Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
"Seems like you weren't quite thorough enough. Don't rush on my account," Ronin mumbles with a lopsided smile, taking a swig of whiskey only to almost choke on it as the hand sneaks down the front of his pants. He grinds against the grip on him without being able to stop himself, slamming the bottle down and coughing at the burn that radiates throughout his chest and throat. "Careful with that," he scolds the whore in his lap, making it perfectly obvious as to what they are both up to.
And in this type of establishment, why on earth should Ronin feel uncomfortable or embarrassed? He gazes back to Cian, back to Molly (not that he knows that she's the owner of the establishment, of course), and offers them a grin. "If there's news, you reckon it can wait?"
'You sure?' The whore in his lap purrs. 'You don't seem like the type who likes it gentle." So saying she slides off of his lap, spinning between his legs that she might begin to undo his pants.
As Ronin's head lolls about, his deep blue stare meeting Cian's, the Eye just reaches into his pocket to procure for himself another cigarette, since the one he'd already lit has been taken. "Will you be long?" The Eye wonders, as if what's unfolding is nothing more than a game of checkers, or the Star offering advice on some matter or other. At this side, Molly flashes the bartender an unreadable look, and for a moment she vanishes into a backroom.
"Hang around me long enough and you'll learn I'm not a type at all," Ronin mumbles to the whore in his lap, letting out a breath of almost relief as she starts to unfasten his pants. He finishes the bottle of whiskey and plants down the empty, turning his attention entirely to the white-clad woman, even as Cian's question echoes over to him. "Longer than you were, but probably not ages," he replies simply, his hands already getting their fill of the curves on offer.
"Why, were we on a schedule?" he asks, already too distracted to really care about the answer. It's the Eye's fault if he thinks about it, bringing a man predisposed to vices and missing very regular and very mindblowing sex to a whorehouse.
"Okay." She readily agrees, giving him an appreciative shimmy of her tits before getting to work on his pants.
Whatever the Eye's expression, whatever the looks exchanged between him and Molly are, Ronin won't be privy to, given his current focus. With buckles and buttons unfastened, the white whore releases Ronin's erection, stifling a gasp as she does so. How many cocks of all shapes, sizes, and colours she must-see, and yet still her expression and the flush of colour on her cheeks seems entirely genuine. Biting the inside of her lip and moaning a sound of excited arousal, she begins to slowly lower herself between his legs, blinking large dark eyes up at him. "Okay mister not a type." She pouts, her lips blushing over the head of his cock. "I guess I'll just have to make it up as I go."
No sooner do her perfect heart-shaped lips swallow the head of his cock, tongue swirling in dizzying circles, do two perfect breasts appear to Ronin's right, on the bar. There, stripped away of most of what she was wearing before, is the bartender. Now there is only tight leather crisscrossing over her body, leaving exposed a whiff of black hair between her thighs, and her breasts. Gravity-defying in their perfection, she lolls her head to the side, all dark hair and red lipstick. "Touch me," She pleas, reaching for one of Ronin's hands that she might place it on one of her nipples.
As the whore between his legs works his cock expertly, the bartender lets her knees fall open, back arched on the bar, touching herself in tandem with the work being done next to her.
Making it up as you go is the flavour of Ronin's whole life since being dropped into Caido, and it's evident from the sound of pleasure that rises in the back of his throat that the whore does a good job of it. She pleads and he complies, with touches that relish every blush and every moan drawn in their wake, and given that he's necked back however much was in the bottle of whiskey, it's no wonder that the world blurs into feeling and colour and the feel of silken locks between his fingers.
If you asked Ronin how long it's been, he'd probably not be able to tell you, honestly. Time passes, and the Star is left tousled and with his shirt buttoned up not entirely correctly, leaning against the bar nursing a very sensible glass of water. Probably. Might be gin - Ronin doesn't know and he doesn't care. He's not even sure how many people might have walked in and out of Mother Molly's to find Safrin's chosen fucking on the counter of a bar. And he doesn't care about that either.
'Well," A hand claps approvingly on Ronin's shoulder. The bartender, having tossed on a shawl after her hands worked magic on herself, is now cleaning the bar. The whore who had swallowed Ronin's cock as well as everything else, was currently reaching for her shoes to strap them back on. "-my business is done. How about yours?" He asks politely as if Ronin's antics were every bit as warranted as the Eye's.
In a room not for the Star's eyes, his name appears on a board, along with the name of the whore, and the bartender, as well as symbols that Ronin wouldn't be able to decipher. But Molly can. Cian too. Favours, not unlike in Torchline, are the currency of the Silk Houses. Only unlike in Torchline, here that currency can be traded to others.
Oblivious to the debt he's just accrued, to the fingers working his strings like a puppet's, Ronin knocks back the water and slides it back across the bar to the tender, giving her a friendly nod and slipping off the barstool. "Something like that," he mutters, and there's something missing in the charm and amicability of his earlier interactions. As is always the case, with ecstasy comes the plummet back down to reality. A reality which is short one alchemist cosied up under the Star's arm.
Water or no water, Ronin is still undoubtedly buzzed, and he turns up his collar to head out of the whorehouse "What were you saying earlier, about sparring?" he inquires, a flat blue gaze flicking down the street towards where they'd been walking earlier. "Unless you're tired of our walk?" His smile isn't entirely pleasant.
"Not at all. In fact, I think I think you're in a better state of mind for it. Loosened up and a bit angry." There is a cigarette between Cian's lips, but he smiles around it as the women of the whorehouse sing their goodbyes to the men as they leave.
Out in the streets, the air has cooled somewhat despite the warm lights pulsating from Molly's. Unlike Ronin, Cian has not turned up his collar. He still seems perfectly balanced and perfectly at ease. Down the cobblestones, they go until they come to a rather oppressive and intimidating looking building. "You must either bet, or fight, if you enter." The Eye warns, his hand resting on an ornate brass knocker. "There must be stakes for everyone, not just those in the ring." He explains calmly.
"You're quite a manipulative man," Ronin remarks, as if it's something everyday. "I'm a little drunk, but I see you, Eye. We're not done." But he is loosened up, and he is a bit angry, and there's the prospect of a fight to look forward to. "What kind of stakes?" He wants to know, patting his pockets as if to demonstrate that he has nothing to bet with, unfortunately. So it looks like he'll be entering the ring. Oh no. "And what is it you'll be doing? Betting, or fighting?"
Part of him wonders what it will be like to fight Cian in the ring. The rest of him wonders if the other man would place a bet on him instead. Thoughts of blindfolds and tying his hands behind his back have vanished with the alcohol flowing in his veins, of course. Ronin is all but looking for an excuse now.
"Not at all." Cian replies, verbally waiving away Ronin's slight. "I'm merely a planner. When you play chess, you don't consider your opponent manipulative for putting the pieces where they need to go." He adds, the smoke from his cigar smelling of wood and winter.
"The stakes can be as high or low as you want, depending on how much you bet." Now that Ronin knows the terms, the Eye pulls open the door. Within are the sounds of flesh being slammed against flesh, though in a decidedly different way from Molly's.
The Eye disappears inside, leaving it up to Ronin to decide for himself what to do. Should the Star enter, he'll find a dingy and dimly lit foyer. Candles burn in holders covered with wax, and everywhere are dust and cobwebs. There is a single door leading down a rickety flight of stairs that twist down several stories. At the bottom is another door, and when opened, it seemingly leads to another world: there are rings upon rings upon rings, and around all of them are screaming and cheering fans. The lighting here is just as dim, focused only on the fighters in each ring, disguising the onlookers who crowd around. Intentionally, you think.
"I don't play chess," Ronin says quietly. "More of a cards and dice man, myself." Which speaks perfectly to the way the two of them are, in retrospect. Cian knocks, opens the door, and disappears inside. It doesn't take the Star long to follow, either; Ronin is practically burning up with it, the itch to move and to fight becoming more and more overwhelming with every stunning reminder that this place is not Torchline. Or the Greatwood. Or the Wishing Wagon.
By the time he makes it downstairs, it's already apparent that he's not intending to watch on the sidelines. Ronin has a word with a small, quiet man who definitely looks like the brains of the operation (what with him not being drunk or cheering or fighting), quickly determining which member of this little fight club brings in the highest bets. So of course he matches it, pulling his shirt over his head and meandering to the ring to await his turn.
Within, through the throngs of screaming, cheering spectators, the Star spies a large slab of meat with a face that he's pretty sure is supposed to be his opponent. The man makes him look like a string in comparison. Excellent.
Unable to take with him his many rings (wedding included), Ronin is given a ticket with which he might collect his things after. Which, given how small he looked comparitively, didn't seem likely.
The wet slap of skin and blood fills the air, as do howls of pain and hocked-spit that often accompanies a particularly gritty victory. Indeed the man Ronin sees will be his competition. Neckless, so large are the muscles of his shoulder, his skin boasts the buldges and bumps from numerous broken bones and poor-attempts at healing. "M'fam'ly needs this." He hisses through several missing teeth and a tongue which seems to have been bitten off at some point. "Won't g'easy." He warns, though surprisingly does sound a bit bad about it. Should Ronin look around, he'll see blood-thirst mixed with desperation, for both those in the ring and those around it.
Not everyone is here for the thrill of the fight. Some, are here purely to survive.
There is no bell to indicate the start of the fight, just the parting of the crowd and one body being dragged limply out of the ring.
"Us's turn." The giant of a man grunts as he wanders into the ring with an unsurprising familiarity.
Ronin raises his eyebrows as he spots the spittle and blood fly, as Neckless grunts at him to give him a taste of what's to come. "My family are dead or too far away to see. Got nothing to lose," he replies with just as much of an apology, though it's made through a tonge heavy with whiskey. Ducking into the ring, theres something richly alive about it, and no tugging on moral heartstrings is going to stop Ronin from the kind of physical activity that won't be matched by sex.
Still, he's starting to get the hang of this Stormbreak game, at least if the hungry eyes of the crowd are anything to go by. "Tell you what," he says to Neckless. "If you win, I owe you a favour. If I win, I give all my favours to you. How's that sound?" The bell rings at that point, though, and he doesn't really get a chance to listen out for the response, because he's already throwing himself in for the fight.
Neckless has never heard such a deal before, and if it's meant as a tactic to stun his presumably slow mind, it works. Still, his body has been made for working at the mill, and fighting. It doesn't need much input from his mind at this point. Besides, his entire family needs him to win this fight.
His movements are predictably slow, but the punch he packs, when it lands, is devastating. Or at least it is to regular opponents. With tunnel vision as narrow as any predator, Neckless swings and punches, aiming for Ronin's ears and his shortribs, hoping to take down his smaller counterpart in just a few blows.
