?Know what your problem is??
That was the way the ?deep? conversations always started with Ronnie. And fifty percent of those conversations? They started with a hard right hook, delivered low and meant for the body. It was caught on the outside on an arm, in the meaty part just above the elbow with the practiced ease born of familiarity long since grown. So it went with the right side as well and the absorbing block of a left hook aiming underside again. Will grinned and jumped back.
?I?ve got a lot of them, according to you,? he taunted the his partner, between panted breaths. They had been going at it for about fifteen minutes. ?Which one are we on about today?? Both arms came up in a cross block a heartbeat later, catching a hard blow meant for his head, striking hard enough still that it forced a skip backwards to maintain his balance.
?That is your problem. That right there.? Rohnkun Ebonsure was a big man in his late thirties, thick of limb and built to endure. His skin was a dark, rich brown and his large eyes a dull, dark green; he would have passed for human in most places if the slight underbite and the subtle hint of tusklike canine teeth were discounted. There was orc somewhere in his lineage (or Ork, when so quoting his old marm), but his brutish features were somewhat comely and belied a sage wisdom he oft liked to depart on his younger companion whether he wanted it or not. ?Don?t take nothin? seriously, you don?t, or I?m a sahaughin?s second cousin!?
He threw another series of body blows, meant to eat up more of his sparring partner?s energy. Will wasn?t a small man (but most men were smaller than Rohnkun), reaching some modest measurement over six feet, with an athlete?s build and a nearly annoying ability to take more than his fair share of punishment. Each blow was met with a slight turn and the outside of an arm or shoulder, glancing off or eliciting a grunt. The aggressor could never tell if it was more exertion than pain, or the opposite.
?I take the job seriously enough,? the smaller man fired back, shifting his weight repeatedly on light feet and continually trying to dance around or out of the other?s superior reach. What blows were reciprocated rarely landed and the ones that did wouldn?t have done much to a man even half the senior EMT?s size. He always accepted his partner?s invitations to box, but never put up as much of a fight so much as he played the interactive punching bag. ?Just look at our track record.?
With winter in full swing, the early arrival of evening pulled a blanket of rich blue-black midnight over the sky, dotting it with the twinkling of small stars that lay scattered randomly where not obscured the occasional heavy gray cloud of clinging seasonal mist. A handful of trouble calls had made for a busy dinner hour but petered off as the midnight hour drew closer. The city proper was as quiet as it ever got, with a great many of Rhy?din?s denizens holed up in one gathered or another in celebration of the holiday -- Christmas, Yule, Festivus (or was that two days ago?). For the sometimes unsung and oft beleaguered first responders of the realm, it was a blessed peace.
Or boredom.
Station 316 was a three story building of old red and brown brick and mortar, settled far to the west of side of the Old Market and closer to the wall abutting Seaside than not. Built stout and serviceable, it served as an auxiliary to the Fire Brigade. Given the nature of the city, even the auxiliaries saw more than their fair share of action. The interior had been sparsely decorated in a half-assed attempt to infect some of the more dour faces with seasonal cheer, but the more cacophonous dronings of someone?s alien roots had since been replaced with the more mellow stylings of Frank Sinatra?s Christmas album. It had lulled two men to sleep already, one in bed and another couched, and reduced all but Ronnie and Will to a somberly cheery game of poker around the kitchen table, the crooner?s words and the melody often broken by the sound of heavy gloves impacting on the landing below.
?Oh. Yeah. Sure.? Ronnie snorted and lifted his guard again, staring down at Will from over the tops of his gloves and waiting to see what the younger man would do (or say) next, once he himself took a break from pontificating. ?Fall back on that again. You really wanna go there, ?Iron? Will? You got balls, boyo. Big mithril ones, takin? chances a more cautious guy would go white over. No one doubts your courage but one of these days??
The bigger man paused. ?You?ll take every risk that rears it?s ugly head, relyin? on whatever that weird luck of yours is. But that shit runs out, boyo. Luck always does. Get yourself killed, you will. Maybe if you took your life more serious, you?d find somethin? to do with your ass outside of work that?d make you think twice.?
?Yeah,? Will replied, sandy brown brows quirking up curiously. He humored his partner in the moment. ?Like??
?A girl. Religion. A hobby. Somethin? other than the job and eating that greasy ass diner food or food truck garbage you love so much.?
?Hey, you eat that stuff too.?
?Sometimes. When we?re workin?. I also got an old lady who cooks for me on the regular. Wholesome stuff without all that grease and lard.?
?So what was so wholesome that went to Lyna?s ass, because that trunk?s got--?
Will covered up and ducked another series of blows in earnest, each one faster and more aggressive than the previous ones. His laughter came out as a strangled wheeze as he did his best to absorb or avoid every punch, not entirely sure if the bigger man?s growling was all feigned of if, just maybe, he had taken the teasing too far. Backstepping he made some room and the pursuit ebbed, both men just out of reach and able to catch their breaths.
?Gods love you, boy.? Ronnie growled, a subtle fondness resonating through the words as he feigned a few testing jabs with the left to see if the smaller man would move.
The words, well intentioned, were sobering.
?No, he doesn?t.? Will had ceased to smile, not in the manner the other was accustomed to. There was an affable curve to his mouth, sure, but it was suddenly lacking in good humor.
?One of them does. Probably that Earth One of yours.?
?Nah.? The deliver was deadpan. Will?s gloves dropped.
?Never gonna be the religious type, are you?? Ronnie?s head tilted to the side, the weight of his scrutiny on his partner growing.
?I used to pray. Some serious bullshit, right there.?
?Don?t think anyone?s listenin???
?Oh, they?re listening.? Will grimaced. ?I?m sure. But most folks with power listen and then do what?s best for them anyway. I say screw th--?
POW!
The massive gloved hand came from nowhere and caught him squarely beneath the chin, lifting ?Iron? Will clean off his feeting. Given the fantastical nature of Rhy?din, he?d always wondered if he?d get to live out his greatest Saturday Morning Cartoon fantasies and see little Tweety Birds flying drunkenly around his head. Sadly, there weren?t even stars. Just blurred vision and a whole hell of a lot of pain.
?Don?t blaspheme,? he was somewhat aware of Ronnie saying, thought it sounded much more like ?Bone asscreme? until he?d taken more than a few moments to thing about it. As he grew increasingly more aware and the blurriness began to face, a gloved hand locked on his wrist and drew him to his feet.
Ronnie had just opened his mouth to offer a fresh sermon when the bells began to go off.
Then the PA sounded: Fire in the Marketplace. Fire in the Marketplace.
That was the way the ?deep? conversations always started with Ronnie. And fifty percent of those conversations? They started with a hard right hook, delivered low and meant for the body. It was caught on the outside on an arm, in the meaty part just above the elbow with the practiced ease born of familiarity long since grown. So it went with the right side as well and the absorbing block of a left hook aiming underside again. Will grinned and jumped back.
?I?ve got a lot of them, according to you,? he taunted the his partner, between panted breaths. They had been going at it for about fifteen minutes. ?Which one are we on about today?? Both arms came up in a cross block a heartbeat later, catching a hard blow meant for his head, striking hard enough still that it forced a skip backwards to maintain his balance.
?That is your problem. That right there.? Rohnkun Ebonsure was a big man in his late thirties, thick of limb and built to endure. His skin was a dark, rich brown and his large eyes a dull, dark green; he would have passed for human in most places if the slight underbite and the subtle hint of tusklike canine teeth were discounted. There was orc somewhere in his lineage (or Ork, when so quoting his old marm), but his brutish features were somewhat comely and belied a sage wisdom he oft liked to depart on his younger companion whether he wanted it or not. ?Don?t take nothin? seriously, you don?t, or I?m a sahaughin?s second cousin!?
He threw another series of body blows, meant to eat up more of his sparring partner?s energy. Will wasn?t a small man (but most men were smaller than Rohnkun), reaching some modest measurement over six feet, with an athlete?s build and a nearly annoying ability to take more than his fair share of punishment. Each blow was met with a slight turn and the outside of an arm or shoulder, glancing off or eliciting a grunt. The aggressor could never tell if it was more exertion than pain, or the opposite.
?I take the job seriously enough,? the smaller man fired back, shifting his weight repeatedly on light feet and continually trying to dance around or out of the other?s superior reach. What blows were reciprocated rarely landed and the ones that did wouldn?t have done much to a man even half the senior EMT?s size. He always accepted his partner?s invitations to box, but never put up as much of a fight so much as he played the interactive punching bag. ?Just look at our track record.?
With winter in full swing, the early arrival of evening pulled a blanket of rich blue-black midnight over the sky, dotting it with the twinkling of small stars that lay scattered randomly where not obscured the occasional heavy gray cloud of clinging seasonal mist. A handful of trouble calls had made for a busy dinner hour but petered off as the midnight hour drew closer. The city proper was as quiet as it ever got, with a great many of Rhy?din?s denizens holed up in one gathered or another in celebration of the holiday -- Christmas, Yule, Festivus (or was that two days ago?). For the sometimes unsung and oft beleaguered first responders of the realm, it was a blessed peace.
Or boredom.
Station 316 was a three story building of old red and brown brick and mortar, settled far to the west of side of the Old Market and closer to the wall abutting Seaside than not. Built stout and serviceable, it served as an auxiliary to the Fire Brigade. Given the nature of the city, even the auxiliaries saw more than their fair share of action. The interior had been sparsely decorated in a half-assed attempt to infect some of the more dour faces with seasonal cheer, but the more cacophonous dronings of someone?s alien roots had since been replaced with the more mellow stylings of Frank Sinatra?s Christmas album. It had lulled two men to sleep already, one in bed and another couched, and reduced all but Ronnie and Will to a somberly cheery game of poker around the kitchen table, the crooner?s words and the melody often broken by the sound of heavy gloves impacting on the landing below.
?Oh. Yeah. Sure.? Ronnie snorted and lifted his guard again, staring down at Will from over the tops of his gloves and waiting to see what the younger man would do (or say) next, once he himself took a break from pontificating. ?Fall back on that again. You really wanna go there, ?Iron? Will? You got balls, boyo. Big mithril ones, takin? chances a more cautious guy would go white over. No one doubts your courage but one of these days??
The bigger man paused. ?You?ll take every risk that rears it?s ugly head, relyin? on whatever that weird luck of yours is. But that shit runs out, boyo. Luck always does. Get yourself killed, you will. Maybe if you took your life more serious, you?d find somethin? to do with your ass outside of work that?d make you think twice.?
?Yeah,? Will replied, sandy brown brows quirking up curiously. He humored his partner in the moment. ?Like??
?A girl. Religion. A hobby. Somethin? other than the job and eating that greasy ass diner food or food truck garbage you love so much.?
?Hey, you eat that stuff too.?
?Sometimes. When we?re workin?. I also got an old lady who cooks for me on the regular. Wholesome stuff without all that grease and lard.?
?So what was so wholesome that went to Lyna?s ass, because that trunk?s got--?
Will covered up and ducked another series of blows in earnest, each one faster and more aggressive than the previous ones. His laughter came out as a strangled wheeze as he did his best to absorb or avoid every punch, not entirely sure if the bigger man?s growling was all feigned of if, just maybe, he had taken the teasing too far. Backstepping he made some room and the pursuit ebbed, both men just out of reach and able to catch their breaths.
?Gods love you, boy.? Ronnie growled, a subtle fondness resonating through the words as he feigned a few testing jabs with the left to see if the smaller man would move.
The words, well intentioned, were sobering.
?No, he doesn?t.? Will had ceased to smile, not in the manner the other was accustomed to. There was an affable curve to his mouth, sure, but it was suddenly lacking in good humor.
?One of them does. Probably that Earth One of yours.?
?Nah.? The deliver was deadpan. Will?s gloves dropped.
?Never gonna be the religious type, are you?? Ronnie?s head tilted to the side, the weight of his scrutiny on his partner growing.
?I used to pray. Some serious bullshit, right there.?
?Don?t think anyone?s listenin???
?Oh, they?re listening.? Will grimaced. ?I?m sure. But most folks with power listen and then do what?s best for them anyway. I say screw th--?
POW!
The massive gloved hand came from nowhere and caught him squarely beneath the chin, lifting ?Iron? Will clean off his feeting. Given the fantastical nature of Rhy?din, he?d always wondered if he?d get to live out his greatest Saturday Morning Cartoon fantasies and see little Tweety Birds flying drunkenly around his head. Sadly, there weren?t even stars. Just blurred vision and a whole hell of a lot of pain.
?Don?t blaspheme,? he was somewhat aware of Ronnie saying, thought it sounded much more like ?Bone asscreme? until he?d taken more than a few moments to thing about it. As he grew increasingly more aware and the blurriness began to face, a gloved hand locked on his wrist and drew him to his feet.
Ronnie had just opened his mouth to offer a fresh sermon when the bells began to go off.
Then the PA sounded: Fire in the Marketplace. Fire in the Marketplace.