothy, far-too-white grin look downright demonic. “Flees... S’been a while. How ya doin’?”

“You know this gal, boss?” Asked Sparks.

...

...

...

“Boss?”

Everyone turned to look. Flees had somehow ended up behind the group, all of them at once. His eyes were wide as dinner plates, his face was pale as snow (snow from a weird world where ice was green, at least), his mouth open, lip trembling.

“And here I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.” The newcomer goblin said.

and flees

remembered

-------------------

That smile as the door opened.

“I want to be stronger, braver!”

so stupid, so stupid

so god damn stupid

that smile

over his head, hovering there.

“May wanna bite onto this. This’s gonna hurt.”

it hurt. it never stopped hurting. not all the way.

that needle, so long and thick. it broke ribs as it passed through them, jamming itself into his heart

the fire

the fire

the fire

everything on fire

everything burning

everything hurts

that smile

that laugh

Flees remembered it. Sometimes, when he laid down to sleep, he remembered everything. Every detail. The stink of chemicals, the stink of blood, the stink of one trying to cover the other.

The feel of the cold stone under him, the tight leather over him, the stinging light of a dozen glowing chemicals. More than any of that, he remembered the pain. The pain that came with the needle, from the needle, from what it did to him. What it was still doing to him.

She gave him what he wanted. Too much of it. It was hard for anyone to notice because everyone else was so short, but every year Flees grew just a little bit taller, a little bit wider, a little bit heavier. His body hurt a just little bit more. It got just a little bit harder for him to move.

-------------

Mox remembered bits and pieces. Flashes here and there. Her past was unclear. So much missing.

She was glad to see him doing so well, despite everything.

“I’m seriously impressed, Flea-bag,” a nickname, one she quickly figured out he enjoyed more than his real one. She had once used it to lower his guard, and now she used it to make him raise it. “I figured you’d be dead by the end of that year. Feels good to be wrong, this once.”

“D...” Flees managed to stammer, finally lifting up an arm to point at her. Her smile remained constant, that coin still flipping. Many of the other goblins looked uncomfortable as their boss took another step back. “Demon... Demon doctor! DEMON DOC!”

Now that was something she hadn’t heard in a while. A small shiver went down her spine, the good kind, like when you reach that real good point in your favorite song.

-----------

Flees’ full name was common knowledge in the clan. Everyone knew him as the biggest, toughest goblin in Dravaenn, and perhaps even the world. Everyone knew he could punch out a bear, break rocks with his bare hands, and even fight trained enemy soldiers in one-on-one battles without needing to resort to dirty tricks (even though he did). Everyone knew he was powerful, and everyone knew that one day, he would Flee Screaming.

Everyone wanted to see it. It was an unspoken desire in the clan, to be near him the day he finally lived up to his name. It was the same sort of desire as wanting to knock over a line of dominoes someone else painstakingly built, to barrel into a pile of leaves that one’s parent toiled to rake into one spot, to trip a waitress carrying a precariously balanced platter of food to watch it drop. Something everyone wanted to see, but no one wanted to do for fear of angering the other party.

No one, however, really gave much thought about what being at ground zero of this event would be like. What it would feel like to see your fearless leader actually... Well, flee screaming.

And flee he did. He actually turned around and ran straight into a tree, first, but once he got past that obstacle he did, indeed, flee screaming. Screaming about demon doctors, screaming about pain, but mostly just screaming.

Silence fell among the group. Quiet except but for the soft ping of the coin as the “demon doctor” flipped it over and over.

“Soooo...” She began. The Demon Doctor of Dravaenn was also common knowledge in the clan. None of them in particular wanted to find out which ones were true, and which ones were just invented to keep goblin whelps in line.

So, like good soldiers, they followed their leader’s fine example.

-------------

Only when the last one was out of her line of sight did Mox relax. She caught her coin, her teeth parting as she let out the breath she had been holding for so long. The trio of bombs she had been rolling around in her palm behind her back were carefully tucked away in her pockets once more. Disappointing. She was hoping they’d at least try to attack her so she could try out this new mixture, but she’d take solace in knowing that her new “intimidating” Cognatogen worked like a charm.

Though in truth, she was... Sad didn’t feel like the right word for it. There was certainly a knot in her chest, but it wasn’t truly sorrow. It was more akin to seeing a childhood friend in a crowded shopping center. Just seeing their face reawakens some old memories of happy days together... But soon, they turn away. They’re gone, and the memories with them.

Mox rubbed her head--well, her helmet--and let out a soft sound. To the untrained ear, a laugh. To the trained ear, a small half-sob. The sound one made when they were trying not to make any noise. Trying to hold it all together. Seeing Flees Screaming was a reminder, and a painful one. For both of them, for different reasons.

She remembered. Bits and pieces. Flashes. She remembered enough to know everything she’d forgotten. If her mind was a novel, several pages had been torn out and burned by her own idiotic choices. She could read ahead, piece together what may have happened in the past by seeing what transpired in the future, or figure out where she was going by looking at what she had been doing... But so much was still missing. So much was still frustrating.

She had hoped Flees would have tried to fight. She would have loved to have him on her operating table once more, running his blood and muscles through every analysis device she had to figure out the formula she used to grant him that body. A bit more refining, a few more resources, and perhaps she could even rework it. Repair it. Replicate it. Make it perfect.

Make her perfect.

But no. He had fled, screaming, and would likely not be coming back now that he knew she was here. Maybe one day, she’d arrange for a quest to find him.

Maybe one da--

“Uh.”

Mox’s train of thought slammed into a concrete wall, all of the cars flying in different directions.

“Hey, uh, listen...”

Mox looked up. There, hanging from the branches, was a goblin with a backpack almost as big as he was, loaded down with enough knickknacks and doodads that it could have killed him if it landed on him. For now, though, that bag was held aloft by several pointy branches, the goblin dangling uselessly by the straps that wound securely around him.

“This whole raid thing was, uuuh, his idea. I really didn’t want any part of it! Honest, so! Could you, ah...”

When had Mox stopped smiling? Maybe it was during her brief bout of frustrated self-loathing. In any case, as she looked up at this poor fool who seemed to be both struggling to free himself from the bag and free the bag from the branches, that trademark sharp smile began to spread over her face again.

“W-w-wait! Hold on! Listen! I didn’t wanna come out here! That fat idiot made me! I just wanted t’test out my spy stuff!”

Mox had already drawn a bomb from her pocket. But she paused her throw. Spy stuff?

She didn’t stay paused for long.

“WAIT I’LL DO ANYTHING!”

There it is. She chucked the bomb up, the cloth coating bursting open as the powders inside ignited and exploded. In almost the same motion, she had drawn a different vial from her pocket and thrown it to the ground. The milky liquid inside spread across the topsoil and worked itself into a violent froth that lasted all of half a second before solidifying. The previously-stuck goblin hit the foam with a muffled WHUD, more noise coming from the rattle of all the equipment in his pack than anything else.

Mox waited for for the goblin to finally reorient himself and attempt to shake off what was probably a mild concussion. As soon as his eyes started working again, he saw her not a foot away, and scrambled backwards... Or tried, since his stupidly massive backpack kept getting in his way. Mox stepped up to him, both hands behind her back, still grinning.

“Heard you say ‘anything.’“

“please don’t kill me or experiment on me or--”

God, she loved that. She snickered, a sound that made the other goblin try to curl up and shrink into his own clothes.

“Nah, naaaah... Don’t worry about it. I got better plans for someone of your... Talent. Plans I think both of us’ll benefit from.” That made him shrink further, something she didn’t think was possible. She was going to use him as fodder up until he saw that ‘spy stuff.’ He wasn’t just a packmule, like she had previously assumed, so killing him here would likely just be a waste of potential talent.

She’d at least see if he’s useful for something beyond a test subject, first. She was no longer the impulsive, wasteful Demon Doctor, after all.

“Y’seem way more useful than the common goblin, pal. How would yooou like a job in town? Safer than raiding. Fair pay. Good food. Even got a top notch healthcare plan.”

-----------

...

Spyglass Savant did always hate raiding...

[goldcanines]

opportunity contract

Robyn stared blankly at the man that called himself Michael Oakley, finding herself very uninterested and without entertainment. How many times had she heard things like this in career? “My valuables are suddenly gone!” “So-and-so must have stolen them from me!” “There can be no other option!” Ironically, somehow the commoner accent and slang had disappeared completely from her mind—how fortunate.

The offer of meager gold had long since enticing the woman, finding herself no longer needing to take mediocre tasks. While they were easier by default, she had grown lazy and spoiled; wishing to spend as little time as possible all the while pushing her payloads to their limits. However, that all changed when she took up the rank of a mere rookie once more. Groaning, she offered her word as an acceptance of sorts—acknowledging that she could and would take care of this poor man’s plea, though she definitely was not happy about it. Back into her saddle she went, shifting to and fro as she attempted to get comfortable within the blasted thing. Her backside was gifted enough, sure, but hardened leather had always done well to work through whatever mass of muscle and fat she had built up in the times between—especially once she had entered a pregnant state once again. Good gods, how she hated saddles. The terrain of Westfall was nothing like Gilneas. Where hooved feet often sloshed though amply spread mud, here there was nothing but the snapping of dried stalks and decaying grass. Where the sun was well hidden behind greedy clouds until it set, here it was ever persistent, lying heavily along her face and shoulders. Had the air been damper, Robyn might have been able to humor the façade of being at sea instead. It would have been, at the very least, a better thought to have. Never-ending equine footfalls eventually brought Robyn to the outskirts of Moonbrook, a small town that was equally fitting with the desert that it found itself in—run down and barren just like its grass. No doubt, she thought to herself as she began her descent from horseback, a good place for outlaws. “Their filth,” she vaguely remembered Oakley describing the lot and while the true understanding of such wording would not come until she caught sight of those posed along the outside of her targeted enclosure, it would not come to surprise her either. Those that remained in Moonbrook were an adventure to be had: each dressed in more linen scrap than actual clothes, their skin turned dark by the unforgiving sun, and each possessing a hygiene that was less than favorable to the Gilnean’s cursed nose. Her presence alone must have drawn their attention, if not for the scowl worn into her expression, then undoubtedly the extent of leather that covered her. Robyn was, without a doubt, hot beyond belief but the added “baggage” attached to her belly required it. With a sigh, an eventual dismount, and the reassuring press of her pistol along the palm of her hand, she began her search. After numerous grunts, craned necks and outstretched fingers, Robyn found herself directed towards an establishment in particular—one that stood amongst the rest in size but not so much upkeep. “Oi’. You lost, girly,” came the questioning tone of a man stationed outside, his rump planted along the straw covered boards—just above a set of stairs that now stood in front of her. “I wish I was. Afraid not, in this case. ‘M lookin’ fer somethin’ specific. Somethin’ ‘m hopin’ ya’ can help me with.” He stiffened, only noticeable in the way that his shoulders suddenly lifted—rolling almost casually against the boards stationed behind him. To a seasoned excuse of a mercenary, though, it was all that she needed to see to know that perhaps she had finally struck gold. Theoretically, of course. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” “Look—ya’ don’ wan’ me ‘ere, I don’ wan’ ta’ be ‘ere,” she mused within a bored tone, a hand lifting to casually scratch along the ridge of her jaw. “S’why I’m willin’ ta’ make a deal with you lot.” “Oi!” Robyn’s gaze shifted, slipping past the doorframe and into the shadowed space that laid between it, catching glimpse of another man just before he emerged from said darkness. “The fuck is this? We ain’t going to make lousy deals with a woman,” he spat at, glaring at his comrade who had seemed ever so hopeful—tense, but hopeful. “Who cares wha’ m’gend’a is,” Robyn offered, eventually lowering her hand to brace itself along her stomach instead, “point is, I ain’t dressed in fuckin’ scraps fer clothes. Surprised ya’ ain’t missin’ any toes.” She paused, rocking onto her toes as if the action bestowed her with a greater sense of sight onto the slight platform that they sat on. “Well, perhaps this fell’a is. Look, I’ll make it simple fer ya’—I’ll give ya’ yer share that’d ya’d make from this shipment tha’ m’aft’a. All ya’ have ta’ do? Leave before I change m’mind. Buy yerself some new clothes for gods’ sake. In fact, I’ll even throw in extra coin fer the clothes separately. Might wan’ ta’ invest in a bath er somethin’, too, while yer at it.” Sharply brows rose once she finished talking, glancing over the two. They weren’t looking at her, however. Instead, and much to her delight, they were staring at one another—seeming to humor a silent conversation between themselves. “How do we know this ain’t some trick? That you ain’t goin’ to shoot us in the back once we show you ‘em?” “I jist offered ya’ clothin’ out of m’own pocket. I don’t wan’ ta’ furth’a spend coin on the rounds tha’ I’d waste on ya’. ‘Sides, gun shootin’ does a numb’a on m’pipes these days an’ tha’ jist makes everythin’ embarrassin’ fer everyone. Ya’ have m’word.” A second glance was shared between the two before they hastily scrambled to their feet, taking the steps two by two at a time. “Alrigh’, Miss. Ya’ got yourself a deal, but no funny business ya’ hear?” Robyn nodded, forcibly cutting her breath once their pungent breaths drafted their way over to ghost along her face. And she thought sailor’s breath was horrid. Once a small coin purse was offered to them, serving as payment to their deal, the Gilnean glanced up the stretch of stairs once more before tackling them herself. Her stomach was beginning to make tasks difficult, and as much as she attempted to ignore it, stairs always aimed to remind her—one step at a time. Yet there were few and before long, that same sense of darkness had swallowed her figure from the unrelenting sun. The establishment was oddly quiet, save for her footsteps and the slight rustling from a nearby room, broken occasionally by the idle sniff or clearing of her throat. Her fingers tightened around her gun. “What was that ruckus, Lawry? Lots of noise for just keepin’ watch.” Robyn paused just outside of the doorframe, steeling herself and her expression within the brief pause she knew she had. Her hand draped along her gun moved along the length of her belt, grasping the handle of a dagger instead just before she chose to round the corner. “I ain’t no ‘Lawry,’ but I can tell ya’ wha’ tha’ ruckus was.” The remaining two within the room were not pleased to witness her unveiling, each donning a scowl that was quick to form and housing hands that were eager to be filled. She glanced quickly, taking careful note of each one. The man closest to her had already found purchase along the handles of two daggers along his waist, each breaking free of their sheaths in a dulled shine. The other, however, was reaching for a single blade—one that she could scarcely make out amongst the molding railing. No time to act but within the present—or something like that. Robyn was never good with phrases. Out from her belt her dagger appeared, slipping easily against the thick leather before it was twisted amongst her fingers and palms alike, coming to brace itself in a fashion that became clear within the coming moments. Or rather, her purpose became fairly apparent when her knife was thrown. Aiming for the leather-clad male near her may have made more sense given the relative distance, she had chosen to aim for the other—the man that had been the better dresser out of those gathered. She could at least admit that much. It was a shame to ruin such a pretty and starched blouse, but Robyn watched with delight all the same as her knife found home within it and his chest beneath. It was not his heart that she hit, she knew, though it had done a fine enough job: keeping him from reaching for his weapon for the time being. Considering the gasp that followed, she assumed that she had bitten into a lung as well. Perfect. Sapphire irises slinked to their opposite corner, finding her next victim as he was before, now staring wide-eyed at his comrade; daggered-hands pausing momentarily in the open air around him. She knew that she only had seconds to act—before that startled disbelief wore away to reveal newfound anger and motivation. An emptied hand returned to her belt, ghosting along the bulge of her pistol before it, too, was pulled free. Nothing but the drawback of her thumb, a quiet ‘click,’ and the narrowing of her eyes could have proven warning to the resounding shot that filled the building shortly after. “N—!” BANG! A single rounded, lead bullet spiraled its way across the distance, following after her beloved dagger. It was not his chest that it impacted against, however, aiming much lower to drive itself through a knee cap instead. By the time that the fourth male collapsed to the ground, his remaining accomplice had found his battle stance, forcing Robyn to retreat to her belt once more; smoking flintlock left to clatter onto the floor as well for the time being. Barely, the edge of metal collided with one another—sharpened daggers skidding down the length of her remaining blade. Perhaps the added weight in weaponry was actually beneficial. “You’re a bloody cheater,” he spat, his rage causing drops of spittle to decorate her sword and face. “I dunnae, this seems like a fair fight ta’ me,” Robyn huffed in warped amusement; lifting her leg and driving her knee into the fleshy expanse of his gut the best she could. His sneer hardly faltered even as the rest of him did, stumbling back a single step’s worth while his fingers tightened themselves—paling along ridged knuckles from the force. Gurgled moans and grunts sounded from the railing, the supportive half wall groaning as the other leaned heavily against it, attempting to catch a breath that failed to stay long enough to be helpful. She watched the standing carefully, watching as each play of sound around them seemed to trigger him—setting off tick after tick within his mind. It had been her plan all along: to manipulate his mind into a frenzied state that would ultimately alter his movements, his thoughts—his decisions regarding herself in specific. Yet, with such a choice came a gamble; a bet that was perhaps more risky than other tactics. Boy, was Jacob going to kill her if this ended badly. His following jabs were quick, forceful, cutting through the air with a ferocity that Robyn almost admired (disregarding the situation, of course). Yet she shielded herself the best she could, becoming as light as possibly she could along her feet; rocking back and forth, from right to left, to avoid those persuasive edges. While keeping the grip of her falchion, her arms curled inwards, framing her chest and belly, allowing for the leather there to catch his daggers instead. Her mind was racing, as if it often did, though her concerns had long since shifted from the stash of stolen goods (unbeknown to her) sitting off in a nearby corner. There were, after all, several things that could go horribly wrong. Robyn could lose a limb of some sort, though it was doubtful given the size of his daggers. Perhaps only a finger? She could get stabbed in an organ like his friend had—sorry, she mused within her mind. His strikes could aim lower, breaking through the maternal curve of her stomach. She could lose her child. Any injuries received or issued could trigger her afflicted mind, giving way to the wolven form that was tied to such. She could lose her child. She could possibly die herself, though her ego protested otherwise. She could lose her child. Swallowing thickly, Robyn attempted to drown the thoughts from her mind, focusing instead on the fight at hand—allowing only a portion of her mind to slip into that bestial rage that she knew was her best chance of assuring a win. With a shift of a rekindled golden gaze, the woman ground her teeth together as she sent her blade into a fast-paced arch.

The Gilnean had lost track of time. She hadn’t attempted to be conscious of how much was passing or how long she had taken. All she knew was that the air around her had fallen silent once more.

The stings of cuts and irritated flesh was quick to catch up with her once her mind faded back to its normal state, prompting hands to raise and run over the length of her arms. When drawn away, her palms were scarcely smeared with her blood though she knew the leather around her had absorbed most of it. A sigh slipped from her scarred mouth as she peered around searchingly, attempting to find the sole reason for doing business in bum-fuckin’-nowhere, finding them stashed along the same railing that threatened to give way at any moment. Now, her only task was to lug them back to where she had started her grand adventure. Before that? She had to heave herself into that bloody saddle once more. Robyn groaned, rubbing her backside in preparation. Maybe Jacob was right; maybe it was time for a break.