The Waltz

[V0idsoldier 1139]

 

It was as if he was dancing, jettisoning across the bar floor with no less poise than a elephant. He felt a sharp 'crack' as he slammed against the bar counter, a pained laugh escaping his already bloodied lips. "Plow me.." He managed under his breath as he lifted his onyx eyes to the men in front of him. What had he said to them, he wondered. Was it the remarks about their mothers, or their wives that set them off.. A ragged sigh escaped the tired and very drunk Urchins lips "Listen fellas... We don't gotta.." And once more he was sent careening across the floor.

 

It was a magnificent site to behold. A drunken, dirty man in a tophat twirling around the pub. As he came to a stop this time, he eased himself down to a sitting position, to drunk, weak, and depressed to even stand anymore. His jaw was slack, likely fractured just a bit. His right eye was swollen, his lips cut, and his ribs ached like all hell. But he was awake. He lifted his head, tipping his tophat just enough to rest his eyes on the three men once again. He was no match, even if he was sober and at the top of his game, he would have had his ass handed to him. And yet in all his pain, words come flowing from his mouth. "Who taught ye' to hit loike dat... yer mum?" He remarked, a weak snicker escaping from his lips in his drunken stupor. He reached for a bottle that was just out of his reach, frowning a bit. A pale hand gripped the bottle, slowly bringing the glass jar of ale to the Urchin. He smiled lightly, before realizing it was one of the men "Well fawk..." He managed to get out before being soaked in ale. And then CRACK!

 

He awoke in some Godanistan awful alleyway. Around him was bales of hay and cow manure. He smelled like a mixture of throw up, piss, and ale, and if he had to describe the way he felt he would likely use similar words. As his head tilted, his tophat rolled off his dirty head and onto the filthy streets. A blue band strapped across it and several holes cut into it. He peered down at the object, as if it were from another world, his mind racing back to the past. When had he become the one to end up beaten half to death in a alleyway? When did he become the one smelling like piss, left alone to rot and be forgotten? He reached up and rubbed his head as he thought about these very real questions. At this point in his life, he didn't consider himself alive...

 

In fact if you were to ask anyone who used to know him, they would have likely said the same. He had lost everything. His home, his comrades, his possessions, his docks, his city. Everything. It had been taken from him so fast he only had time to blink before he realized where he was in life. He didn't even know where he was in fact, and decided it was time to get up and move. He'd already pissed the denizens of whatever sleepy town this was off. Sabel. From Urchin, to criminal king, to a man with nothing. "What the fawk did you let happen to yerself.." He mumbled, reaching down for his dirty tophat and placing it upon his head. He had nowhere to go, but he knew that wherever he went, whatever he did, he couldn't get any lower than where he was now. Perhaps it was time to dust off the hat and get back to work, vacation would be over soon.

[Moot 1719]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.