Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Warhammer Fantasy: Heart of Darkness [P3: CLOSED]

Former Claw-Admiral Znammy 'Sunami Anglermaw' had been knee deep inside the cruel, flooded slave barracks within the depths of Spineport and even they seemed more hospitable to the crumbling shamble of a seedy shisha den he dwelt within as a patron. Cracks and colonies of mould surfaced across the drinking room, somewhat dimmed by the clouds of incense and hookah blown tobacco that Anglermaw could taste - or at least wretchingly gag upon - within the back of his throat like a lovers' embrace. Conversation in languages that the Sea-Rat could never hope to translate barked, spat and even gurgled in a tirade of noise pollution.
Pillars of wax melted from their candles in lulling flares beside the bar, barely illuminating the miasmic gloom. But Anglermaw could tell that it was still midday, from the obtrusive rays of light that lanced like beams from the eye of a nameless, uncaring deity that observed the city of Al-Haikk with uncomprimising hatred. He was hidden from the dry heat of the desert at least, but the particles of light hurt his rodent vision. These wounds in the sandstone were across the walls, concealed by carpets of silken tapestry which bore images so obscene that they would make a Bretonnian libertine rear their head in disgust. Chimeric figures were painted in a vibrant array of colours that the den's darkness struggled to diminish, gesticulating in a variety of bodies, whether furred, lizardine, feathered, or bared like a Man-thing. The snarling deties either slew, sodomised, or committed both acts simulatenously to their slave chattel, devouring the bodies of their mortal recepients, lathering themselves in blood in a cascade of maroon blotch. Each illustration was entitled in a joined lettering that Anglermaw could not understand, though he recognised the everpresent 'key' icon upon each heinous piece, daubed in a rich purple.
He couldn't help but gulp, they hadn't come to any mere back-alley bordello, hidden within the abandoned suburb of an Arabyan port-city. The anathema of his newfound faith was conviently his safest haven.

His coffee was getting cold now, he'd regretted his purchase with the few trinkets of silver in his coat pockets, and he loathed the taste of the stuff. It was as black and rank as congealed sewer muck and all the smell and taste to boot, but he hadn't slept in a whole day and a half. Thirty six hours and twenty three minutes, not that the Sea-Rat cared to be precise, his racing mind was much too focussed on the fear that he'd be made into a pelt by some boot-licking Man-thing, of course that fear was omnipresent in the realm of Mankind; skaven were hardly considered benevolent.
He lifted the clay vessel from the splintered table that it dribbled upon and pooled the contents down into his mouth, his muzzle fur masked by a cover of slurry tinted ichor.
Mokte eyed him curiously, his mood forever hidden by a constant snarl. He'd no longer worn the auric helm and breastplate that he'd stained with rat-gore within the Ark's bowels, nor did he carry the cleaver of Tzlipectl. Nahwa - the Slann lord of Tzlipectl - had deigned he return those relics to the temple city in return for his freedom. Instead, Mokte was now bare scaled, complimented by a ropey shawl decorated with the bleached skulls of pirates that had tried (and quite clearly failed) to relieve the Cothiquan host of their vessel.

"Phantom fleas again, just like last night." Mokte said, in a dialect of reikspiel that was far more refined than the guttural tone he'd used in Lustria a few months ago. "I told you to go to sleep, you will draw attention to us both."
The Sea-Rat scratched at his furred neck, above the gauzy wires that held the collar of his coat together. The midnight blue livery had faded into a dull grey from the constant wear, save a few crusted rivets of dry blood and sand to give the decrepit uniform some mockery of colour. It stank too, like it had been scavenged out of a charnel house. Anglermaw smelt less like a rodent and more like a swine's carcass.
"You'd should be bloody paranoid too, since we're both on everybody's scat-list." Anglermaw hissed after a full minute of relieving his itch. "For Sigmar-Rat's sake, cages make me tense, I tell ya-ya. They were gonna take us to the fightin' pits were it not for the Sea-Elves. They thought we were beast-slaves."
Mokte uttered a hollow chuckle, which Anglermaw half-mistook for a growl. "And this was where we were told to stay? I feel more welcome in my home jungles."
Anglermaw leaned forward, his snout to Mokte's ear hole. "We're in hiding. Next time, don't go pulling out slave-master stomachs 'cause they call you lizard-beast, alright?"
Mokte grumbled as the Sea-Rat sat back down, almost petulantly. To be compared to the savages of chaos was an insult Mokte could never have left without reconcile. He would merely have scared the slave-master away with a harmless roar, had the ignorant creature not lashed at him with that barbed whip of his.
The brief rage had forced a change of plan. Now Anglermaw and Mokte were both wanted beast-things, not simply a pair of fleeing slaves as they were supposed to be.
"He spat at me in his demon tongue, Sunami, his retinue would have skinned me for my pelt." Mokte said, defending his actions with a withdrawn sigh. As he licked his maw of fangs, an olive skinned barmaid, endowed with nubile curves and clothed only with a linen wreath over her loin handed the pair three further bowls of coffee, garnished by a tobacco leaf for them to chew upon.

Three. That's right. Falderan was supposed to meet them here.
That was the issue, where in Sigmar-Rat's name was he?
Anglermaw knew for certain that Falderan was no mere skirt chaser, but they hadn't seen him since the Cothiquans had played their part as pantomime slave-traders. The Man-Elf was as withdrawn as the Sea-Rat himself, which only made his absence far more unsettling. He was either dead, or he was going to bring along some unwelcome guests to their little party - the last thing they all needed now were more ostensible do-gooders.

"They fled before my challenge, Sunami, do you think their halberds could have pierced my scales?" Mokte drawled, continuing the conversation with another tongued caress of his teeth.
"No. I think they saw how you ripped open their captain's ribcage and pissed themselves silly." Anglermaw sighed.

Mokte repeated the notion subconsciously "Men-spawn are weaklings."

Even under the scorching rays of the Arabian sun Falderan could still recall the moist air in the aftermath of their encounter with the Verminlord several months back. The immediate results were a blur in his mind as he made his way through the tight streets, merchants heckling to sell him an array of products he cared not for and pickpockets waiting on every corner for an opportunity. Truth be told it wasn't much unlike the great Nuln markets in Wissenland. Apart from the scorching, dry heat. Even as he moved through to his meeting point he thought back. The night being a blur to him didn't shake the aftermath from memory. After returning to the city of Tzlipectl they were greeted with mixed feelings. The Saurus Mokte was taken away and spoken to in private with the Skinks meanwhile Celedron, Anglermaw and himself were given cautious glares from the many inhabitants. Mighty Saurus in golden helmets and wielding wide, thick faced blades looked at them with blood hungry eyes but as much discipline as any Empire Halberd. Rewarded with what Falderan took as their lives they were all released and Mokte joined them. The Elves were not informed of what was said to him but their 'new friend' was more somber and quiet than before. The events in the city blurred from then but when they reached the remaining Elves is where things truly stuck to him.

Celedron was healed somewhat by the healers within Tzlipectl, though this seemed to be just enough so he would survive till he got back to his kin. The group was sent out and finding the remains of several abandoned row boats at the former staging ground was unnerving. The area was ravaged and torn apart. Corpses of Lizard and Elf laid around the bushes as evidence of a frantic escape was seen. Fires with food, now burnt were still burning and a single large corpse of a large beast twice the length of a large stallion containing several spears in it's amphibian like body. Red skin leaking a vile, oily ichor. Into the boats the group made their way to see to distant ships. The panicked Elves within found them and brought them aboard. Blades pushed to their necks and were it not for Celedron's words of calm they'd surely be killed on the spot. Locked in the brig for several hours great arguments were had. Fal remained quiet until he was released by the Captain and her retinue. Celedron had a closing moment before the group were let off. Sailing East the group would split from Celedron who'd return to Saphery with word of Fal's actions. The two had a moment of kinship before they were split up. Given the glares Celedron received he would require some strong convincing to explain all to his kin. Anglermaw was looked at with disgust and Mokte glares of anger and hatred. Clearly the Elves were set upon by the Lizards shortly after they left. It was a miracle they weren't killed leaving. The remaining trip and following mission were times of tension and reflection for all. An isolation and grim perspective Fal was all too familiar with.

Fal was knocked from his wandering daze as a pair of drug addled men emerged from a clothed door. Their eyes red from some substance and bodies wreaking of pleasures of the flesh and booze. Fal looked up to see the Arabian text and symbol he recognized. Wiping his face of sweat and rubbing his eyes he entered. His leather coat long since abandoned for a lighter shawl that worked to conceal his equipment. His waist held the shattered blade of his former necromantic weapon and on his left hip was a thin rapier reluctantly supplied by corsairs he, Anglermaw and Mokte had encountered. The craftsmanship was average but the weight was light and blade agile. Something Fal made good use of. He received several wary glances from those within the establishment as he made his way through. The eyes of dancers washing over his skin and suggestive movements could get a more fun loving man to go weak in the knees. Fal moved through without a care for them. Sniffing the air of it's thick incense. The smells almost made him sick as he went from dry air to vibrant herbs and aromas. It didn't take much effort to find his companions. Mokte and Anglermaw sat in a corner table, the Skaven concealed and his tail pulled in hie Mokte cared not for such coverings. He showed his reptilian form proudly and many time had this gotten them in trouble. But his new company was simply one of many reasons he didn't return to the Empire. Snatching a bowl of coffee from the table he takes a swig before sitting. Gritting his teeth at the bitter taste it was vile but nothing the Elf wasn't used to. Compared to some liquor he had in the past it was tame.
"I see you two have the subtlety of a drunk Dwarf in a blacksmiths." He adds sitting beside them to join.

Anglermaw rapped his claws upon the woodwork of the table in visible trepidation, creating tiny holes on the gnarled surface. The table juddered with each dig of his fingers, the tobacco leaf swaying to the ripples within his murky bowl. While his admiral jacket had mercifully concealed most of his matted body, the incessant thump of his caffiene fueled heart mean't that he could not fully hide the nature of what he truly was. He warmed his hands over the breached sun rays to still the seizure like jitterings that - more influenced by sleep deprivation rather than the skaven black hunger - were almost palsy like. The patrons that crept past the table could not help but gauge a sideways glance, while others stared unapologetically from the neighbouring tables, and it was these grizzled patrons who likely held intentions as dubious as the group, or origins as likely profound. The foreign quarter of Al-Haikk was a vast underbelly of curios and scum, where cursed trinkets and illegal weapons passed through the sieve of commerce just as finely as silk and spices.

They'd been here for half an hour at least, lamenting the taste of their beverages and how the last favour of the Sea-Elves had landed them all flat on their backsides. The skeleton key in Anglermaw's back pocket didn't have much clout now, his jittering claws clasping the studded, indistinct key. He placed it on the table and left it where it lay, never having the chance to serve it's actual purpose. The Sea-Elves had told them bluntly: 'This is it for you. We have protected the three of you from the judgement of our lords, as per your service to Ulthuan, The Phoenix King, and his subjects. But your safety was commissioned not by any Ulthuani lord, but of our own accord. Al-Haikk is where we part ways for good, for our own safety is comprimised by your presence on our ship.'
He'd half-forgotten the whispered 'May Asuryan protect you,' mouthed from the lips of the captain Aelthalia. Tearful farewells were never Anglermaw's forte, even after the months spent on the sea, and the many dozens of pirates they had by chance dispatched to Stromfels.

A grumble from Mokte broke Anglermaw from his swaying reverie, his tone was rife with annoyance as he spoke. "I hold my hands up yeah, I ate the slave-master's heart. But on the bright side, he didn't need it anymore, plus I was starving." Anglermaw said, gesticulating his arms as to convey his innocence, like Mokte and himself were siblings caught in an act that warranted a scolding. "Two dead, only rat cares who they were. If it weren't for all these back alleys, we'd already be dangling in the sun. If Mokte had used his noggin, we'd already have hitched a few camels and been set eastward. What a mess-tip we're in yeah."

Mokte hawked a globule of saliva in reply, wretching upon the floor in the direction of four leather bound mercenaries babbling in Estalian. The nearest copper-skinned figure clenched the silver hilt of his weapon and reared a glaring gaze, but whatever rebuke he had died in his throat once he saw the saurus bare his dagger length fangs in warning. The warrior faced his fellows with a defeated expression on his face, sharing between his men a colourful variety of benign curses, concealed in the Estalian tongue.
Mokte then faced Falderan. "What I did was just and warranted. Those men-spawn were cruel and indiscriminate to whom they abused, no one shall miss them. I have committed no crime." He said with a fist closed by the rictus grins of his dangling foes.

Anglermaw whistled softly, crossing his furred arms and leaning over the woodwork. The sleeves of his jacket had become so tattered that he had opted to simply have them crudely ripped off. In hindsight, not the best option, but no one in this bordello seemed to care.
"That's very noble o' ya-ya." He began with a sardonic chuckle. "But as far as the folks in the city are concerned, we ain't nothing but brigands. No, that's actually being generous. We're the lowest of the low, us both, beastly-things, children o' chaos if you catch my drift." Anglermaw slurped down the rest of his coffee. He'd never gotten used to the taste, and wretched comically before hefting the wet tobacco leaf into his maw.

Mokte rose from his seat, and Anglermaw became stiff, suddenly perturbed by the glowering monster in front. There was scorn glimmering from his slanted eyes coals of balefire.
"Compare me to the chaos-spawn mutants you are both so aquainted with, and I shall willingly donate you pelt to our pursuers." He warned, his huge, clawed fingers caressing the hilt of an near impractical 'club-blade,' a wooden base with segmented obsinite shards embedded across it's side. It's proper name was unpronouncable any outsider of Lustria.

The threat simply elicited another mocking chuckle from the Sea-Rat.
"Your big Nahwa would think-hope otherwise, don't ya agree." He said with a smirk, perusing his pockets before presenting an heirloom that compelled Mokte to slink back to his seat in defeat.
The token that circled over Anglermaw's brisk palm was a coin of solid gold that gleamed upon the ray of sunlight, bearing down within the centre of their table. Embossed withinthe centre was the image of a supine toad, gazing impassively with eyes of carved sapphire, mimicking the scowl of Lord Nahwa. At first glance the token was little more than any other trinket stolen from the temples of Lustria. In reality, it was an uplink device that sent a message through the geomantic web that the bearer of the token was an honourary servant of the Old Ones, and Nahwa had deigned to lend them his protection, Anglermaw, Celedron, and Falderan were the only survivors of The Pit to earn this token, for they were outsiders.
When Anglermaw had asked what would happen if the tokens were stolen, Nahwa had personally told, or rather hazed within his mind, that the artefacts were sentient and would burn in the hand of any not under Nahwa's patronship.

An awkward silence passed for the next five minutes, Anglermaw had licked clean the last remains of his bowl. Mokte had left his own bowl to cool in the bordello's miasma, citing to Falderan of the coffee's poor taste.
It was Anglermaw who broke the silence as he slipped the icon of Nahwa back into his coat pocket. He leaned over to Falderan's side, over-reaching as such that his tail dangled from his seat, the bare-chested serving girl granting him a seductive cat-call and a lick of her cherry tinted lips. Anglermaw gave her no heed as she passed over.

He whispered close to Falderan's ear. "We're stuck. We need a plan to get out o' the city soon as. Have you got any ideas?"

The constant bickering between the scaled and furred companion duo was more pleasant now then it used to be. Death threats and snarls were replaced by quips of aggression or sass. To call the two friends was a bit much but they were in the same boat and knowing accomplices. Two that by all accounts should never be on the same side. It was almost a cruel twist of fate to put them together, tied in with Fal's own life. The three were almost chained together and after the adventure in Lustria Fal felt there may be more truth to that than he would have initially thought. It wasn't until Anglermaw leaned over and relayed their situation that he pulled up a small leather bound flask from his waist. Popping the top he poured two swigs into his remaining coffee and swirled it. the liquid was a dim golden and smelt strongly of wheat and alcohol. Something Fal picked up in the markets of this land. Swirling the coffee he took a sip. The taste was more bearable but the after burn was like oil.

"In honesty I'm surprised you two haven't been skinned alive and flayed on posts." Fal turned his attention to Anglermaw. "Though it's good to see my initial ideas were wrong." He picks out the tobacco leaf and twirls it around. Flicks of coffee hitting the table as he appears distracted. Fal took a breath and put it back on in the bowl. "I do have a way out for the three of us though. A job heading to the South East. Through the fabled lands of the dead and beyond." He says softly as he gauges the two for a response. All the while trying to keep hush enough so any lingering ears didn't learn too much. The darkness and smokey air of the room made it difficult for even Fal's keen senses to make out specific details of faces and more so those who's attention was locked on them.

Anglermaw raised his eyebrow at the prospect of this strange 'job.'
"East?" Anglermaw asked, no doubt putting some mental jigsaw together, there could be no noble organisation that would willingly support a skaven, but at least it would get him out of this scat-hole. "We're talkin' tomb-divin' I bet. Well, sticking around here, we're just waitin' to have our skins put on display-parade. Anywhere'd be better, even the desert." He finished with a shrug, before leaning back into his seat with an ever present shiver that seemed comical in the cloying humidity of the bordello. Anglermaw then gave second-long glances with each twitch of his beak, back toward the oak doorframe that hid the bordello's patrons from the public eye. Of course, a closed door was not going to keep out the authorities for too long. They were after him, he and Mokte, with Falderan to be slapped in chains as an accomplice, he'd live at least; the only due process beastmen obtained was being burned at the stake. That was Empire territory too; Sigmar-Rat dreaded to think what acts these decedant emirs would commit.

Mokte continued to remain utterly headstrong, however, his constant snarl belying his stoic impassiveness. Any guilt he'd felt for the dead slavers was utterly void. He leaned his head over the table as Anglermaw slouched backward.
"I do not like the idea of robbing the dead." Mokte said matter-of-factly, it was not a protest.
"Well it's either that or we both end up a fresh pair of boots. Your choice." Anglermaw hissed.
"I am not arguing, Sunami. I am aware of our problem." Mokte said. But Anglermaw did not reply.
The Sea-Rat's trembling claws were itching at the ends of his snout, his concentration impaired by sleep deprivation. His eyes were clenched shut, phantom fleas biting at his eyelashes.

"We need camels. Where in Sigmar-Rat's green earth are we gonna get camels without being festooned?" Anglermaw muttered in his reverie.

A cracking bang on the entrance doorframe broke Anglermaw from his stupor. He slipped from his chair and fell flat and the floor like a frightened child, and he took cover from the sudden influx of light that burned his ruby retina. Mokte rose quickly from his seat and moved to observe the chafing mass of lamellar step through the now shattered arch. Twelve scmitar bearing guardsmen emerged from the sun's gaze like pious guardians. Each warrior was covered head to toe in a wreath of chain-linked mail that masked their copper-skinned bodies, some wore shawls that shrouded their faces, while others made no attempt to hide their sneers at the bordello's patrons, shouting various curses in their Arabian babble. Within seconds, the commotion within the hookah then came to a grinding halt.

The guardsmen all fall silent save for one. A barrel-chested fellow concealed by the wreaths of chain across his body, adorning a plume of vivid feathers atop his helmet, an obvious mark of status among the nameless band. He brandished his filigreed blade toward the gang as he shouted, his weapon swaying from each individual to the next. His warriors treaded closer with each sentence, each one flavoured by whoops and laughter from his men.

"What bloody hell is he saying?" Moaned Anglermaw as he rose back on his feet. The gang were now mere metres from the mail-clad figures, and the Sea-Rat was finger the holster his newest firearm -- a flintlock revolver he'd somehow managed to scavange off of the corpse of a slayer pirate. It was hardly anywhere near as powerful (or destructive) as the warplock, but it made a fine substitute.

"He says 'I am going to make the skin of the Rat and Lizard into keepsakes for my wives, the Elf can serve as my pleasure slave.'" A nearby patron shouted over with a chuckle -- one of the Estalians that Mokte had humbled, the bandit's accent was thicker than Magrittana cheese.

"Well translate this, I'd like to see him come and try." Mokte challenged as he brandished his segmented club-sword.

Fal was ready to reply before the clamor of voices and footsteps assaulted the room. The darkened den was lit up by a suddenly open door and the warm air of the outside wafted in with a warm wail. The clattering of metal boots and rattle of chainmail let Falderan know it was too late to respond. By the time scimitars were drawn to them he knew they couldn't run in their current position. He turned to face their new acquaintances. The language of Araby was something Fal was far from verse in. Only the most educated in the Empire would or could learn it. Fal picked up enough to get by but little to help him in terms of detailed muttering by the soldiers. Bits and pieces were picked up but little fed the details needed. It wasn't till the Estalian in the back translated that Fal had to calm himself from making a likely fatal leap to the leader with blade drawn. He could likely kill one or two after him but would surely fall to the resulting blades. That was a best case scenario.

The last time he was mistaken for such an Elven type was in a bathhouse in the Empire. Hidden beneath the water to his neck his more slender Elven face was all shown. Those that approached him were given a shocking surprise no more so than when he broken their noses against the floor and held their faces under the water to see that he wasn't the 'fair maiden' they had assumed. No matter how much he wanted to be above such acts of brutality he couldn't suppress his rage at times. Worse was the joy he got from them backing off before leaving. Little outbursts that he could hide for a while but certain things could trigger less than level headed responses. As Mokte responded Fal waved his hand past the Saurus's blade.
"Steady your weapon, Have some degree of restraint." Fal kept his voice low and glared at the Saurus matching his reptilian gaze. He waited for the next response from either these men or his Saurus ally. Though he hoped they would move before his scaled friend.

The Estalian did as was bidden, if only for his own amusement than any need to obey some overgrown reptile. As he did, the whoops of laughter soon turned into crude bellows and curses in a foreign tongue that made the Estalian give a slow whistle, the warriors brandishing their weapons in taunt of their foes. Unfortunately, it would appear that the guardsmen were more than impetuous to assert their authority. If they held any caution for their prey, it was concealed by the advantage of their numbers. Another squadron of guardsmen entered through the sunlit entrance, half a dozen in number and brandishing halbards as they move through the host and closed in around the trio's table.
Anglermaw watched the other patrons quickly begin to back off in response to the grunts of their invaders, those from the back asserted their station by tearing down the graphic tapestries hung around the lounge. He wondered whether the Arabians found the Dark Prince as abhorrent as the Empire-men did, or were the tapestries confiscated as loot to pawn at the bazaar.

Anglermaw squinted as a shrill hiss drowned out the baritone grunts across the lounge. A strange portly, minature figure meandered past the table, a bare chested halfling bound by a wreath of ringed piercings that glinted as his figure passed the exposed cracks of the bordello. He was accompanied by two dominatrices, themselves similarly covered by studs exposed across their skin like metal tears. The bald little man confronted the captain, squealing in that same exotic tongue. The back and forth arguement last two minutes, until he was cut down as he squared up to the guards, and the den's patrons murmered among themselves as the halfling's body fell to the sandstone floor with a metre long wound across his stomach. His retinue were apprehended like bandits, passed across the mail clad men until they were thrown to the back alley outside. It was lost upon both Anglermaw and Mokte as to whatever they were shouting about.

The captain clearly had had enough. The dying little man served as a distraction to justice. Anglermaw cocked his pistol as the powder keg reached an explosive point. No amount of diplomacy was going to get them out of this. He saw the captain gesture with a flick of his hand to four of the halberd bearers, they approached, weapons beared down onto their prey. Anglermaw aimed at his attacker, who was three metres away as Anglermaw pulled the trigger. The bang of ignited powder rang in his furred ears, and he was greeted to the sight of his enemy collapse with a neat round hole to where his perforated heart should have been as he fell to the ground dead.

Two masked goons meandered toward Mokte, halberds pronged forward like stakes upon a palisade. Mokte had none of it, the first attacker fell when he pulled the pole of the weapon away and slapped the little man in the direction of the hookah patrons, knocked out silly as he was pushed back into deluge. The second guard was perturbed as his comrade fell upon the sandstone, and Mokte punished his lapse of concentration by headbutting the masked man with such force that he was flung back toward his fellows, blood pooling down his cuirass, now stained by a shade of crimson, and a cheer resounded across the den as the patrons watched with glee at the fight.

The captain called others forth in his tongue, the den's patrons egging them on out of lairy contempt.

Once the Halfling's body dropped in a pool of his own ichor Fal moved his hand to his blade beneath his shawl. Keeping back and using the tablecloth to conceal the whereabouts of his arms as he sat, watching the guards he was ready. The boom of Anglermaw's weapon was the explosive start. His ears rang from the shot as a man flung backwards as his chainmail was shredded and made into shrapnel while a dark hole remained where his heart was. The body crashed into the carpet with a rattling thud as others jumped into action. Mokte swiftly dealt with two and as a third approached him Fal flung the half drunken bowls of coffee on the table at one. The man lowered his helmeted head to not be hit in the eyes and Fal took the moment. With the chaos erupting he was able to move out of slashing range and draw his blade. The man who Fal distracted felt the thin tip of Fal's rapier slash up his unguarded fingers. He helped in pain as the fingers on his left hand from ring to index came off. Fal silenced him with a stab in and upwards through the jaw sending him tumbling to the ground.

His blade dropping the man fell dead as a Halberd rushed Fal. A scimitar wielding soldier behind him for back up. Fal leapt back as the man thrust forward. The heavy blade was used with precision. This man had been trained with such a weapon and Fal needed to keep his distance. Without any armour he'd be cut like a knife through an apple. Parrying one blow as cheers erupted around and people ran Fal narrowly avoided tripping on a stool as he leapt over the counter to the bar, now abandoned. From the corner of his eye he noticed a group exit outside through a doorway behind a tarp. A creak giving away the door and flicker of light the tarp as he saw it flutter back down. At least he hoped that was the case. He came back to the battle just in time to dodge a Halberd which smashed into the side of a bottle smashing it. Fal quickly grabbed the neck of another bottle and threw it at the man as he pulled back. It hit his armour with a thud dazing him. Before Fal could act further the other man slashed for him with his scimitar.

In the dim light Fal nearly fell as be stumbled back. Parrying each blow before he was holding back the curved blade with his own. The other mans strength was above his own as Fal struggled and felt his arms flaring with pain. The man grinned with a crooked smile as made a desperate move. He punched with his left hand to hit the mans right arm and cause him to weaken his force. Fal slid down and went between his legs in a single motion. He elbowed up as he slid to hit the man in the groin. As he gasped for breath Fal grabbed the rim of his pants and pushed the man up, narrowly flipping him over the counter into the ground. The halberd however was no longer stunned and narrowly missed him as his shawl was hacked into. The blade tearing into it Fal threw it over his head and twirled it around the halberd tip. Thrusting to himself he pulled the weapon from the mans arm and throwing an empty bottle at him he felt his nose break as he stumbled back disarmed.
"To the back." He calls to Anglermaw and Mokte. Managing to fight off two of his attackers Fal leaps the counter, not wasting time to dispatch either. Though going by the stumbling scimitar wielder Fal thrusts him into the wall and grabs his weapon.

"C'mon, ya Dawi piece of scrap." Anglermaw hissed, in the middle of revolving the next slug of his handgun as a second scmitar bore down upon him, the weapon gripped two-handed by a large man at least six feet tall. The mail draped warrior brook no caution in his swing, Anglermaw's skittish nerves barely saving him from becoming a bisected lump of skaven guts. The guard stumbled forward from the force of his swing, a baritone voice grumbling beneath the shawl of chainmail. Anglermaw did not bother tackling his enemy, quite understanding that he would not win in a contest of strength. He fidgeted with the bores of his handgun in a panic, but his brute enemy was already out of his reverie, heaving his scmitar down once again upon his prey. Anglermaw flung himself to the side with a yelp, the coffee table collapsing into a shamble of rotten wood from the force of the swing. Anglermaw staggered back on his feet, tossing aside the splintered mass of wood away, but his attacker had already closed in with a killing blow. Or what would have been a killing blow, had the guard not suddenly froze where he stood, a plume of blood spurting from his crown as he crumbled to the ground dead.
The shattering of the table had caught Mokte's attention, rearing his head in the direction of his foe. His enemy was indeed well built, but he was a man-spawn, and the last rival of such a decadent brood had been touched by dark gods. This man was of no such get. Mokte swung his club-sword in the direction of the large man, cleaving his skull like a ruptured tomato. The crowd cheered them on, but the colourful death evoked a frenzied salad of arabian. The warriors were closing in upon him, Mokte began to feel sharp nicks upon his body as the halberd bearing watchmen pierced his scaly hide.

Seeing Falderan pull back, Anglermaw was more than willing to flee along with him, rather than 'heroically' resist arrest.
"Mokte!" He shouted over, and gestured to a silk drape that concealed the upper stairway of the bordello. He hoped the saurus would follow him, but he knew Mokte's tendency for bravado all too well, and were it not for his thick hide, he'd have been dead before the gang had even reached Al-Haikk. Sauruses were genetic freaks, their skins became denser with each generation of years, and like elves, they did not become demented nor senile as they aged. Thankfully, Mokte acquiesced this one time, the smashing of a nearby entrance by the other side of the lounge gave him little time to dawdle on his choice. Mokte smacked back a wall of halberds with his club-sword and the armed guards staggered back. The reinforcements were metres away from intercepting them before Anglermaw unleashed another bang of black powder. None of the men were hit, but they were startled for a half-second, enough time for a skittish rodent and his brute companion to make their escape.

The upper stairway of the bordello was a long corridor of velvet tinted shrouds that concealed the silhouettes of engaged couples suffused in a honey candle light. Armoured guards barked in gutteral tongues right behind the gang, a series of frightened whimpers and confused babble from the concealed rooms followed in their wake.
"Staircase! Right-right there I see!" Spat Anglermaw, pointing his clawed fingers to the small incline of steps that lead to what appeared to be a ceiling door. With the juddering rhythm of footfalls on their tail, there was hardly any time to guess what awaited them.

Seeing his compatriots fleeing up the stairs Fal took his chance out the back door as his most recent pair of attackers followed. His shoulder reared he rammed into the door and busted through it and the covering clothe with ease. The door was loosely closed so the additional force splintered a small hole in it as the Elf fumbled through the tarp. Spinning to through it back and blind his pursues for a portion of time the hot air of the outside world hit him with instant sweat and dry heat. His eyes winced and adjusted to the light before seeing a pile of barrels to his side. Nimble on his feet he moved around and pulled them down to block the doorway as he started running through enclosed alleyways. The pursuing guards quickly fell to the barrels and gave Fal the chance to pour out and escape sight.

Fal had no idea of his companions as he ran through crowded streets with sword raised. Men, women and children alike backed away as he approached. Blood splattered on his face and sword tip. After pushing through crowds and met with screams he managed to find an empty side street. Filled with nothing but a rotten barrel and a fleeing scorpion he sheathed his blade and took a moment to breath. Several shawled individuals looked down at him but quickly moved on with little fanfare. Fal wiped his hand down his face and looked at the sweat. In need of refreshment from his sprint in dry heat he he shook drops into his mouth and licked his lips. Looking up there was an easy ledge to grab about eight feet above him. Sandstone buildings with many scrapes and holes would let him up with ease. The sun not directly overhead gave him the chance. Springing off his right foot he kicked off from one wall to the other as he used his momentum and unnatural Elven agility. Flicking the tips of his boots onto small indents he got enough force to project himself up. Grasping the roof and pulling himself up. His chest heaving for a moment as he felt the hot sun hit him. He was fairly low down and saw the plethora of buildings around. Gazing about in the distance he saw the figures in the warm air that he could tell by bulk were Mokte and Anglermaw. With a deep breath he began making his way to them. A good hundred and twenty meters away if he leapt through streets from rooftop to rooftop. Assuming he didn't fall.

Anglermaw felt a sharp tug upon his collar, but that was the least of his worries as Mokte flung him over his shoulder like a pelt. It seemed a rehearsed movement, like the saurus had done it a few times over. He'd had. There was no way the Sea-Rat was going to stand up to a trio of frothing ginger slayer pirates with a chipped Swamptown machete. Anglermaw felt dizzy while Mokte crouched in his run, lending the Sea-Rat an iota of vision within the spinning miasma coating their way. Anglermaw felt a tang of panic nick at his chest as he knew without much intuition what Mokte was intending, their way forward blocked by a locked compartment door.

"Are you bloody serious?!" Anglermaw shouted over the din of angry voices and shimmering mail. As he saw Mokte bring his free shoulder to his front, his question had already been answered.
"Hold tight, Sunami." Mokte replied. Anglermaw could feed the scales of his bipedal steed tense in readiness, while his own whiskers prickled with a cold sweat. He gulped involuntarily, the sound drowned out in his throat over the barks and shouting.
"You're insane!" The Sea-Rat exclaimed as he clutched tight upon the ropey shawl.
"That makes the both of us." Mokte cordially offered, before finally thrusting himself into the woodwork. The Arabian whoopings were almost immediately exchanged into a frenzy of frantic heaving and braying, the guardsmen covered in patches of broken sandstone and splintered woodwork. The doorframe was no match for Mokte, but they had found a foe in that of the sun. Anglermaw shunned away the terrible light, but it was the heat that was overbearing, from the moment they stepped upon the bordello roof. Everything exposed to the uncomprimising eye above hurt to touch, all tortured by the oppressive heat. Not even Lustria had compared, and Mokte lay his bloodied arm by an exposed slab of sandstone while the sun drained him of his energy.

"Shade, Mokte!" Anglermaw hissed without any preamble. He had grown too far aquianted with Mokte to fear any sort of reproach, which he still did not share with Falderan. Even after months, the Sea-Rat knew very little of the Imperial cultured Elf.
Mokte grunted. "Shade leads back to the ground, we'll be chased like bandits."
"Or we wait up here and let them skin us alive." Anglermaw retorted, pointing his with his hand toward the bazaar, where every second establishment seemed to display a multitude of vibrant tarpings which shadowed the proprietors of trinket bearing stalls and shady wooden buildings.

Mokte oblidged, offering another incoherent grunt that displayed his reluctance.
"As I say, hold tight." He leaped across the next roof the moment the gutteral tongue of arabian penetrated his hearing. The unblinking sun mercifully was mercifully concealed with each passing of a tarp, bearing some abstract flowery pattern. The tarps had failed to concealed the two from the many eyes wandering the bazaar, however, and they pointed in horror as they cried 'Beastmen, horrible beastmen!' in a multitude of strange tongues. They would soon regroup with Falderan in due time.

Close to an hour had passed since the trio was split up in the brawl. Splitting across the city it was a miracle they were able to find each other as easily as they did. Ranald must have favored them this time. Though Falderan felt the god of luck may have been favoring them for longer than simply today. The hot sun barraged them with a dry heat that brought skin to a crackling, dry mess. It baked their bodies causing sweat to pour out and their mouths to dry. The three had met up on the rooftops and looked to one another to ponder what happened to them in the time since the split. The sounds of crying guards and shouting civilians got them moving. Managing to find a place to hide amongst a series of large crates in an area akin to a warehouse the group took a second to breath.

Fal wiped sweat from his brow and drank the drops back into his mouth. He knew the dangers of wasting water in such a climate. He looked to a chest heaving Mokte and Anglermaw.
"It would seem as if you two survived." He took the time to feel the cold stone behind his hand. A far cry and welcome feeling from the sun scorched stone beyond the shade. "I have a sneaking suspicion we aren't welcome here anymore." He says in a borderline joking manner. A smirk on his face.

For the duo, that hour before reaching the storehouse had been a gauntlet of evading rooftop arrows indiscriminately peppering at their shadows behind the bazaar tarpings that acted as their gossamer shields, as the entire foreign quarter had become alert with the news of rogue beastmen at large. For a brief time, even they had become separated, caught between a sandwich of elite cataphracts between the bazaar and an esplanade that lead down toward the docks. The surrounding alleyways had provided ample cover from the cavalry, concealing both the wayward Anglermaw and Mokte from the eye of the law and granting them shelter from the uncomprimising sun above.

The guards were well trained indeed, thorough in their tenacity as they gave chase, but they lacked the resilience of Mokte, whose endurance was far beyond that of any man shielded behind a lamellar coat as he smashed his would be captors aside, till even one of his size became concealed by the seedy gutters deep within the dense slums of Al-Haikk.
Anglermaw's escape was one born more out of quick wit rather than sheer stopping power. He had quickly hid himself under a wooden walkboard arched over a steep ditch. The hole was rank with the stench of human feces, but it was soon overpowered by the musk of victory, the parade his predators thundering over the ditch like an army on the move. He had managed to hide right under the noses of the Arabyans, like an Eshin assassin on the prowl for his prey, and he chittered smugly at his own gait while he crawled out of the scat-hole. The scents of his would be captors dissipated in the stuffy air.

Now he had to find the others.

For Anglermaw at least, the way forward was hardly as tense. He kept his trail close to the alleyways like a stray rat scavenging for stale quarry, often confronted by back alley opium addicts that regarded the ratman as little more than a profound figment of their minds. Anglermaw was fluent in Tilean, Estalian and Reikspiel, the tricks of his trade as former Claw-Captain when it came to negotiating the ransoms of foppish nobles and princes way out of their league. But he knew nothing of the exotic tongue of Araby. For each babble of words from the sheltering groups, he would reward them with a chittering hiss and a kindly "Piss off!"
Not long ago, they would have made for filling, if slightly bitter tasting morsels, but Anglermaw knew that he would have to keep up this change of heart if he wanted to retain his life, at least in the presence of his unlikely friends. He wiped the beading sweat from his muzzle and treaded forward without concern for the onlookers, caressing both his machete and gromril revolver in their pouches.

He rendevouzed with Mokte soon enough beside a block of abandonded structures, the latter was draped in a red ichor that Anglermaw could not tell was his own or that of the guards, but the ratman shrugged when he saw that Mokte seemed to care little for his injuries.
"You look like breeder waste." Anglermaw remarked with a whisper.
"They will heal if we make it out." Mokte replied with a grunt. "Are you followed?"
"No-nah, confused them like cow-bulls at an arena I did, yourself?"
"Take a wild guess, Ratman." Mokte said.

The approaching accapella of Arabian brought their conversation to a premature end. No word was exchanged as they climbed to and over the rooftop fence. A percussion of chainmail rattled below like metal dogs sniffing out a quarry.
As luck would have it, Falderan was also hiding here.

"You don't talk-say eh." Anglermaw whispered in response to Falderan wry joke. "Remember Sartosa, we'll have to steal a ship." He heard Mokte grumble dissonantly, but made no attempt to rebuke him. Even the honour bound Saurus was aware that they'd be flayed on the spot if the guards had them accosted.

"I know the gulf of Araby well, up until the river-way of Mortis. We can take one of the merchant boats, that way we don't starve to death on the way to this 'job' of yours."

Now Mokte spoke his disagreement. "I will not condone the threatening of innocent lives, Sunami-"
"By Sigmar-Rat, we 'aven't got a choice! We're dead meat here!" Anglermaw hissed in return.

The entire plan Anglermaw proposed was something Falderan was already considering. Though the idea of travelling across the fabled and cursed River Mortis was far from something he felt as ideal. It was the fastest and best option they had.
"Unfortunately that is the best plan we have. Originally my plan was for us to travel along the desert sands past Zandri. Such a trip would take several days to a week but would keep us out of sight from any shipping logs or those who may have put a bounty on us." His gaze turns to Mokte as he speaks. "Sadly your size would make an appropriate mount for the journey troublesome in already hard to navigate land. As such I had been looking into other means of travel." He pulls out a small folded piece or parchment.

A small rodent scurried up to Anglermaw, possibly sensing a sense of familiarity and sniffed him. It fled once the larger rats attention faintly turned to it. Squealing back to it's concealed hole. "If we can reach the docks before sunset we will have a guaranteed means of reaching past Zandri by sea. Will take us a day and a half. We can be there relatively safely as long as we remain undetected. Those waters tend to be held by raiding vessels but they mostly target things of value. The small craft I have obtained will be enough to sneak us through undetected. That should let us reach the River Mortis later that day and the rendezvous within a day of that. I assume you can hold your stomachs for roughly three to four days of sea travel?" The piece of parchment he opened contained a small written deed to a boat. A fishing vessel of small size by some rough measurements but able to provide decent speed without cargo. "Assuming our faces aren't being told about with a bounty we should be able to leave no questions asked. Though time isn't on our side." He says looking up to the sky. The sun was well past noon and creeping to the evening. Ever so slowly dusk would appear soon.

Anglermaw and Mokte listened in to Falderan's plan with varying levels of expression. Mokte would often nod in consessive agreement, while the Sea-Rat just shrugged, a smirk hidden beneath his furred beak. "Well, seems ya've got all this planned out, eh. Just what in Sigmar-Rat's name were ya doin' before we caught up with you in the-that scathole?" He jested with a chittering chuckle. "Dun't matter. What ever help-aids us from being skewered, that's what I think." He lay his wisping arm beside a sunbaked ledge upon the building, turning his head to survey the port. The lenient, arabic sea glistened with the reflection of the harsh sun. Even in the opposite direction, it was still an uncomprimising menace, white hot shards upon the surface penetrating the Sea-Rat's nocturnally accustomed retina. From what he could sift from his stunted vision, it was a hubbub of exotic wares flowing to and fro, unregulated by the sieve of Imperial law. For every five arabic vessels, he could spot one Tilean, one Brettonian, and unsurprisingly, a rudimentary dragonboat from the Northlands to the east pier -- the wooden, cheap pier, where the arabian rabble were at their most dense. Rat knew what ill-gotten goods they sold, not that anyone portside cared, for those who dealt in such gains would likely be long lost among the nest of crowds hungry for strange and expensive wares. Anglermaw had only seen such congested crowds within the swollen nest-cities of the Under-empire, legions of bipedal ants sweltering among the marble esplanade.

It gave Anglermaw a clear idea of their next step.

"Once we get to sea-port, we'll be lost among the folk." Anglermaw announced as he turned back toward the taller duo. "It'll be like navigating a maze for the storm-guard. We should be long gone by the time they figure anything out."
Mokte scoffed unhumourously, gesturing to himself. "I don't exactly blend in well, Sunami. If what you say about me is true, there will be havoc when the humans notice a beastman at large." The multi-species skulls hung upon his breast rattled their rictus grins like proponents in agreement.

Anglermaw could only shrug once again. "We'll figure summat out along the way... We always do with you..." He stuttered, eyeing his companions yet again, though more out of concern rather than out of fear. "No more murder-killin', though. I don't want our heads plastered across the Old World like we were the second commin' of that Ever-chosen-thing I've been readin' about."

The Red Saurus grumbled, "What a shame..." He muttered sarcastically, stroking the pommel of his club-sword in trepidation. Then he turned to face Falderan. "What route do you suggest we take to the port?" He asked.

Fal looked up the building they hid beside. Using the rigid sandstone holes he managed to, through some fancy footwork pull himself up. The sun scorched stone burnt his hands and left him shaking them as the red glow faded. Up on his elevated position he tried to take in the surrounding area and find their designated port. The chaos of people moving about was an apt distraction that kept his wandering eyes jotting to more interesting clumps. Though he was able to find the vessel he was described. A good seven hundred meters away if they could travel directly. However with a need for stealth and the vast twisting streets it could take them close to an hour to navigate to it safely. Shortly the glare of the sun bouncing off the ocean began to hinder Fal's vision. He winced and blinked before coming back down. Signs of sandy burns on his open face and hands.

"The path will be difficult. I feel going slowly through the alley ways would be best but time is starting to get away from us. If we move too slowly we'll miss our deadline. But too abruptly and we risk unwanted attention." Fal looked over what they had. Anglermaw could easily hide his tail enough and remain cloaked to hide his verminous features. He could sneak through relatively easily. Mokte was the problem. The Saurus was too big and oddly shaped to pass as a Human or even Ogre when cloaked. His tail was also far less flexible than Anglermaw's so hiding such a piece would be near impossible. Fal thought this through but found no easy solution. Looking up he saw the sun was passing over and approaching the late afternoon and soon evening. "We should move now. It won't be long before the evening sneaks in and we'll be on a strict, limited timer. Stick behind the storehouses for now and follow me. There's a dock to the East." With this the group began moving. Twisting and turning through the alley ways and avoiding the odd guard patrol. It took just over an hour and the sky began to fade from vibrant blue to a crimson orange.

Anglermaw squinted as his vision was ensnared by a gleaming sun beam, like a sword of divine matter penetrating deep into his retina. Getting accustomed to the daylight sky had been hard enough for his eyesight, which until late had been more suited to the nocturnal shroud of Spineport's soggy warrens. Araby was another monster entirely. He felt like an arrogant dwarf-thing, whom had challenged a demon to a contest just because he'd slain some fat orc. He cracked his furry arms in readiness of the trial to come, a concoction of anxiety and driven willpower swirling through his Skaven mind. Anglermaw was far from craven, but that did not mean that his instincts wouldn't manifest every so often. No matter how much Clan-Lords would vehemently deny, there was no such thing as a brave Skaven.


He observed Falderan leap from the storehouse, and into the shady depths of the foreign quarter once again, the metallic lapping of mail upon metal ringing in his mind like an endless percussion. The guards were gettting warmer in their pursuit.
"Well, that boat ain't gonna sail itself." He quipped to Mokte, before he too followed on. Anglermaw's leap into the abyss was hardly as graceful, but it was indeed swifter. Mokte's was neither, his was absolute, like a boulder cascading down it's inevitable approach. If he felt any trepidation for the accappella of Arabian babble behind him, his monstrous countenance did not display it.

Soon enough, all three of them were lost to the shadows, wraiths on the prowl, the sound of their footsteps hidden by the endless marching of foreign tourists, merchants, and wary guardsmen lost in their pursuit of two beastmen and their dark elven accomplice. This was where Anglermaw excelled, a smile of reminiscence creeping upon his furred beak, an ode to the old days, before the mutiny; before Nahwa had given him meaning beyond meanger piracy. He was no Eshin assassin, but every self-respecting clanrat knew how to hide under the nose of a man thing or two.

Or a hapless crowd of them.

He turned to his peers, his devious grin still contorted across his beak. "Watch this, this how we used to do in't good-old days. I'll meet you both on the other side."

Mokte didn't protest, even if he'd felt a slight inquisitive of Anglermaw's plan. He observed the Sea-Rat glare at the shifting mass of human bodies, travellers of various colours, seemingly lost on their way like machines without a purpose. Anglermaw crept, slowly but surely into the gaze of the sun, away from the storehouses that gave the three sanctuary. Within the blink of an eye, Anglermaw was gone, hidden amidst the crowd, grumbles and groans of confusion from the stumbling man-things marked his trail. He'd hidden himself in plain sight like a ghost. The terrible gaze above had given Anglermaw some cover as he ambled over across the wall of bumbling legs. Confusion reigned as fellow turned to fellow, babbling the same confrontation in a hundred different languages.

'Watch where you stumble, fool.'
'No, you bumped into me, blind idiot.'
'Base cur, do you know not who you speak to?'
'A low peasant in pantomime I dare presume.'
'I would have your head were this port in Lyonesse!'

Confusion soon turned into anger, anger into chaos. The mass of bodies soon swelled into a mass of violence. Mokte stood dumbfounded, he imagined the Sea-Rat cackling to his handiwork, crawling his way over to the port.

Snaking out of sight and threw alleyways the group were acting more like Skaven than Fal or Mokte would ever wish to admit to. Sneaking and weaving through the minimum amount of people as they kept an ear out for the guards pursuing them. Short of them making a spectacle it would take some means of magic to capture the three easily. At least that would be true if it wasn't for Mokte's size and brashness. Anyone who gave more than a tired, passing gaze could notice something odd about him. His height plus tail were surely not a regular sight in these lands. But as people chattered as they went by they kept moving without pause. Never giving too much chance for confrontation.

As Anglermaw gave his little announcement to the due Fal turned to inquire what he was on about. But as he turned he saw nothing but the flickering of the back of his cloak into the crowd.
"What's that rat up to?" He says under his breath and biting his lip. Behind them a group of people were looking over and talking. A set of men, one with a bow the other two with short swords at the ready were speaking with a pair of veiled women. "We should move." Fal says pulling off back on their way. Mokte would undoubtedly be following suit. They were barely a dozen meters ahead when the sounds of combat rang out. Screams and shouts in an array of languages, mostly arabic rang out as the sound of fist on flesh was heard. Fal recognized the sound of a brawl and it didn't take a Witch Hunter to determine it was Anglermaw's doing. Fal took advantage of the chaos as people began to ignore the two as they moved. More interested in the ever growing brawl heard several yards back.

Fal and Mokte found themselves reaching the port shortly after this little 'distraction'. The sun was creeping closer to the horizon and soon Mannslieb would rise to greet them. This dock was off to the side of the main port where large vessels docked and moved trade goods to and fro. Spotting the boat, a small four man fishing vessel designed for trips in reletively shallow water. It wouldn't survive across the great ocean or even to Sartosa but it could go how they need. It was a wooden vessel with a small are of storage beneath the wheel. Hidden below deck there was no room for one like Mokte or even Fal comfortably if they had anything. The top level contained a wheel, single dirty, white sail, a short wooden rail around the edge and a basic roof of simple wooden planks above the wheel. Quickly locating the owner of the boat he approached with his cloaked Saurus ally. The man looked at them cautiously. He was a native by the looks of his face with shoulder length hair that appeared frizzy and tainted by sea air. He wore a light tunic, boots and gloves. Beads of sweat trickled around his thick eyebrows. Fal pulled out the letter and showed the man. The thinning light of the sun provided enough to read it.

"May not carry much else with him." He said in decent Riekspiel. Only faltering with his accent.
"He'll be fine, now I trust this is kept quiet?" Fal glares down to him.
"Of course. You paid extra after all. Didn't you ask for three though?" He asked inspecting the numbers and seeing only two members.
"Our friend will be along shortly." Fal says as the sight of motion out from the corner of his eye catches his attention. Turning he could swear he saw something in an alley way. The man nods and backs away. Keeping an eye on Mokte. Noticing the tail and claws beneath the cloak he sweats nervously.
"Well I won't keep you." He says quickly making his exit. Fal made his way onto the boat and peered back at the direction of the city.
"Hurry up Anglermaw." He says under his breath as the boat rocks as he steps aboard.

His claws rapped upon the knotholes that lay laden across the bustling port, plugging his fingers within each dimunitive ditch while he scurried like his smaller cousins. Anglermaw cackled noiselessly, his scheme could not have gone better. In his wake lay a conundrum of confusion and chaos, as enraged strangers buried their fists into eachother in a flurry of accusation -- the furious shouting drowned out his prowl across the woodwork. The Sea-Rat passed by a census warehouse, a marbled structure by the sea, it's peach complexion baked under the sun, the golden trim above it's entrance glimmering with the sea's reflection. Government officials dallied by the flotilla of merchantmen like flies to a carcass, scribbled scrolls and quaint ornaments carried upon their heavily robed arms. Anglermaw had nothing to fear from them however, and he scurried in plain sight of them. The group of men froze with gasps hidden within their shrubbery beards, and Anglermaw chuckled as they waddled in their robes back to the census, whimpering their exotic babble. A retinue of halberdiers emerged thereafter, two or three men, but Anglermaw was too quick. The Ratman ambulated like a lynx on the hunt for it's kill, the sillhouettes of equally strange figures half-concealed on his horizon.

Anglermaw chuckled again as he regrouped with the gang, emerging behind a row of sailor shacks, half-terrifying the bystanders there with his sheer presence. The shattering of clay pots and the clinking of fallen trinkets marked his presence like a parade for ants. Mokte was heavily robed in a drape of linen that near concealed his entire form, like he'd been embalmed under a stained carpet. The sailors in front of Falderan's rented vessel glared at Anglermaw nervously, caressing the wooden hilt of their sheathed cutlasses hung loosely upon their pants. Unlike Mokte, the skaven was in no mood to pretend.

"Well, are we settin' off or not?!" Hissed Anglermaw impatiently, his attitude twisted by sleep-deprivation. "A've 'ad enough worrying about becoming a rug!"

As though on que, Mokte reared his head back toward the mob of confused market-goers, the fires of anger slowly doused by the approach of law. The Saurus' primal hearing had been tempered by the Lustrian jungle. Although the green hell concealed a many number of animals within it's labyrinthine confines, he could recognise the low growl of a savage cold one hunting for prey amidst a choir of howling monkeys dangling from their nests. From the tornado of articulated Arabian, he easily recognised the familiar, authorative grunts that emerged from the crowd. A squadron of lamellar clad hunters poured from the shroud of flesh, weapons bared as they charged across the wooden pier like soldiers into the breach, no longer were they under the pretense of simply apprehending these brigands.

"Ahhh, scat!" Anglermaw said, hardly an iota of emotion laced in his tone. He was now beginning to shake with frustration, swaying like a palsied animal.

Mokte clutched at the hilt of his club-sword, grinding his serrated fangs behind the hood of his rudimentary shawl. "Time to excuse ourselves from this filthy land." He hissed, turning to face the sailors.

The ruckus of screaming and breaking pots was hard to miss. Even with the rustling of waves beside him Fal detected Anglermaw on the approach. He looked over in the direction of the commotion and sure enough saw the less then stealthy creature emerge. He grimaced at the sight of Anglermaw not even trying to hide his form. The boat rocked as Anglermaw jumped on. The Skaven's weight not enough to be noticed but on such a small vessel any alteration would be felt. As the last ties were undone and Anglermaw's remark about leaving came in Fal glared at him.
"We shall be leaving momentarily. Now that you so graciously arrived." He rolled his eyes.

Mokte's raw took their attention as men were sent running. As the boat began to push off into the water Fal saw the growing force of guards coming from the alleys. An assortment of armoured men with blades and shields. Between ever two was an archer. They formed a line about a dozen wide for a total of four archers. Arrows were pulled from quivers and aimed. Fal bit his lip.
"Sigmar curse them." He mumbles. Pulling out a wooden pole located in the boats storage Fal pushed it against the dock to get them pushing off. "This is gonna get rough." He said in the time it took for their bows to be drawn taught.
"Fire." A man wearing a a red turban with a golden broach cried. The arrows were let loose. Each one aimed at one of them, two to Mokte. Fal made a leap to the side as his arrow slid past. Cutting his arm and drawing blood as the boat rotated on the shaking sea. He crawled and reached for the sail. Pulling on a rope to pull it free and flinging them side to side slowly. Mokte's size slowing their movement. Looking over he saw another series of arrows pulled. As this happened men began to spread out over the dock. Eager to capture the trio causing quiet the set of problems.