The atmosphere in the sewers was raucous as Donovath made his down, among the criminals and beggars and homeless. The former magister wore a plain black robe over pants that flashed rich purple and gold when he moved. The hood of the robe couldn’t hide the long red hair that tumbled out of it, nor could it hide how slight he was. He fended off more than one hand as he slipped through the crowd, intent on his coin purse or a grope, he wasn’t sure.
He paused at the edge of the crowd, watching like all the others as the two combatants fought. On one side, a scarred human veteran clearly outmatched his younger, possible drunken blood elf opponent. Donovath frowned. The blood elf’s upper body was already bruised, and he had what promised to become a truly spectacular black eye. Possibly a few broken ribs, he noted, as he watched the boy move. Stupid of him to flee here.Â
They were both unarmed, but it did the boy little good. A young blood elf, barely competent at his mage studies, much less the fel magic his mother forbade him from studying, had no hope against a seasoned brawler. The human ducked close. One, two, three punches and the boy lost his footing. He didn’t get back up. Donovath’s nose flared. He smelled blood with a slight fel taint. He moved through the crowd, until he stood at the edge closest to the boy. He threw the hood back and watched as the human stood over the boy, grabbed him by the collar and punched him again. Blood splattered and the boy’s eyes rolled up in their sockets. He fell limp.
His human opponent looked as if he was ready to do more permanent damage to the boy. He gripped the boy’s head. Donovath stepped out from the crowd and cleared his throat. He knew what it looked like. He barely looked older than the man’s unconscious foe. He called out so he could be heard over the crowd, “You have your victory, but the boy’s life belongs to me.”Â
The man laughed and returned his attention to the boy in his hands. Donovath wrinkled his nose in distaste. Grown, the boy may be in Horde law but he was still so...young. Stupid, to get himself in this mess. His mother would owe him a lot for saving him from this sewer.Â
Donovath’s hand flew out from his robe. Tattoos flared fel green and the blood elf’s rosy skin turned almost purple, scaly, and a gnarled hand with long claws closed around the man’s windpipe. The rest of his body still looked normal, and Donovath gave him a sunny smile. “Let’s try this again. The boy’s life belongs to me.”
((Hey hmratking care to jump in?))
