The Painful Way

Written by Jason
Maron licked his lips greedily as the noon day sun beat upon the assembled captives. A fine lot these Dornishmen were paying for these days - boys and broken men, all of them. Could be caught unawares in broad daylight without a single alarm being raised. The bandit almost pitied them.

"Right." Maron began cordially, walking along the line of new prisoners his gang had subduee. In the distance, a makeshift camp was being ransacked as the fleeing of merchants' horses became a distant memory. "Give you a choice. We can do this the right way-" he stops in front of a particularly ill-tempered sort. He's got a forehead the size of a bloody broadsword, hair that grips his face like needles, and eyes that just stare daggers into him. Maron kneels before him and smiles, crooked teeth aplenty. "Or the painful way."

The seething bastard doesn't say anything. Just keeps staring, as the rest of Maron's crew continues their sack of the camp.

"Now, all accounts, we've been more than obliging to you!" The Reacher thief steps back, looking upon the ragged and abused "guards." "Your employers turn tail and make for Starfall, we don't take it out on you. You try and do us dirty by lying, sayin' you've got no gold-" he points to the sole woman of the group, an Orphan of the Greenblood by the look of it. "-you especially, biggest liar of the lot. We only take a few fingers for that." A scuffle is heard as a more vocal mercenary is pushed into the ground. Hideous laughter soon follows. The prickly one still stares as Maron continues.

"What's the matter with wanting to know where the cowards kept their dragons, hm? They left in this great big hurry, didn't see no chests on their horses or nothin'! So it has to be somewhere 'round here."

"They were spice traders, you whoreson-" the sentence is ended as a boot cracks across the teeth of the once talkative sellsword.

"Spice traders, aye. And you're telling me they don't have any gold on hand? Only tumeric and saffron?" Maron tuts as the mangled cries ring out. "Listen, I may be stupid, but I weren't born yesterd-"

"You are stupid." A voice rings out. The big head finally speaks. And Maron doesn't particularly like the words.

"Beggin' your pardon, young man?"

"If you're looking to beg, get on your knees first." The sellsword taunts, himself positioned on his knees with one of Maron's many speartips nestled in the dirt beside him. The grunt looks to his leader, wondering what should be done. Maron holds a hand up, beckoning the boy to be dragged to him.

It is done as the Greenblood woman sneers. What's left of the camp has gone relatively silent now, the looting all but concluded. The prisoner's face is lifted to the sun by the tip of a dagger. Maron drums the hilt of it and waves his cohorts away.

"You think you're clever, bastard?"

Again, he just stares.

"I asked you a question, son."

"Not your son."

"Take that as your answer." The pommel of the blade buries itself into the bastard's temple. A bruise pools underneath the skin as he straightens himself out, back to his knees. Maron admires his endurance. Even as his skin roasts in the sun, he's still got that determined look on his face.

"Reacher boy, eh? Plain as day with that smug, satisfied look you've got on. Reacher boy got a name?"

"Bryar." An answer is spit out, angrily.

"Hm. Would've been nice to know you, Bryar." Maron heaves the dagger back, ready to plunge it into the insolent fucker's neck.

The next moments are a blur. Maron feels his balance shift as his head bounces onto the rocks. His vision tunnels and his grasp fumbles. Shouting is heard. So much shouting. No… Screaming. Then pain. His hand has lost its hold on the dagger as Bryar threatens to break his arm. The man is atop him now, straddling him like some wild beast. Should've bound them when they had the chance. Should've-

The hard edge of a shield shatters the regrets as an axe buries itself in one of his fellow bandits. Its wielder, the Greenblood, shrieks and tackles a fumbling archer before he notches his arrow. The bloody mouthed mercenary pops out a tooth as he savages the face of another of Maron's crew. Chaos erupts as his once loyal men begin to scatter. Bryar, shield in hand, brings it down upon Maron's ribs once again. The sheer force of it shatters bone. Blood spills from the bandit's mouth as a sword is drawn from a scabbard, and thrown across the killing fields by that damn axe murderer. Seems Bryar and the Greenblood have fought together for a while.

The sickening crunch intensifies as Bryar stands his full height, towering above his former captor. He buries the tip of his sword a few scant inches away from Maron's ear. The rest of the company is cleaning up the rabble while, Bryar assumes, a messenger is sent to fetch for his employers. The stock seems good. None too damaged, and what was could certainly be salvageable - but all that's for smarter men to suss out.

As he kneels on the broken chest of Maron, as he growls and feels his own blood seep from a cut along his hairline, Bryar knows what he's meant to handle, and it fills him with pride as Lilyan and Mattis come to flank either side of him. They are worse for wear, but alive. This was the life of danger and adventure he prayed the Gods would give him after leaving Fox Hollow. And it seemed, especially on days like this, that they were kind enough to answer.

A soft murmur escaped Maron as Bryar came face to face with him, digging the sword deeper into the dirt and gravel beside his head.

"Right." Bryar snarled. "Give you a choice."