nysalogs | (closed)

It was only an hour now since the marketplace had erupted into chaos, summoning most of the guard into the thick of it in a search for the people responsible and to sort things out. The prison was not unprotected, but it was emptier than it had been. This would not have caused any great issue, but one of the prisoners was a refugee who had not only access to a private network, but newly granted strength courtesy of the Natha. He had been waiting for the right moment and the bomber had granted the perfect opportunity.

Outside the prison, at the designated meeting spot, two individuals were going to meet and provide the necessary distraction for Victarion's pending escape.

Theon isn’t a complete fool. Before arriving at the designated spot, he was wise enough to pocket the stone that marks him as a guard (and a person of honor—ironic), both to avoid his uncle’s questions and the suspicion of others. His face isn’t entirely unknown to his fellow guards, but the panic of the bomb offered him a veil of chaos to slip away beneath, largely unnoticed.

Once in place, he keeps watch, expecting his sister. He hasn’t heard from her, but remains acutely aware that Victarion is much like his lord father. He places far more trust in Asha than he does in Theon. Chances are that she knew their uncle was here this entire time. That wounds him deeper than it should, considering how little he truly cares for his uncle, and if his partner in crime doesn’t join him quickly, he thinks he may be tempted to leave Victarion to his fate.

That’s just how sore he really is.

The bomb interests Ramsay only insofar as it's an opportunity for him to try to gain favour in the eyes of the Olympian officials- but there's nothing to be done about it yet. He has no desire to help the injured, only to try to hunt down whoever's at fault.

When the Greyjoy captain calls on him for aid, that's a far more interesting plan to amuse himself with for the time being. He's only a few moments late to the designated meeting place, unsurprised when he sees the other man called in for the job is Reek.

"Victarion's a lucky man. If I thought him smart enough, I'd put the explosion on him as a diversion." His tone suggests there's no way that's possible.

Theon nearly jumps out of his skin. He expected no one but Asha. Where is Asha? Why would Victarion trust anyone else with this task, much less a Northerner? Balon had disparaged Theon horribly for placing so much trust in the Starks. Is this really so different?

He does his best to brush off the thought and makes no greeting. For all their agreements and the fragile trust they’ve formed, Theon is still made uneasy by Ramsay’s presence. His skin crawls, his stomach turns, and he very much would like to leave the entire task in the other man’s hands, but he won’t. Perhaps this is his opportunity to earn his uncle’s approval.

"He isn’t smart enough," he responds bluntly. They clearly both recognize that Victarion is not an intelligent man, but he truly lucked out. This explosion could not have come at a better time for him. "If you’ve exchanged three words with him, you know that much."

Theon cards a hand through his hair, doing his best to calm himself quickly. He’ll need it, if he’s to help with this task.

"He does require a diversion, though. I do not know what he has planned, but he said—" He sighs, hating that he needs to rely on someone else's intelligence. "He said you would know what manner of diversion to provide."

Because neither of the Greyjoy men are clever enough to come up with that. That’s Asha’s M.O., and she is currently unavailable.

Ramsay still hasn't established exactly what relationship the two Greyjoy men hold, and nothing in Theon's words gives it away either. No matter, it'll come out eventually.

"Captain Victarion Greyjoy holds Willem of the Riverlands in high esteem." He says conversationally, knowing it has nothing at all to do with the breakout that's planned. "He's offered the boy a place on his ship, when he gets one." There's laughter in his eyes, mocking the older man for his idiocy and gullibility. "Can't let my future Captain languish in prison, now, can I?"

"You haven’t even been to the Riverlands," he accuses, more wounded than he has any right to be. He can’t know where Ramsay has and hasn’t been, but he can only assume it’s another well-constructed lie--Ramsay has shown himself to be good with those, and as establish, Victarion is not an especially smart man. Most of all, it hurts to know that while his uncle would so quickly offer a stranger a place on his ship, when he cares so little for his own nephew.

"You know nothing of seafaring, nor of sailing," he continues impatiently. "And my uncle isn’t a Stark. You needn’t lie to him. He doesn’t care who you are."

Though, Asha might care, if anything she said was the truth.

Things had begun to settle the night after the explosion and wanted posters had spread around the city. Victarion had collected a number of them and begun his own hunt. He was less concerned about those that had planned the explosion and more about the traitors who had enabled it. Normally it might not concern him, but he had since learned that his niece had become sick with the illness. Given the number of brothers Victarion had lost to sickness, he did not like her chances. Any disease released in the city like this was not meant to be curable. Death was in the city.

After several inquiries in the red district and various taverns, he'd finally found a trail for at least one of the fugitives. It seemed that one individual was easier to find when the name 'Star Lord' was appended to their title. And now, Victarion was certain he'd cornered his prey. He could have announced his intent, but given his recent encounter with firearms, he was playing things more cautious. So as Peter Quill walked down a street in the evening, a large figure follows from behind. Being a fugitive himself (though less notorious at the moment), he is draped in a cloak and hood that covers the leather hauberk and chainmail underneath. He keeps his pace quick, ready for the moment to overtake his quarry.

Okay so he'll admit it, he might be starting to feel less than awesome (thanks, Rocket; sharing is caring). Every now and then Peter has to stop and force back the urge to cough, feeling it trying to shake its way out of his chest. The whole point about being ninja, keeping his head down like he used to when he got was running with the Ravagers and got his fool ass separated, was keeping dead quiet. Low profile.

Between the rattling coughs and the glimpse he gets of his wanted poster, Peter figures he could've done a better job keeping a low profile.

...And they even got his codename right. Hell.

Peter doesn't pick up on the guy tailing him. Not at first. Not when he's feeling like crap and he's trying to avoid well lit areas, where someone could see his face and figure out hey, it's that guy. That plus trying to scope out the area, searching for signs that John Watson's where he's supposed to be and Peter's more than distracted. He even give Victorian that window he'd been waiting for as he steps into an alley, dimly lit and smelling of garbage, as he hunches over, coughing, with his back to the guy blocking his way out.

Victarion steps into the mouth of the alley. It was in his nature to announce his presence, but he did not know what weapon that Peter might carry. He certainly saw no sword or spear, which was telling in itself. He postpones any boast or threat that might be issue and instead goes for the throat. While the man is bent, Victarion sweeps out a charred hand for a headlock. Only then does he speak, since it no longer matters if he succeeds or not. That moment of surprise is gone.

"Lord Star. Turncloak. You will join those you have sent to the grave."

He hasn't known anyone to die of the new plague yet, but he's seen sickness. The death toll is inevitable.

Peter goes rigid against Victorian, every muscle tensing as he stiffens and there's a sharp little hiss sucked between his teeth. Doesn't matter if the guy scrambled his codename when he's barely able to breathe and he figures a bounty hunter like this might or might not care if the bounty gets delivered alive. Some are hardcore douchebags about that.

He isn't willing to bank on this one being the Carebear type, either.

Victorian will find the hard twin barrels of a quadblaster pressed into his stomach, sneaking in from under Peter's elbow as he wheezes quietly.

"You snap my neck and I blow out all your internal organs," Peter almost never uses the dead man's switch setting. Usually he isn't up close like this, his breathing hiking as his heart feels like it wants to stampede right out of his chest.

Ahh, he recognizes that feeling. He feels the still faint wounds of bullet holes in his shoulder and legs ache with a now familiar pain. Men softer and weaker than this one had used those same weapons to put him down. He would sooner die than experience that again.

"Another coward with a gun. If this is how you wish to die, then I will follow you into hell to settle the score."

Peter almost has it in him to get offended at getting called a coward. Look, a gun might not be as hardcore as going at it with swords like Gamora, but it still takes skills and guts and he likes to think he can handle himself. Right now he's thinking he's exhausted, he's probably caught whatever Rocket got, and if this asshole wants a piece of him, then two can play that game. Wouldn't be the first time he defended himself the permanent way.

"Never said I was dying," Peter presses the quadblaster's barrels harder against the bounty hunter even he squirms and writhes, trying to get his elbow free so he can thrust it backward hard. It's that or he'll use that split second and snap his head back, trying to catch the bounty hunter in face with the back of his skull.

He takes the elbow to his ribs, but the effect is blunted by a shirt of mail and the leather hauberk covering it. Victarion winces, but his grasp does not loosen. Instead, the anger only seems to warm the burned hand at Peter's throat. The smell of porked flesh and sulfur taints the smoke that rises from the blackened flesh.

When he took those bullets before, they had buried themselves deep into the skin. The armor he was wearing might protect him from softer blows, but he had no illusions that it would dull a gun pressed against it. He did not fear death, but if Asha was soon to follow, then would his nephew know to even set his body at sea? It would be a cruel fate for any Ironborn to be buried so far from the sea.

"I will give you a chance. Tell me all you know of the people who created this plague bomb. Then we might yet both walk away still breathing."

Good news is he's still breathing. Peter counts his blessings even as he angrily wheezes in the bounty hunter's grip, hot, almost too hot, tight around his throat.

"It'd be easier to tell you if I didn't think you were two seconds away from choking me," Peter says, voice rasping at the edges as he wets his lips, eyes darting for anything he could use. Right now he's debating if he should just do what your usual Ravager would do and shoot the asshole, worry about the legal repercussions later.

Then again, he's already in deep shit. Murdering some guy in the open like this after he's already wanted and...yeah. Maybe he better hold off the trigger finger.

He only needed to squeeze. Even shot in the gut, he trusted in his own strength to finish the job. But all the same, he did not know how long he would survive after that. Few deaths were as certain or as gruesome as a gut wound like this would be. He cursed under his breath, realizing he'd been again undone by that accursed weapon.

"Lay down your weapon and I will release you. Elsewise we die together."

Peter's mouth opens as if he's about to argue against it when he remembers duh, he's got two quad blasters. He could ditch this one for a bit and still have some insurance in case things got real hairy with the guy. (That and cross his fingers he can keep the guy distracted, eye up front instead of drifting down). Pursing his lips, feeling his Adam's Apple as it bobs against the tight-as-all-hell grip wrapped around his neck, Peter does what he's told: the quad blaster gets dropped to the ground with a heavy thunk, skittering away as he gives it a little kick with his boot.

"There. Happy?" Peter shifts against Victorian, trying to turn his head like he wants to get a glimpse from his peripheral. "Your turn."

Victarion is tempted to finish the man off right then and there, but that wasn't why he was here. Besides, he was a man of his word if nothing else. He releases his hand from the man's throat though he does nothing to create any distance between the two of them. This will give Peter time to see that his left hand looks almost molten, with blackened skin with crackles of red between the broken skin. In his right hand is his axe.

"I know of your complicity." It was amazing a man that looked like Victarion even knew that word. "I care little for this city, but what you have done has poisoned my kin. I want to know why."

After having made his way free from the prison, Victarion has some business to take care of. Before he can do any of that, he must collect the armor he'd been neglecting to wear of late. It might not turn bullets, but it might well provide him with enough protection to turn a battle in his favor. Given the fugitives out there, he was expecting to find himself in more than a few scuffles. Which means after being absent from his home for nearly two weeks, he at last returns.

And as it so happens, it seems Stannis is home. Naturally, Victarion addresses the elephant in the room.

"Did you touch my things?"

Stannis had been contemplating what to do for some time about the situation at hand. It was not yet his battle, yet he did not feel comfortable sitting idly by. He had contacted the Simwe Institute, for their order had seemed like an honorable enough one, but he was still not yet sure what he could offer.

Perhaps it would come with time.

However, his thoughts are interrupted when one Victarion Greyjoy storms back into their shared quarters, rather unexpectedly. He had been of... doing gods knew what. It was not something that Stannis wished to concern himself with, so long as it did not break the laws of the land.

Surely, if he had, someone would have informed him of such a thing by now, would they not?

But as the other man speaks Stannis grinds his teeth, the familiar sound filling the small area.

"Do not take me for a thief or a fool. I would not disturb another man's belongings."

For, if nothing else, he did value the law incredibly highly.

If he could credit Stannis for anything, it was that the man could be trusted. He was inflexible, more so than even Victarion was. It was a useful thing to know that. There was nowhere else in this city that his property could be safer. If only he had kept his coin here as well.

"Even those of your enemy?" Even sharing the same home, they were still enemies. That distinction was important to recall as well. This was little more than a truce.

"It is well you did. I've need of my armor."

"Even if you are my enemy, I would not steal another man's belongings."

He knows enough of the Ironborn and their so-called "iron price" (Stannis would have another word for it: piracy) to understand where his concerns may be coming from. Be that as it may, Stannis held to his own code of morals, and even if he hadn't, the law was certainly clear on such matters.

"Are you planning on hunting for the traitors?"

He had not expected such a show of support to their hosts from Victarion Greyjoy, of all men. He had thought him to be a follower of his Drowned God. Even so, he does not trust the other man. For, just like Victarion, he considered their current situation is still a truce, nothing more and nothing less.

He nodded grimly even as he plodded over to the makeshift mount upon which his armor was hanging in the common room. The steel plate armor would unfortunately need to be left alone. In a city this big and even with his strength, Victarion could not wear it everywhere.

"I am. I care little for this conflict, but the poison has touched my niece. That cannot be forgiven."

Olympia could go to hell, for as little as it mattered to him. But when it came to kin, that was entirely a different thing. They may not be as close as the Starks, but blood mattered to them. Victarion cared more for Balon's children than he was like to tell anyone.

(closed)

theon + ramsay

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masa says to CONTINUE ON WITHOUT HIM because vic is just chillin in his cell

I HEAR AND OBEY

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peter quill

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stannis

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