Desperado

[Oliver]

Ash 46th 4618.

Oliver had left Eric to reconvene back with his team, based on some ancient artificing technology back at Levarin, Rallion. Yet, Oliver had another assignment which involved staking out another local Dranoch cell within the badlands. It became evident that after smiting so many, he started to wonder if they would just keep growing and growing due to the infectious nature of the blight. He was travelling using Eric's chariot that he procured from him; such a kind gesture, although a foolish one if the Griscian originator did anything reckless.

He wouldn't right?

Even he wasn't sure. Here he was again, Rustbucket; the place he met Eric. The feeling was odd about the place as he opened the door, everyone's eyes on him as if he was out of place from the scene. The man watched as he took a few glances at the patrons who were at the bar. Some were Entente, but some were also Badlanders. The anarchistic folk that ran the Badlands within a few miles. Perhaps he should've listened to Eric and not gone, but it would be a complete failure of his responsibility if he didn't at least try to intervene.

He took a seat at the dark corner, where the eyes would begin to stare at him constantly, like he was a threat. The pugnacious glares and aggressive gestures made Oliver nervous. What had he got to be nervous about? He hadn't done anything wrong, just came in and sat down at a stool, minding his own business. Of course, the badlanders wouldn't think of it like that. They were paranoid on turf wars and spies within the area, especially since there were local gangs running various parts of the area.

Slam.

A fist came down on the table as he was surrounded by members of a possible local gang "Haven't seen you around here before..." He said, gruffly in a low throaty tone, bass-like in quality.

"I'm just passing..." He said politely, his voice appeared to be glass cut "What does it look like to you?"

The gang members snickered as Oliver glared back at them, knowing that there may be some kind of trouble brewing "We'll be watching you..." The leader said as they left him alone for a moment, before he sighed rolling his eyes as he began to survey the area around the place, looking for various signs and symptoms of particular blights, particularly Dranochism. It had to be noticeable amongst some people who were infected.

A waitress came over to Oliver's table and smiled until he interrupted her about to ask the same question of customer service again "Just a scotch will do, thank you..." She was confused by his assertiveness and yet chose to laugh it off "Alright... I guess some people know what they want already..."

Assertive was Oliver, but he was also direct and stoic in his demeanour, much more than he had before he had started this journey in his life.

[Thomas]

While he was not well-acquainted with the Badlands, it was safe to say Thomas was not a fan. It seemed to combine the downsides of Radenor (lack of customers, lack of coin, lack of central authorities to keep banditry in check) with the downsides of Daravin (magic everywhere, viciousness bred into the populace as a survival mechanism) with none of the upsides of either. Still, though, he had a credible treasure map, and presumably where the X marked the spot was something worth digging up. He'd even bought a shovel, and a pick, in case he needed them. He normally preferred to convince people to part with their treasures rather than finding them on his own, but he could adapt as the situation called for it, and he needed a break from Lorien anyhow.

It had either been this or pay a lot of money to go to Kisei and have no certain prospects when he got there. It had seemed an easy enough decision.

He'd dressed down, but made no attempt to blend in with the badlanders. Sometimes, it was better to be marked as an outsider than to try (and fail) to pass as a native. It was more honest, at least.

Some people took that a bit too far, in his estimation. He watched as a very upright man tutted at the staff and the scoundrels who made the Rust Bucket their home base. He had a Griscian accent, a proper posh one, at that. While the more skittish impulses within him said maybe it would be best to get a move on, he hadn't received his drink yet, and it was the hottest part of the day. He knew better than to try to have his horses haul his wagon through the sand with the sun this high in the sky.

So instead, he watched the man with some curiosity. Some rich idiot here on a joyride, no doubt, but at least he was nice to look at.

[Oliver]

Anarchy had always been around in the badlands, particularly when it came to the many gangs that rose here, including the Pyrerazers, the Iron Moon and the infamous Bloodbreakers. He knew of the dangers, but that does not mean he was well acquainted for the badlands. He was far from it, but yet his survivalist instinct from his past experiences had taught him a lot valuable lessons, including the expectations of the worst possible scenario. This was how Oliver survived as he was far risen by experience rather than bureaucracy and politics and yet he was in a realm where all it was deemed as a survival element to the elite of Daravin's culture.

His eyes would linger towards the handsome male, staring at him from the distance but what caught his eye was the man behind him. The red glint in his eye, it was obvious that he was looking for prey in this very bar and yet it seemed so easy for the man to drag an innocent person away deeper into the anarchistic territories of the badlands. Oliver narrowed his eyes for a moment as his stare would seem like it was fixated the man who he thought was a Dranoch; it would look as though Oliver was giving Thomas the evil eye, but this was not the case. He was more focused on the man behind him who appeared to be hungry for flesh and souls.

He side-eyed the bartender for a moment, before looking around until his eye had caught a badlander "What the fuck are you staring at, pretty boy." He would redirect his case nervously "Oh nothing I just caught..." The man walked over and slammed his body weight on the table, Oliver was slightly shaken, but it appeared he had a calm facial demeanour for a moment as he looked the man in the eyes "What the fuck is a Grisician pretty boy like you doing here, you're not one of those people who experiment on our kind, are ya?"

"No, but I think you would probably want your head examining, perhaps a lobotomy here and there, maybe a few screws" He spoke calmly, before pointing his gun at him "In fact, I've got an even better idea, why don't you fuck off to a nice place called the Dead Realm" He cocked the trigger of his rifle and shot the man, which appeared to spark chaos; his body slumped backwards to the fall. The Dranoch quickly exposed himself as the smell of blood was enough to linger an attack to the rest of the patrons. The creature was an stage one botchling, which would mean that Oliver has set off his psychological need to sate it's perpetual hunger. It was enough for vampiric creature to become enraged with hunger that it's hungry eyes were laid on the bartender. The creature ensheathed it's extremely sharp claws and teeth, before letting out a guttural growl and charging towards him, claiming him as the first victim to be feasted on.

Oliver would watch as the whole bar appeared to be in chaos as the Dranoch would be ready to pounce on it's second victim who was warning of it's presence "Dranoch!" They shouted "It's the blood feasting demon! They will eat our-" The man's pleading became a merciful cry for help, before being muffled by the cruel and harsh gnawing of flesh. The Dranoch's eyes was now on Thomas as he continued his meal, staring at him with malice and gluttonous intent.

"Your next... I usually save the best till last..." He would lick his lips as Oliver couldn't identify why a Dranoch would save the boy till last and yet, he was so oblivious to the Sigilic Pyromancer in that very corner. Oliver would try to shoot the Dranoch in the back of the head, but his gun would click.

Fuck, no ammunition.

He would growl and attack Oliver, as they appear to wrestle, each time the Dranoch would continue to bite and lunge until Oliver eventually broke free from the Dranoch's grasp "I would appreciate something sharp, preferably used for decapitating someone?" Would he throw him an axe or another weapon, or will Oliver have to rely on his own wits?