Welcome to Gaia! ::

Detraeus scowled.

Food.

She’d left him with food of all things. Did she think him hungry? Was it an insult to his ability to feed himself? He was far better fed now than he had been for the rest of his life, and he finally could take care of himself, so if felt like spit on his progress so far. Of course, it might have been poisoned for all he knew; he hadn’t so much as touched it, let alone eaten it. But if she’d wanted to kill him then why hadn’t she? None of it made sense, and stewing over it only left him with the same questions and conflicting conclusions, all of which only served to worsen his already foul mood.

Detraeus had left Martrae’a shortly after the incident. Between the run in with the dovaa girl and the battle in the swamp, it was clear to him that Soudana was sending him a message. And a warning. He had made a promise and he was failing utterly to hold up his end of the bargain. He’d done everything he swore never to do, become too comfortable, trusting, and weak. He needed to push himself.

Thus, he’d taken his things, and left before dawn of the previous day. Whether or not Martrae’a replaced him was no concern of his — he was bound for Eowyn, and on his current path, he intended not to look back for quite some time. Perhaps never. He had his bow, Avarice, his dagger, throwing blades, and a full quiver. Not to mention a decently stocked satchel of coins, tucked safely well out of the way of potential thieves. He had fed himself with far less at a younger and weaker stage in his life.

What was there left to fear?

Sharp laughter drew Detraeus’ attention briefly, and he stalled, glancing towards a cluster of boys gathered in a messy semi-circle to his left. All were facing the wall of a large building, tight-knit as though they had something cornered. Detraeus frowned.

“Come one, then. Reach for it, you stupid thing,” one of the boys said, his voice taunting. “Look at how stupid it is,” he mumbled, attention flitting to his friends. “Useless. And my father said it was supposed to be trained…tch. Perhaps this is as ‘trained’ as an inbred dovaa dragon-spawn could conceive of…” The boy kicked, a swift, vicious jut of his boot, followed immediately by a high-pitched, animalistic chirp of a sound. “Jump, you worthless thing! Or I’ll throw you in the ocean where you—”

Detraeus yanked hard at the back of the boy’s shirt.

“Ack—hey! Who the bloody fu—”

Detraeus spun, and shoved, slamming the other boy into the wall with a weighted thrust and then drawing a fist back and burying it in his gut. And again, and again. He had only a second or so to note the strange, unfamiliar furred creature huddled near the wall — apparently the source of their attention previously — before the entire group was on him. He’d expected as much, of course, but in the spur of the moment, it had all seemed worth it. He was already angry, itching for something to sink his fists into, and was this not reason enough?

He began second-guessing his choices when, after receiving a bash to the wall and an elbow to the teeth, one of the original boy’s ‘back up’ crew managed to knock him to the ground. Blood in his mouth and vision dizzied by the impact of brick to the back of his skull, Detraeus spat half-blind at his opponent, and swung his fist around, jutting his hips up as he did and hoping to dislodge the boy as his knuckles met flesh. Barely a half-minute in, though, Detraeus knew he was losing hard: out manned and overtaken, he could barely get in a blow of his own for every three or more of theirs.

Only the unexpected, “Alright, quit a second, hn?” from the first boy he’d gone for caused a brief lull in the array of new bruises. Detraeus kept his teeth grit, body tense as a strung bow and eyes only just barely squinting open to get a look at the speaker as he stepped over. Lip bleeding, good. He looked thoroughly self-righteous, though, nose in the air and busted lips curled back in a sneer. When he dropped his boot down onto Detraeus’ chest, Detraeus gave a sharp grunt of an exhale, but otherwise didn’t move. Yet. “What are you, even? What do you think you are? You scared away my pet—”

“Wasn’t yours.”

“My father paid to have that animal shipped all the way from—”

“You can’t own a thing that breathes,” Detraeus snarled. Before he could get another word in, though, the ‘leader’ of the pack sneered.

“Get him up.”

And two pairs of hands obediently yanked Detraeus upwards, handling his bruised, aching and bleeding body like a broken puppet as they slammed him back against the bricks and held him there, to the wall. The leader stepped up, filling his vision and blocking his view of the street.

“That animal was my property. By scaring it away, you effectively stole it from me. Do you know what happens to peasants who steal from my family?”

Detraeus flicked his tongue over his bloodied teeth, closed his lips to gather saliva, and then spat in the boy’s face. Soon after, he lost track of how many blows he took.

Detraeus held himself braced, ready for the impact of another fist when the assault abruptly let up. For several moments he waited, tense, and watched the unfolding scene. At first, he thought the others would stand up to the man. The ‘leader’ of their pack in particular looked flustered, and ready to argue.

“He stole from m—”

But the boy’s words cut off when one of his friends tugged at his sleeve, shaking his head. “Come on, Vanys, it’s not worth it. Let the man have his gutter trash, and we’ll find your runaway rat.”

The leader, ‘Vanys’, graced his friend with a dark scowl, but after a long moment, he rolled a shoulder, made a rude gesture in Detraeus’ direction, and backed of. A muttered grunt of, “Coward…” from beneath his breath nearly sent Detraeus swinging again, but when he so much as jerked up off the wall, his gut objected, and he grit his teeth instead, watching the pack retreat like a bunch of vultures scared away from their prey.

Detraeus sneered, spitting at the ground in the direction of their retreating heels, and then graced his unasked for ‘rescuer’ with a bitter glower as he sank back against the brick and tried not to wince. “Who are you? I was handling that.”

Detraeus snorted and pushed himself up, carefully, pointedly ignoring the offered hand and grunting as he shook the dirt from his braids. “They were hurting it. It got away. And now they’re bleeding.” Wiping a stain of lingering blood from his own lip with a grimace, Detraeus shrugged. “Was worth it. ‘Sides, I don’t like clubs. Or heroes. They’re messy, blunt, and boring.”

Curious, he eyed the grown man’s bow. At least he had some taste, even if he was the sort to butt into business that wasn’t his own. Not to mention, in reality Detraeus knew he had the man to thank for not having to crawl back to Martrae’a in pieces, but he didn’t feel particularly gracious at the given moment and didn’t figure a word on the subject would make a whit of difference either way.

Detraeus narrowed his eyes at the words, muscles bunching with tension at just the prospect of letting someone poke, prod, and put their hands all over him. Shuddering, he grimaced, and pushed back, further away from the man. No. No healers. He didn’t have the coin for it regardless, had no interest in ‘owing’ the man anything, and it had just been a brawl, nothing more. His bloodied lip and bruised ribs would heal on their own; he did not need the help of prying fingers, questions, and stares for that. So, he shook his head, flicked his attention out into the milling crowds around the docks, and darted off at the soonest opening.

Part of what the man had said, though, stuck with him. Relying on his bow, and only his bow, was a fool’s move and he knew it. When he got to Eowyn, he promised himself, he would work on broadening his resources and talents as soon as he had the coin to do so. His bow could fell dragons for him, and dragon souls would bring in the coin he needed for food, shelter, and then some. He knew how to skin, now, start a fire, and cook. He could build upon his base talents and branch out. In the end, he knew it would serve him well.

Besides, while the thought of a club would never appeal to him — far too blunt and imprecise — a well-crafted pair of blades, and more daggers, that was a concept he could get behind. Particularly when his enemies drew too close, and Avarice was no longer his best option.