Hookers and Blow

Zidane Tribal

honourateventide lailahart telitheaengel au-ra-summoner dietrichalistaire shilohartorian vhalkenleingod

Cat was halfway to the gate before she realized her mad dash was nothing to do in Vanguard armor.  With a curse that startled a nearby bird from its branch, she pivoted and jogged back to her house to replace now-familiar chain with sturdy hide and worn linen.  Before racing out again, she shoved a long leather apron into her bag.  If Seraph were involved, the last thing she needed was to be wearing someone else’s blood when she fled back through Rurikton to the gate.

A hood hid the brilliance of her hair and a face all too known by the less-than-noble in Rurikton.  Still, after the hiss and strange jarring sensation of passing through the gate, she ducked immediately into back alleys and stayed there as she worked her way toward the Western Commons.  

Six gods, at least Lomas was alive.  At least Mei had done a fine job on his face, maybe saved him his other eye and the worst of the scarring.  At least the young soldier had let Cat bind his ribs and tend the hurts his clothes had hidden.  And …fuck, this was crazed, but still.  At least she’d have the chance to save Lomas from the hollow guilt of having killed someone who was family, at least once upon a time. 

“When you join, you join for life, right?” he’d said, and she’d understood it, of course.  She’d known it when the Falcons fell.  Most days, she still wore phantom gold plate and a dozen ghosts beneath her Vanguard chain.  

Hoo boy. This ship smashes my heart into a thousand million pieces every time. Since I try to keep this blog strictly canon, this’ll be based off their tragically short (ow, my feelings) relationship.

"Think yer safe cuz ya ain't in the commons, Lomas?" 

A punch across his face with a crack sent him reeling back into that wall. And then the blows rained down. Curses and punches and kicks. Dev was grabbing for anything. Couldn't see past the blood in his face and couldn't breath from the blows to his gut. But he felt it. His hand touched cool steel of a gun given with care, and his fingers closed around the grip, pulling it out to aim at their faces. That got them to back up. He couldn't see well, couldn't breath well, but he had a pistol from family, and a pistol he'd made, and he started shuffling back towards the main street. 

"Ain't here fer trouble." He groaned out the words, tasted blood on his lips. "Just tryin' t' leave." 

Another step back and a vitriolic curse from one of the boys. "Look, ain't no one need to get hurt, right?" 

And then a boy lunged at him. He fired once - a bullet from Van - into the gang member's gut. And while they were stunned - scrambling to help their fallen - he booked it for the gate as fast as he could.