Sometimes I wish that I could wish it all away

The ravenblack-haired man stood hunched over in the shadows of a backalley, scrunching his beak-like nose in resentment while his knuckles whitened around the handle of a switchblade. Looking down at his 'handiwork', he began collecting the innards of the rats he had just slain, clicking open the compartments of the rings he wore to save little pieces of his newly hauled ingredients. In his concentration he partly stuck out his tongue and wiped the sweat off his face. It only added smears of rat blood, contrasting starkly against his already scratched, sickly-looking skin. Ugh. Where were the insignificant hobos at when you needed them? Exhausting much. But he hadn't come here for a homeless man's fingers. Neither for rats. As much as he resented backtracking to the Lower Ring, Crawford figured he had better chances at the very bottom of the ladder if he actually wished to climb.

Prized Renestrae, he couldn't even set foot in pubs to broaden his social circle without being thrown out. He still looked like he crawled right out of the Ashmoorian slums, with his scruffy hair, smudgy slacks and ripped swallowtail coat. A dumpster fire personified. And innkeepers didn't like dumpster fires very much. Heavy rain started to pour down as he sheltered under a pamphlet he held above his head, in a weak attempt to stay dry. His gaze drifted around the many more anti-magic pamphlets plastered on the walls. Probably distributed by the Ashmoorian authority. Stepping stones - gods, he needed them, now more so than ever.

Moonlight was suddenly caught in something black. Was he seeing things again? He blinked a few times, averting his gaze to its source. Long, healthy-looking locks of hair - shiny like obsidian - bounced gracefully in the motions of rather hasty steps. A young woman.. at this ungodly time and place. He curiously tilted his head to one side, just his eyes following her like some kind of menacing gargoyle. Slowly, he put away his switchblade. How very odd. A lot of women here weren't blessed with such beauty; pockmarked as they were, pleading in the slosh for a piece of moldy bread. Live long enough in this awful smog and the toxicity seeped deep into your bones. It erode all spark from hair and faces which even the local bath houses couldn't fix. This lady must have the luxury of running water somewhere. Enough amount of coin for an inn room with the opportunity of refreshments, perhaps. And a reason to be here - so very very late into the dangerous night.

An ill-boding sound filled the alley: a step-thunk-step-thunk that seemed to rebound from all directions. Hissing stray cats scattered as a shadow slipped over the dirty walls. 'Alderrath is not a city for nice people, dear miss.' Out of nowhere, the mystery person that had followed the woman now suddenly stood right in front of her in all of his grimy glory, with a voice that sounded much more innocent than he looked. Knowing the little alleyways like the back of his hand was a nice feat he gladly made use of. It wasn't too hard to creep alongside her through the dark and cross her path. 'Continue down this alley and someone will get to you quick enough,' he ensured her with melancholic nods. Crawford leaned towards her, fearfully sharing a whisper: 'Trust me.. I know.' Moving from words to deeds, his trembling fingers held up one of his trouser legs a bit, just high enough to reveal one bloodied sock.

The bejesus of the young lady was scared right out of her upon noticing his appearance. That pin-up forced out such a high-pitched shriek, even he stumbled back on his feet, almost slipping in the fresh rain puddles as he did. Many reacted in the same manner; clasping a hand over their mouths in soft gasps; feeling unnerved by the presence of a menacing little oddball of rage; giving him a wide berth the size of all kingdoms combined. And all that. In many of these circumstances, it was a weapon he wielded. Here in the Lower Ring, however, where the crooks were thrice his size and all inked up with vicious tattoos? He didn't expect to be the #1 local creep as much as that reputation was bestowed upon him in the higher Rings. 'S-sorry!' Crawford tried to lull the lady back to a calmer state of mind, giving her some space in awkward shuffling motions on his oversized shoes. 'I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I- I didn't mean to startle you.' In a silent plea he held up his trembling hands. Perhaps he almost looked as befuddled as she did right now. But the lady seemed in such a state of shock that she even.. checked her pulse? The look on the face of the other turned a bit sullen, if only for a split second. Really, woman?
        
She was taken aback by his wounded foot, he could notice. And now he seemed a bit taken aback, shying away from her silently judging gaze by turning his face away from her, covering a deep rip in his coat at shoulder level with his hand like he stood in front of her naked, because - well, his social status wasn't something he could help, now could he? From behind the untidy locks plastered over his head, his blue-green eyes studied her behaviour from its corners, his ears perked for every mumble that left her way too unblemished lips. One word cited through his head as if sung by a holy choir. Home. Crawford nodded, with a look of concern and his lips slightly apart, for yes, of course! He understood, he understood very well. But perhaps she still was struck by fear. He had the slightest idea she didn't fully grasp what he was trying to tell her.

'I'm afraid you're misunderstanding, miss,' he softly said. He held one of his shoes sideways, a quiet notice on his current condition. As the black-haired man once again tried to wipe away the blood on his cheeks, he approached her, carefully and slowly. It now became clear as day he walked with a terrible limp. A cane was not a luxury he could afford. Yet. 'I need help,' he stated in distress. 'Those goons, they - they attacked me. Please, miss, I'm begging you. Shelter, somewhere to hide..' Weary of the faltering step he dragged himself around with, Crawford stopped right in front of her, already slightly panting - and in the specks of moonlight peeking through every now and then, he visibly fought back tears.  'Will you.. will you help me?' His pale, trembling hands were surprisingly warm to the touch when he enclosed her hand in his.

He swallowed thickly, his restless eyes downcast before he fixated his attention back to the pretty lady. Aid. Refuge. Anything - anything at all. Would she? The rain battered down on his head, wetting his messy hair into spiky tufts as Crawford waited for her answer in anticipation. From under his strands of hair, he looked down at his slightly shaking hands still clasping hers. And then succor was finally given to him in one simple reply. Thank Renestrae. 'Good samaritan,' the raven haired man let out a shuddering sigh as he nodded, in what almost seemed like ecstatic relief. He sniffled a bit, his mouth corners curling into the tiniest smile, blinking away the tears from sparkling eyes. One could say he practically glowed with joy right now. 'Thank you so much! Truly. Your kindness will not go unnoticed under Her watchful eye.' His words citing Renestrae were accompanied with a friendly squeeze back and his fingers freed her hands from his grasp again, afore it would become uncomfortable. The young woman made it clear to him that she couldn't offer him much - which he perceived with a sense of displeasure, for, lies, lies! just earlier she had told him she didn't have anything - but his attention shifted to her nose. Or rather: to the beautiful little shiny piercing dandling there. It twinkled like a sole star in the darkness as she babbled on, and not only his eyes, but also his head followed its movements ever so slightly, captivated by the thing like a snake. Until he snapped back to reality.

'O- of course!' Crawford hastily interrupted her. Imagine her backing down now. 'No, not to worry. I- I don't need coin right now. I just..' he looked for the right words with a declining gesture of a hand, '- need to rest my weary feet somewhere safe for a bit, off the dangerous streets and out of the rain. Some medical help too, perhaps. In and out, I'll be, 's all, I can ensure you. Please.. need it.' Taking her words as an acceptance that she'd help him, he shuffled closer uttering his murmurs, shortening the little distance left between them with hanging head. Due to shame, perhaps, or some other emotion he forcefully tried to put away. Then he stood still in front of her again. A frail 'uhmm' left his lips, as if he wasn't quite sure how to rightly approach her without her shrieking her head off again. The many rings he wore shone softly in the dim light while he anxiously fastened them with their emblems up, as did his blunt, blackened nails. 'Pardon the odour,' he shyly whispered for his body smell, which seemed to be a combination of a pen of wet puppies and some sick, dying animal. Living as a tramp, his nose was already blind for his own scent. But many noses were not. The apology doubled for the intrusion in physical contact, because he awkwardly, yet very tenderly, slid an arm across the young woman's shoulders, so she could help support his body when walking. Mother had raised him with the best of manners, after all. Crawford turned his head to look down at her. He was only slightly taller than her. 'Where to, miss?'

The obsidian-haired lady was aware of his stench, he was sure of it. Some soft mutters left his lips, sounding much like 'not in my best appeal as of now', followed by some other string of apologies which bashfully flushed his ears in red. 'I think you smell rather nice, though,' Crawford claimed, flashing her a smile as he timidly gave her a sideways glance. 'Like a nap in mother's lap and.. and - well, milk that hasn't gone sour yet!' He let out a chirpy laugh. In his book, it was the biggest compliment in Odiria's history. Both of those things held unparalleled value because they were so extremely rare.

It had always been a small celebration whenever father returned home from the sewers with valuable trinkets. Enough profit to afford milk for supper, instead of the murky water they usually drank. Mother heating the kettle. Father shoving a mug of steaming milk into his hands. And he'd happily dangle his feet above the ground, take gluttonous sips and enjoy the warm feeling in his sick belly, and all - all would suddenly, truly be perfect for a little while. Afterwards, mother took him in her lap; he'd fully take in that moment, smiling, kneading and sniffing the fabrics of her skirt in his toddler fists like a small cat while she stroke his hair, calling him a good boy. Before she had enough of him and grew spiteful again, that was. He thought back rather fondly of those scarce, but joyous childhood moments. Yup. Milk, coin and mother's lap equalled good things. You could sway anyone with such compliments for sure.

Another warning quickly followed. No medical knowledge. No aiding tools to treat him. She really wished to clarify that she couldn't be of much help, didn't she? The black-haired man quietly avoided her gaze and looked down at his dragging feet. The smile on his face slowly faded. 'Oh..,' he replied, his soft and gentle voice sounding a bit disheartened. Luckily, as they carried on, she mentioned that perhaps her neighbours were in possession of medical supplies. And he really wanted to show her his happiness, he really did. But the last part of her words - Renestrae, have mercy.. it made ghosts in his skull shout. Acid flow through his veins. Rancor seethe in every bit of his being. 'People like us'. How dare she!

His blunt nails dug in her shoulders while he felt his lips pursing and his nostrils flaring. That continued on, seconds, maybe minutes - he didn't know, since he wasn't even aware - until his stature became as stiff as a corpse and he exhaled the air he unknowingly held in his lungs in a deep groan. The man stumbled, almost losing his footing. 'F-forgive me,' he panted, quickly letting go of her to place his trembling hands on his knees. 'Please give me a second.' Saliva dripped down his lower lip as he hunched over, the unkempt spikes that was now his hair falling over his pale face like mucky little feathers. He successfully brought a hand to his mouth, clenching it, like he could vomit any second. But all that left his throat were some soft whimpers. Slowly, he seemed to ease up once again. An expression of excruciating pain still lingered on his face when Crawford looked at the young woman next to him. 'Sorry. The strain of my injury really got to me for a moment, I fear. I hope we're not too far anymore. Did I hurt you?' His concerned whispers were accompanied with a hand gently rubbing her shoulder. He really shouldn't let himself go like that.

Not now.

Out of nowhere it came: a swift push in the chest with a force that, naturally, was too big for his unstable posture. A soft gasp shuddered over his chapped lips - perhaps even sounding fearful. Crawford's claws managed to grab the lady's clothing at the hem in a wave of desperate panic. It ripped. She ran. With the small piece of fabric still clenched in his fist, he plummeted down sideways, cracking right through some empty, rotten wooden crates that were dumped at the side of the alleyway. Under the mess of black fabrics and wood chips escaped soft groans. For a moment the homeless vagrant lay motionless; stretched out and on his belly. Then all of a sudden a small explosion of broken planks errupted as he jerked up. 'No..,' he quietly muttered to himself. A blank expression misted the raven-haired man's face while he stared at the cobblestones at his feet. His dark eyebrows furrowed above his burning, rapidly blinking eyes. And then it hit him. 'No no no lady you can't do this to me -'

Why? The gravel and wood crunched under his oversized shoes as he hastily crawled up. Frantically, he started rubbing his eyebrow, shook the loudly screaming maggots in his skull to silence next. Why? 'I- I- I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me alone! They will kill me if you leave me here, and I - you'll -' His trembling fists battered down on his own head, cutting off his own attempts to form reasonable sentences. White specks of saliva flung out between his gritted teeth in pain and frustration. Why?! Why did he even get ditched by the Lower Class? He had been sweet, had he not? He only got a bit angry from time to time, is all. As he staggered back and forth in disorientation, Crawford searched for her. His voice wailed and broke, echoing through the filthy alley in the same fashion a lost pet's would, crying out for its owner. In good fortune he hobbled after her into the same direction she had fled, stumbling, toppling and getting back onto his feet again with great effort, yet as fast as his towing feet allowed him to. No better than a confused, wounded animal at this point. 'Please! Please come back?' The man eventually fell down in a big rain puddle, paying no mind to it, nor to the air leaving his aching lungs in croaking whimpers.

'I don't want to die -'

Crawford waited. No nimble footsteps. No lady. Save for the distant bark of a stray dog, there was only the dripping of rain. The sniffing sounds of air pushed out of nostrils drowned out the downpour. It wasn't wailing, however. No - it was the sound of the man chuckling humorlessly through his beak-like nose. 'My, how lucky you are..' Shivering and snickering, he crawled out of the puddle in which he sat with spreaded legs, snorting the Lower Ring's soot out of his lungs as he worked himself back up on his feet. In a fashion that seemed far less fragile, he faltered through the alleyways. Fast and frantic, like a spider. With a swish his switchblade flicked open. 'Maggots,' he hissed to the lane of dark houses in front of him, not all too gentle anymore either. 'I'll make them crawl up your windpipe. I'll make abscess clods pop through your arteries and call it Bloody Bloomtide. I'll make you wander around aimlessly with your peepers hanging out of your sockets, like a nifty necklace. Wouldn't you like that? Coming right up, you filthy little whore!' The outline of his limping shadow slipped past doors and windows. Hoarse huffs drew closer - then died out again as he went from residence to residence, whispering and scratching at the doors. Denying him the succor she promised him? Pushing him? Now she'd really gone and done it.

Holy Renestrae, he couldn't believe it! Almost. Almost he had her in his clutches. The rat's blood, splattered over his sock and trousers, had been a convenience to him to fake being wounded; his very real limp only added credibility to that. To play out his act for the very first nightly wanderer he spotted, he went out of his way to gather his props on the get-go. But this crony bitch of the sheeple mass, this absolute waste matter? Apparently her intuition was fine-tuned enough to scurry away in time. There was something about her he had yet to cut out of her. She owned a house, he was almost sure of it. Somewhere. Crawfords hands simply itched to retrieve his grimoire, to fabricate foul bewitchments over the next few months, to try and achieve all of his malicious threats, for - despite all of his bark - they most definitely weren't empty threats. Realizing such ill fortune upon others was his gift and curse. He could. He should.

'I'll find you, you hear me!' His trembling fists flung behind his hips when he hunched over, popping out his chest like it was razorblades he pushed out of his throat instead of the words he suddenly roared out. Silence for a bit. Then the man's shoes crunched the trash and gravel as he slowly stumbled on. Luckily for the girl just past her very residence after throwing his tantrum at her neighbour's front door, and out of her street block. But he would find her, sooner or later. He'd come back for her. Linger in this and that alley, this street over here, the corner of that lane over there - wherever they had been, until he could narrow it down at such a rate that she wouldn't have any other choice but to cross him again. There were things to yank away from her, things that were of so much better use to him. In future circumstances, she'd be thrilled to have been in the opportunity to help THE Crawford Grimgott - and then she would understand that it was to be her unspoken job to provide him. As he damn well deserved that liberty.

(end thread?)