Morgan Gets Into a Fight (HH)

OoC: And the chaos begins.

BiC:

Once again, Morgan was tossed out of the brothel. His chest hit the ground first, followed by his knees, and finally his face. He rose from the earthy floor, spitting out the dirt he’d accidentally swallowed, and as best he could brushed down his clothes. He turned his head towards the large, meaty bouncer, and stuck out his tongue.

“What was that for?” he shouted. He winced and rubbed his knees, they had been badly scraped from the fall. They stung with each slight jerk the teenager made.

“For being underage, runt!” The bouncer folded his arms and positioned himself in between the boy and the door to paradise. “Now get outta here, you look bad for business.”

Since the bouncer had roughly a foot and a half of height on him, Morgan wisely decided that it would be a better idea to seek women elsewhere. He picked up his backpack from the ground and hitched it on his back as he began his hike out of town. “I’m getting sick of this,” he grumbled and kicked at a nearby pebble. “Once my beard grows in I am getting a damn girl.” He rubbed at his face and wished it had more wrinkles. “I look too young what I want.”

If they knew who he was they wouldn’t dare treat him in such a way, Morgan was certain of that. But he knew going into this world he wouldn’t have any recognition for his talents or his status, so he just sighed and checked out the scenery around him. The buildings had a bit of a rust taint to them, making it difficult to tell them apart from one another. One looked like a blacksmith, another was a hotel. None of them looked safe to enter, the brothel had been the cleanest establishment in town, presumably because everyone was using it.

“I’ll have better luck out of town,” he said. “Definitely cleaner than most of this dump.” He passed the last few buildings and exited the town limits. Nothing but plains stood out in front of him with a few scattered forests in the distance. They looked about five miles away, and Morgan let out another, louder sigh. “Maybe someone will come along and let me ride in their cart.” He repositioned his backpack around one arm and started walking.

As he walked down the road, as he often did, he opened the deck holster on his belt and retrieved the two cards from inside it. Two figures looked back at him, one of himself brandishing a light broadsword and another of a fierce woman wearing a cape. Karen’s Card was always an annoying sight to see, especially since with each gaze he was reminded of the humiliation she had delivered to him in their fight. He tucked the cards back into the holster and shut the lid.

“Karen, I hate you so much,” he grumbled.

After about an hour of walking, he found himself nowhere near the forests, and it was getting a little dark. The sun was low in the sky, which had taken on a reddish-orange hue. It wasn’t getting colder though, despite the calendar months from his world Morgan found that this world was definitely warmer. It would be a hot night tonight, which was good, as he had no blanket in his backpack. The weather just seemed to fit whatever he needed most of the time. It was weird, but definitely handy.

“Should be a nice night tonight,” he muttered, and took a deep breath.

It was astounding how often Morgan was wrong.

“Oh, Hector, stop!” the woman laughed, languidly stretching a leg out of the steaming water and splashing playfully at the man. She brushed her red curls back from her face and giggled, sliding closer to the so-called Hector. Hector laughed with her, sliding an arm around her nude waist and pulling her up against him.

“Hector, darling, don’t forget I’m here too,” the blonde on his right pouted, squeezing her breasts together with her arms and leaning closer.

“Oh my, how could I ever?” the man asked, turning her way and sliding a hand under her rear. He lifted her up and pulled her onto his lap, the other woman giggling and running her hand through his long red-orange hair. The three laughed together, apparently enjoying their time in the fire-heated tub. But “Hector” didn’t let enjoyment interfere with work.

I swear, these women never shut up. Grasping the redhead firmly, he bent her close for a kiss, letting his tongue do it’s work while he strained to listen. The voices drifting in from the room next to theirs were muffled, but Hector somehow managed to make out the gist of it. Satisfied with what he heard, Hector released his grip on the woman and let he slide away, her eyes rolled back and her body limp with ecstasy.

“Well, ladies,” the man said, raising from the hot water to step out of the tub, “I swear I’ll treasure our time together, but I’m afraid I must go.” The women protested at once, pouting and lifting themselves out of the tub to reveal rather ample portions of their bodies. “I know, I know, but the spice business waits for no man,” he said with a wink, wrapping a towel around his waist. Scooping up his discarded clothing, the spice merchant made his exit.

<====}=0 – 0={====>

The small chamber was only moderately lit, but Isaac knew where everything was without having to see it. Shirtless, he grabbed a bottle off of one of the many shelves lining the wall and bent over, squeezing a water-like solution over his head. Setting the bottle back down, he began working the solvent in to the roots, working it all around his scalp. When it was fully spread beneath the base of the wig, Isaac grabbed a handful of the red-orange hair and pulled it smoothly off. He grabbed a ladle of water and poured it over his head, sighing in refreshment. He ran his hands through his short blonde hair as he turned and took a few steps over to a small trunk set against the wall of the hidden storeroom. Opening it, he grabbed a set of black clothing. He wouldn’t need his full “battle suit” to assassinate one of the brothel’s guests, but the dark clothing would help. He slipped on the black pants and shirt, along with the black leather vest and black steel boots.

Isaac reached up without looking and pulled a pair of gauntlets off a shelf overhead, sliding them on over his forearms. Over those, he donned a second set of steel gauntlets. He looked at the pair of shoulder guards and the leather strips, but closed the lid of the trunk, deciding that he wouldn’t need them. Numerous knives were slid into slots and gaps all over his body, and his hand crossbow placed in its holster. He glanced at the bladed tonfas on the wall, but left them, along with the larger crossbow. Snagging the large tattered cloak off a peg, the assassin wrapped it around himself, snapping the collar closed and flipping the hood over his head. Lastly, he grabbed a long sword sitting in a stand. Getting a feel for its grip, Isaac spun it around a couple of times, finally swiping it across the single flame in the small room, extinguishing it like he would soon extinguish a certain man’s life.

Hooking the sword on the back of his belt, the man turned his gaze upwards, to the trapdoor that lead into the secret storeroom. Unlocking the latch, the assassin pressed up, flipping the trapdoor over backwards to reveal the night sky. Gloved hands grasping grass, Isaac pulled himself up out of the hole, emerging as if out of nowhere in the grassy plain. A quick look around assured the assassin that no wayward travelers lurked in the distance or along the nearby road. Turning about, the man reached down to close the grass-covered trapdoor, but froze in mid-movement.

A boy, surely no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, laid sprawled-eagle in the grass. Muttering as he came out of his sleep to push the trapdoor away from where it had hit him in the head. Isaac, stunned for only but a moment, reached back within his cloak and unhooked the sword from his belt. He needed no witnesses.

Morgan began running exactly two seconds after he started hearing the footsteps. The slow, deliberate, almost inaudible pitter-patter of death wandering ever so quietly in his direction was enough to jolt him from the pits of slumber and spot his foe. The significantly older man smelt of soap and lavender, but his hooded face gleamed with what Morgan assumed could only be murderous intent. The evening, all things considered, was beginning very badly for the Collector.

“Oh this is not good,” muttered Morgan under his breath. Despite the fact that he kept slowly backing away from the masked man, his foe seemed to be in absolutely no rush, almost as if he was enjoying the experience. “Is it a he?” Morgan narrowed his eyes, he could not really discern the true gender of the person, but assumed from the very slow, very powerful way that it moved, his intended murderer was in fact a dude. That and the man-chest.

“Oi, mind telling my why you’re following me?” Morgan asked. His question was not answered as the foe continued his tortuous-like advance. “Well, think you can turn back the way you came? I swear, I had no idea this was your sleeping patch. The grass just looked so soft, you see…” Still no answer, and a tingling shock coursed through Morgan’s body built primarily out of fear and secondarily out of panic.

As Morgan started feeling for the Collector Deck the bad man withdrew a long sword from a sheathe on his belt. Morgan began considering praying to deities he had long forgotten the names of to save his life. “Uh…oh, this is bad,” he whispered and retrieved his first Collector Card. The dark man remained silent, but focused his attention on the card Morgan held in his hand.

“Okay you big oaf, you asked for it,” Morgan muttered. “I’ll just collect you too! Morgan Card!”

The Collector Card flashed and vanished, and was replaced by the Collector Sword. The assassin drew back, as if hesitant, but when the flash cleared resumed his slow approach. Morgan gripped both of his hands on the broadsword’s hilt and issued an audible gulp.

“Well,” he said, “this is gonna suck.”

Then his opponent charged.