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Larn
Tir Ral-Nor*
‘Dar’ Eherdir O’ Lome**
Fae O’ Elum***
Fifth Servant of the Circle
Oras Own & the Circle’s lost children | Prelude (1/3)
-Jinx’s Place-
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*Archaic term in the Witch Tongue of Cydonia Cazan for an Elderblood’s loyal lifelong household guardian, or a ‘Domain’s Enduring Servant’ commonly called ‘a Ralnor’ in Imperial Common. The latter also used as a name on very rare occasions for pets, or people.
**Dar (lingering Lord, the first in a group) usually prefix for a moniker in the assassins guilds. E-herdir (the master, herdsman in Common) Lome (shadows, shades). Here ‘the Lord Master of Shades’.
***Fae (Spirit, fairy-like also fey). Elum (twilight, dimlight, alternative newer spelling of L-Ome, or half-light). Here it translates ‘the Spirit of Twilight’.
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image [https://i.postimg.cc/HdwzpxtX/taras2-low-res.png]
Toutatis had attacked those dropped mature mango's with a crazed desperation, shoving fruit, leaves and dirt in his mouth. Dogs had better eating manners than him, but then again Toutatis had lived as many days inside a home as a common street dog. Exactly none. Dar, the old stallion, despite being of nobler origins having been raised inside prince Radin’s stables, had done the same for the grass growing next to the raised sides of the granite-tiled road leading towards East Goras. Well, what had been East Goras once upon a time, but was no more.
Both the cultured horse and the uncouth teenager would have bowel problems afore going to sleep.
Whether there was a lesson to be learned here, deeper in meaning, Ralnor didn’t know and didn’t particularly care to find out.
Uhm.
Ralnor pressed a dried-up cube of flesh inside his mouth and worked it with his tongue to allow saliva to liven the taste. His eyes watching Zilan and Human of all ethnicities using the repaired Imperial road coming from the ruins of Mussel. The shade cool on his skin despite the burning sun over their heads. Some of the clouds that were there in the morning had retreated and the news coming about the fight that had erupted after they had left Mussel, auspicious for the locals.
Either that or they are in early carnival mood.
On heavy drugs, the second best possible guess.
One didn’t preclude the other obviously.
He worked the raised hood lower to shade his already shaded face even more and whistled sharply for Dar to stop eating near the poisonous bracken fern. The whistle made a keen-eared Zilan driving a cart drawn by an Ostrich on the road, turn his stupid head to look at the almost invisible pair of travelers. Curious mother-fucking phallus pleaser. Ralnor had kept a loaded crossbow hanging from the side hook of his harness –a bloody dangerous thing to carry on you- and thought of dropping the curious Zilan with a bolt in the face. An easy shot to make with less than twenty meters of distance between them.
The thought very-temping given his almost empty of flesh-cubes bag.
The absence of coin after getting robbed blind by the Eikenport merchant smuggler for a spot in his ship making the prospect of turning vegan alike a farting cow, a very big and disturbing possibility.
Got to drag him by a foot behind them trees and then cut him up fast. Yeah. Ten minute job. Earn that cart and ostrich in the bargain also.
Hmm.
Then he spotted another group of mouth-breathers rolling down the large road from the direction of Goras –they didn’t look like the religious type to come from the Temple district- and reluctantly decided to spare the curious cretin. While he’d done a bit of killing since they had stepped foot on Wetull, Ralnor was warry of the strict laws that had kicked a lot of folk out of the empire initially and the skill of the Zilan authorities to punish those misbehaving.
Assuming that cretin Garth hasn’t reversed Baltoris’ policies.
That would be a riot for sure.
The loud group of humans and their animals kept talking with themselves, missing the half-hidden under the trees thick shade glowering Ralnor completely.
The veteran assassin turned to admonish Toutatis, but saw the teenager standing with his mouth open, fruit pieces dropping on his dirty cloak and sole eye as large as a saucer, looking at the heavens above them.
Ralnor twisted around tensed, the noise of the travelers using the large road stopping abruptly and the wyvern’s cry blasting across the sky.
RRRREEEE!
Followed by the large shadow that flew over the paused to watch the beast colorful crowd, arms pointing and gasping with awe. Each offering their own breakdown on the wyvern’s speed and size, but everyone agreeing that was the Monarch returning to Taras.
What these apes now called Goras apparently.
“Was that the wyvern?” Toutatis asked, whilst trying to clean some of the mess from the front of his cloak and tunic.
“What else could it be? A very fat vulture?” Ralnor grunted and went to drag Dar away from the dangerous local grass.
“Aren’t you curious?”
He guided the horse away using the hanging reins without answering the awed Toutatis. The teenager seeing him serious, sobered up himself as he habitually did and assumed a suspicious expression.
“You think he knows?” Toutatis asked and Ralnor grabbed his shoulder to guide him as well towards the road. They needed to resume their journey.
You can never be certain with him, Ralnor thought sourly.
But the answer here is a resounding… no blasted way.
Unless some punk deity, or other, got involved again some-fucking-how.
“Lithoniela is aware that she needs to keep her mouth shut,” Ralnor replied although he hated small-talk out in the open. Well, no one really bothered to look their way. A guy with a boy and an old horse wasn’t much of a spectacle for the Zilan and the humans were easily distracted, or equally indifferent given they had just seen a wyvern fly over their heads. “Ael is experienced enough to avoid trouble, if she doesn’t get too distracted.”
Which is almost a guarantee, but one can hope for a miracle.
“No one can see through her disguise,” Toutatis assured him and Ralnor crooked the corner of his mouth in a grimace of despair after that strong show of support. You get your plan endorsed by a kid that grazed grass a moment ago, you are in trouble. Or thoroughly fucked. Though with the waywardness of their group with the addition of that Gish, the latter was a sure thing, much to Ralnor’s chagrin. Without an answer he kept walking whilst chewing at the salty meat, keeping a suspicious eye out for anyone too-curious passing them by on the busy road, but soon realized no one was.
Nothing more dangerous than believing you’re in the clear, especially at this junction, Ralnor thought and glared at the stumbling about distracted Toutatis. The teenager had been in a perpetual state of awe since they had arrived in Wetull. Every piece of old stone, flora, or fauna was interesting to him. The Zilan were walking miracles worthy of long gazes and the same went for every ruined temple, or piece of ancient architecture they had encountered.
The fact that Dar had been too-weakened by the long trip to take their weight, had made them travel very slowly on foot. The horse was getting too-old for the job. Ralnor knew that Wetull’s wilderness would be the last ground Dar would traverse with him and that the horse would never leave the restored kingdom.
Eh. Not easy finding a good horse and after so many years it is like saying goodbye to a family member. The conflict had messed up his plans to move fast. You can’t move at all with army blocking the roads. Humans and blasted Imperial Hoplites of all darn things!
Not to mention that grotesquely-afflicted bastard Dar Lingos, popping out of Luthos’ arse in front of us. Oras Hells!
The latter a solid reminder of how precarious their position really was. A lot of old faces are roaming about the old country, Ralnor mused, his mind on the notorious Thieves Guild leader that was still breathing, and we are following the young princess’ plan, as of course Aelrindel had to go along with it.
Leaving aside Tout’s endorsement that added nothing and the unknown ability of the former princess to hatch a good plan –couldn’t be great given how they had handled Gimoss and the Aken with Zil-, the witch herself was a renowned walking-gaffe that kept on failing upwards into higher stakes. Of the very many of Aelrindel’s grand schemes –in their silliness- through the centuries Ralnor was privy of, none had worked in the least. The reason for it simple.
None of her mother’s many friends wanted to break the new orphan’s heart initially, or later had the wherewithal to face the talented, but completely self-absorbed sorceress’ well-documented and frequent outbursts of wrath.
We need to hire a learned priest to bribe one of the big gods, or two of the lesser ones and bring them to our side.
But that’s probably a horrible idea that won’t work.
Even if it was feasible.
“Who is Hardir O’ Fardor? The women called him thus once,” Toutatis asked stooping to catch a grasshopper that leaped away from his hand. “Damn it.”
“The name was mentioned in one of Sintoriela’s written prophetic verses.” Ralnor replied. “Since no respected Clairvoyant would ever risk to reveal a real name for fear of making a fool of themselves, it means someone with the fancy moniker had appeared in many futures and visions. Aye, like a very bad rash, or a recurring typhus pandemic. Don’t ask me to explain it further, because that is what I was told and don’t really understand it, or give it any credence.”
Had I taken the egg from him, or killed that scoundrel someone else could be on the throne.
Not me. I ain’t risking climbing on top of a wyvern.
Then again, the fact he managed it shows balls and that’s not easy to find.
“Who is she? The Seer?”
Eh? Oh, he wants to talk some more. Good grief.
“Ael’s grandmother,” Ralnor replied stiffly. “She was ancient history afore I popped out into this world. Never met her. Member of the pre-imperial coven of witches. Alongside names such as Eroshin ‘The Green Mage’ and Nororis ‘The Blue’ the previous iteration of Gimoss killed in the Plague Isles, if the stories are to be believed.”
“Are all sorcerers in a Coven?”
What’s this malarkey? Is he preparing to give a history exam?
“Not everyone is. Kallister and Dudrina weren’t,” Ralnor replied gruffly. He then crooked his mouth stubbornly and decided to talk no more until nightfall.
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Two days later they reached the Temple District, went past Nesande’s Pyramid complex and the slowly rebuilding ruins of the Den. The crews working there under several young Zilan disciples, some wearing the nature-colored robes of the Goddess, which was a pleasant surprise, but most clad in the dark crimson robes of Eodrass, which wasn’t. These fresh fanatics almost as crazy-eyed as the ones they had replaced.
All we need now is to see Feyras popping out of the woodwork, foaming at the mouth and swinging his staff about, Ralnor thought sourly and paused to watch an enthusiastic acolyte yelling whilst hoisting with both hands a large round, dirt and rust covered heavy-looking rock over his head, near some of the excavated ruins.
“Behold the Winged God’s sign on the Moon of the Monarch’s triumph!” The Zilan roared and several of the robed bystanders genuflected before the petrified massive egg apparently. More dark-green in color than black, or brown. “Stand humbled before his might, or turn to ash and melt in eternal damnation alike the Sinya Nore at Mussel!”
“Kneel afore the Eodrass offspring returned from the earth!” Another cried out with veins popping on his neck, addressing several humans using the road before the Den that had paused to watch the acolytes’ shenanigans.
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Most bowed their head to the piece of round rock the disciple wielded and those that didn’t were threatened with sticks to comply. Most did but the acolyte walking up to Ralnor was tripped up from the sneaky Toutatis, stumbled forward with a yelp onto the scowled assassin, who slapped the stick out of the young Zilan’s hand casually.
Ralnor caught the stick with his left hand and tapped the Zilan on the forehead with it once, afore returning it, whilst Toutatis helped the faltering acolyte to his feet.
“Eodrass watches all, remembers all,” the Zilan croaked, blinking dazed. “And Hardir O’ Fardor… is the instrument of his vengeance!” He yelped recovering from the near fall.
“All hail King Garth, the Aniculo Rokae of tales past,” Ralnor retorted mockingly and the Zilan nodded a little confused at what had just happened.
“Ah… you look strange. Are you a half-breed?” The disciple asked, because being very rude and condescending was considered stylish by the Zilan living in the cities, even those Zilan that had just moved in from the nearby jungles. “Your skin color is funny traveler.”
No shit.
Ralnor’s real skin tone was more an ashen grey than black, but he’d enough dirt and dried up mud currently on him, mainly from traveling for several weeks, to easily pass for an Issir by this point.
Nothing a good downpour couldn’t fix.
“A quarter of me is Mori-Zilan, the rest a blend of better blood,” Ralnor retorted. “You have some in you as well, but alas it ain’t the good stuff.”
The Zilan furrowed his dark-blue brows at the comeback, under Ralnor’s unfazed stare.
“I’m a citizen of Taras,” he started after clearing his throat, but never got the chance to finish.
“Can you spare some food, or a gold coin?” The one-eyed Toutatis rudely interrupted the grimacing disciple pulling at his robes with one hand and searching his pockets with the other. The Eodrass disciple shook his head negatively, slapped the kid’s hand away and then stood undecided for a moment. When the moment was over the Zilan decided to slowly retreat away from the hooded unlikely pair, but casted a last look at both them before he rejoined his friends.
“Anything?” Ralnor asked the teenager standing next to him. Toutatis had worked a dirty finger under his eye-patch to scratch at the covered part of his ruined eye-socket.
“Some keys,” Toutatis replied with a tight puckering of his lips. “No purse.”
“We need to look for anything edible on the road,” Ralnor said sporting a similar mannerism as the mostly copying him teenager. “They might be some good game nearer to Taras.”
“Is it allowed though?” Toutatis queried with a shit-eating grin at the possibility of a good meal and moved the stolen keys he’d gotten from the Zilan disciple into his patched-up large haversack. The kid was as talented a thief, as he was an assassin. Unfortunately for him Ralnor only knew of one trade.
“We are not going to ask,” Ralnor retorted and watched the small sober procession of disciples marching with the egg towards a repaired old building they used as warehouse. Less than four hundred meters to their south, Nesande’s Temple disciples worked their little fields and neat ever-expanding gardens humming pleasant hymns.
The visitors stopping there voluntarily and with much more enthusiasm than what they had earlier. Eodrass had a much bigger temple across the gulf to the west and behind Vermilion’s Peak, but Ralnor decided the visitors seeking a visit to Nesande did it for the temple’s always much sought-after wine, hospitality, as well as the better preserved massive pyramid readily available –at least in comparison to the ruins surrounding the Den Eodrass offered here.
Nevertheless, sometimes a big smile can also bring more customers in.
Religion is much-like any other business if one stripped any spirituality out of it.
Of course, the fear of beastly retribution had worked as well for Eodrass’ acolytes and they saw no need to change their ways.
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Late night
30th of Lunden Lotea* 3401 IC
(Moon or ‘Month of full blossom’, Lorian month Quintus, 5th month of the year)
Last day of spring and a day before the first Valimae Lilt of 195
Taras
“Look at the sun,” Toutatis said standing in the middle of the dark road and looking to the north. “Rising over the towers.”
“It’s not the sun,” Ralnor replied and patted Dar’s hindquarters once to get him going. “These are lights from the city as seen from afar.”
“Ugh? Didn’t you say these ruins were the city?” Tout retorted and glanced back.
“For some reason they built outside the walls.”
“Maybe because there are no walls left?”
Ralnor grabbed the teenager by the nape and forced him to start walking again. “We need to enter before the night is over.”
“You think they might guard the place?”
“I have no idea. Stop talking.”
Toutatis sighed and then twisted to escape Ralnor’s grip with a chuckle. “It’s a wondrous spectacle. Have you seen anything like this before?”
“I have,” Ralnor grunted, his ears alert to any sound coming from the jungle west of the road, or from the well-preserved estates built on the incline of Favored Heights directly to their east.
He paused before a new stone sign filled with capital letters near the junction.
> SINYA GORAS PORT -TO THE EAST.
>
> (Follow Black arrow) in black letters.
>
> TARAS DISTRICT AND MORN TARAS CASTLE–TO THE NORTH.
>
> (Follow Red Arrow) in red letters.
The drawn arrows next to the words for the illiterate and a note scribbled under the Taras instructions in bold underlined letters.
Visitors are strongly advised to seek official permit for passage through, or find accommodation within twenty-four hours. Unregistered persons, or non-citizens, shall be fined for prolonged stay inside the city proper.
And below it, stuck on a nail, a large papyrus with fresher instructions, but written in smaller letters.
During the festival there are no rooms available. Careless visitors are advised to camp outside the city and use their own supplies. Do not hunt, or camp, in the Monarch’s forest, or near the palace and the army’s headquarters. Do not hunt, or camp, near the Temple grounds, or near the old City Ruins. The east shores of Lake Taras are off limits to everyone. Do not hunt, fish, or approach Sen’s Lake without permission from the Palace. Do not hunt down Taras citizens, or otherwise harm them, for any reason. This includes capturing them in order to sell for coin, use as pets, or for personal nourishment even when religiously allowed, without the Monarch’s, or Lord Shield’s express permission.
If those wishing to celebrate Valimae Lilt, haven’t arranged for lodgings in advance, they shall be fined heavily, or arrested by a local magister upon inspection. Staying in Taras’ jails is not free of charge and repeat offenders might be forced eventually to work for the Monarch until the debt is paid, or different arrangements are agreed upon.
And with much smaller, tiny almost letters even eagle-eyed Zilan needed glasses to read.
Walking at night outside the city’s lights is dangerous, as it is also the king’s Wyvern favorite feeding period and free personal time. Proceeding with extra caution is advised and this announcement absolves the Throne of any reparations, or blame, for any likely unpleasantness. You’ve been warned.
“What does it say?” Toutatis asked and Ralnor’s face contorted from a nervous tick, he managed to get under control. “Hey.”
Ralnor pursed his mouth and stared at the gap between the two towers and the repaired, but smaller in size gatehouse there. “Someone is lacking manpower.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve read similar hogwash in the past,” Ralnor retorted. “But nothing even comes close to this. If you resolve to threats, then you just don’t have the men needed to control the crowds.”
“Maybe the crowds are too big?”
Ralnor grimaced not believing it, but hours later they had to stop just after the checkpoint, as despite the late hour, Taras’ lit up streets and taverns were packed with people, even as far as the more silent Inner Side Neighborhood near the old wall ruins.
A patrol appeared every half an hour or so, and much more frequent the deeper they walked inside the buzzing newly built city. Taras had been constructed near the summer lake estates of the rich Zilan of Goras, even incorporating the majority of them into its center. It hugged the Lake’s south and west shores and had expanded mostly south towards the Old Walls and the two towers, with military barracks apparently taking over the west side, while the unseen Tenebrous Castle had taken over the once lush green plateau west of the Eternal Springs.
Four times they had been stopped for papers and allowed to go on mostly because Ralnor told them they had served as scouts with the Monarch in Greenwhale Peninsula and were just now returning to Wetull after years in exile, hearing of the general amnesty.
The haphazardly concocted lie had surprisingly found accommodating ears with a Zilan city guard officer, who then suggested to them to use the Phalanx’s barracks for free as they were mostly empty and frequently helped out visiting army veterans.
Yeah sure.
Ralnor thanked them, although he wasn’t going to willingly visit the Phalanx’s camp anytime soon, mainly because he wasn’t an idiot to fall into such an obvious trap.
“Maybe he was sincere,” Toutatis noted as they were both standing outside a jam-packed tavern that had been fined twice already for ‘loud noise’ by a Zilan neighbor living across the street and visible on his veranda. The guards had come all serious forcing the musicians to stop playing, talked with the owner briefly, fined the venue, or got heavily-bribed and then left.
“Why are you doing that for Hagwin?” A Zilan standing right under smoking a pipe, asked the one on the veranda. “You like music.”
“True,” Hagwin replied smugly and flipped an hourglass he’d on a short table next to him in order to start over. Probably had it to call on the guards once more, when the sand inside the vial eventually runs out again. “But I like busting Lothirior’s balls even more, for bedding Deulara behind my back in 92.”
“Was it back in 3092? Time flies for sure ha-ha. Here they go again them drunken rascals,” the other Zilan guffawed slapping a palm on his thigh, when the music started playing again. One after the other the three taverns in close proximity that hadn’t been bothered by the authorities, but were forced to stop playing just the same, started liven it up as well.
“2092,” Hagwin spat and made a lewd gesture at a peeved Lothirior that stood outside the doors of his tavern to glare at his vengeful neighbor. “But the wound is still fresh.”
“Wasn’t she his mate though? Poor thing.”
“I don’t care,” Hagwin retorted. “I saw her first.”
Ralnor turned around to walk across and enter the market, but had to pause to grab Toutatis, who stood and stared open-mouthed at a long-legged semi-nude, painted and very sweaty, Zilan female exit the tavern to catch her breath. Even Ralnor had to steal a glance, as he hadn’t seen so many of his species gathered in one place since he’d departed Neil Dan decades ago and Dan was a very cold place for everyone to walk about naked, but for the hot-blooded witches.
“When I grow up,” Toutatis declared all-serious and a chubby Mori-Zilan of all things walking past them, followed by a wiry armed Zilan goon, paused to hear his words. “I’ll marry a Zilan lass.”
“Ha-ha,” the well-dressed Zilan guffawed and flicked a gold coin to the stunned Toutatis, but not stunned enough not to snatch the coin out of the air like a striking viper. “You’re a brave little kid, bless your soul. There, go take a bite at her on me. Make it count.”
“Skill is more important than bravery and I rather keep yer coin to get food,” Toutatis retorted making Ralnor proud and brought the gold coin to his mouth. He gave it a bite with his front teeth to check on it, under the stranger’s amused scrutiny and satisfied got his leather purse out –now empty- to toss it inside.
The stranger shook his head impressed and then walked away towards the tavern owner. He stopped to listen to the respectful Zilan’s complaints with attentive ears, while gesturing for the Zilan lass to come near.
Ralnor watched the scene unfold, his maimed ears too far away to catch any parts of the hushed conversation that followed between the two and his eyes veering towards the abandoned market stands, where another unlikely couple of Mori-Zilan had materialized behind an empty watermelon stand to spy on the taverns discreetly. The taller male, Ralnor immediately recognized.
Eight.
“Hmm,” he murmured and led Toutatis inside a dark alley, where they had parked Dar. “Two hours of rest on the saddle,” he told the teenager. “I’ll watch for any guards approaching.”
“Where is the Gish’s home?” Toutatis asked with a nod.
“This sounds just absolutely ridiculous,” Ralnor hissed shaking his hooded shaven head. “Then again, given what we’ve been witnessing lately, it might not be as far-fetched as it sounds.”
“You could’ve just said that you don’t know Larn,” the now atop the large horse Toutatis retorted sarcastically and then closed his eye to sleep upright.
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Dum-dum Ba da bum!
Fiends screams in the night! A startled Ralnor thought snapping out of his stupor at the dissonant sound of the drunken female voice and lost the handle on his drawn shortsword that bounced on his chest afore it dropped towards the paved cobblestone of the dark alley.
“Rocks, floods. Loud ‘n uncouth illicit gains,” the girl continued singing from the exit of the alley, whilst Ralnor’s right arm snapped downwards to catch the shortsword a hair before it clanged on the ground. “What?” The strangely familiar –very annoying voice- queried drunkenly in a festive mood. “For she came down the muddy aisles. Oh, ye sweet lass…”
“Goddess you’re so loud,” another female protested in between muffled sounds of dubious origin. Ralnor crept out of the shades into the lit up portion of the alley –the sun had come up while he was sleeping- and spotted Toutatis standing behind the horse two meters in front of him.
“That so? Ye think yer not? What if I pinch yer pissing button?”
Oras Hells!
“Drool, damn it!” The female squeaked and Ralnor came to stand next to the absorbed teenager watching the scene unfold at the edge of the alley, meters from the open square before the market, where the taverns were. “Oh… oii!”
“It’s in. I wiggle it up, curve the tip, then move the finger sideways—”
“Stop please! Eeeh!”
“Do that sound again,” the familiar voice ordered her friend.
“The Gish has a Zilan girlfriend,” Toutatis told Ralnor without looking away from the entangled on one wall of the alley pair, with Jinx having a good part of her arm inside the pants of a tall Zilan female, wearing a ranger’s armour. “They are doing some weird shit.”
Ralnor licked his lips numbly, whilst the taller female begged the Gish to continue her ministrations. “Go get the horse out of the alley the other way,” he ordered Tout who frowned heavily.
“We found them no?” The teenager argued.
“YES!” The Zilan gasped hoarsely in orgasmic bliss, or pissing down Jinx’s arm and a Cofol strolling by on the other side of the alley paused abruptly to watch them with gawking eyes. The next moment the hapless bystander plunged for the square’s stone tiles headfirst, when a Zilan reading a festival program crashed on him with a loud curse.
“Move your feet,” Ralnor grunted and Toutatis started moving at last, but walking a little funny. As for the two lovers they had stopped to stare at the two cursing gods and demons citizens –the Zilan and the Cofol- slowly standing up from the ground. The Cofol sported a red welt on his forehead and looked worse for wear.
“Race ye to the place. The loser sucks the other’s big toe and cooks breakfast!” Jinx taunted the flushed, still buttoning the loose front of her pants fit Zilan and then sprinted out of the alley without waiting for her partner. She stumbled still under the influence, arms and legs flaying every which way and went straight for the pair helping each other up. The two males screamed in terror seeing the pink wrecking ball heading straight for them, but Jinx found her footing just in time to leap over them, flip twice in the air alike a circus acrobat and land on her bottom -completely misjudging the last part of her impressive somersault. The bone-crashing thud was followed by a loud screeching roar of blinding pain that made even the stoic Ralnor flinch.
“FUCK ME TITS! RIGHT ON THE BLOOMIN’ TAIL!”
The Zilan reached her a moment later to help the grimacing Gish up and then they both run fast hunted by the two stunned citizens for a while. It turned out that neither the hurt Cofol, nor the limping Zilan, could keep up with the inebriated, indecent, but very agile and fast females.
Ralnor though could.