It was night, a few hours after the sun had gone down. The noises filtering out of the alley near the marketplace were unusual for that time and place, though they were of the sort one might find in many places throughout Rhy'Din. A scuffle, impacts of a blunt object against flesh and bone. Cries for help in a foreign tongue, Slavic tones. More shouting, before the beating grew more savage.
The Crimson Flash rarely found much to do in the vicinity of the market. To be sure, there were occasional muggings, but usually the worst crimes were petty shoplifters and pickpockets, most of whom had the decency to only prey on those whose means would allow for the loss. The scarlet speedster preferred to worry about the more violent criminals, of which Rhy'Din had no shortage. He was passing through when he heard the cries from the alley and ran in to investigate.
When he saw the attack, two men attacking the old man, he scowled, marring the line of his mask. "You two should let him go." He didn't particularly expect his words to have much effect, so he shot into the alley, reaching for the nearer of the assailants, who turned to curse at him in their own language..
It was then that the old man struck out, a sweeping kick that sent the two men, screaming, to the cobbles. He swept off his cloak, tossed it aside, and scowled at the Crimson Flash. "Weak."
"What...?" When the old man knocked the muggers aside like so many bowling pins, Crim skidded to a halt, dark eyes shooting wide as the cloak was thrown aside. His scowl deepened, visible as it further distorted the fabric of his mask. "You."
"Me." The man sneered. "The wretched old man who is the apparent bane of the scarlet speedster...the one villain he cannot beat. What say you to that?" He was walking, slowly, circling around the crimson comet. "Why, if I were to do something...drastic...you would be entirely unable to stop me."
The speedster turned, slow, to match the pace of the other man. He did not answer the question, but narrowed dark eyes, frowning. "What do you want?" Direct and to the point. He shuffled his feet, stance altering a touch as he shuffles his feet, continuing to turn.
The old man turned away, for a moment, before lunging, one fist rising. "To make you fight" Crim raised his hands, moving with intent to deflect the blow, as he leaned back and away. "Why?"
((The old man in this story is Abram.))
The Crimson Flash rarely found much to do in the vicinity of the market. To be sure, there were occasional muggings, but usually the worst crimes were petty shoplifters and pickpockets, most of whom had the decency to only prey on those whose means would allow for the loss. The scarlet speedster preferred to worry about the more violent criminals, of which Rhy'Din had no shortage. He was passing through when he heard the cries from the alley and ran in to investigate.
When he saw the attack, two men attacking the old man, he scowled, marring the line of his mask. "You two should let him go." He didn't particularly expect his words to have much effect, so he shot into the alley, reaching for the nearer of the assailants, who turned to curse at him in their own language..
It was then that the old man struck out, a sweeping kick that sent the two men, screaming, to the cobbles. He swept off his cloak, tossed it aside, and scowled at the Crimson Flash. "Weak."
"What...?" When the old man knocked the muggers aside like so many bowling pins, Crim skidded to a halt, dark eyes shooting wide as the cloak was thrown aside. His scowl deepened, visible as it further distorted the fabric of his mask. "You."
"Me." The man sneered. "The wretched old man who is the apparent bane of the scarlet speedster...the one villain he cannot beat. What say you to that?" He was walking, slowly, circling around the crimson comet. "Why, if I were to do something...drastic...you would be entirely unable to stop me."
The speedster turned, slow, to match the pace of the other man. He did not answer the question, but narrowed dark eyes, frowning. "What do you want?" Direct and to the point. He shuffled his feet, stance altering a touch as he shuffles his feet, continuing to turn.
The old man turned away, for a moment, before lunging, one fist rising. "To make you fight" Crim raised his hands, moving with intent to deflect the blow, as he leaned back and away. "Why?"
((The old man in this story is Abram.))