Three days. Three days since it had awoken, here, in this vile and overpopulated city. Though a small number of those it had encountered had been friendly, even helpful, the overwhelming majority were far less so.
A trio of clothless had broken apart from the rivers of native people and tailed it down a side alley, and before it had the chance to take in what was happening, it was cornered. The largest of the three took its scarf in their disgusting, greedy hands, and leered at the trapped Rythulian.
“You’re wearin’ the wrong kinda rags to be walkin’ around these parts.” They tugged its scarf, and it stumbled, prompting laughter from the onlookers. It bristled with barely contained fury. “Why don’tcha hand–who the fuck…?”
Another voice piped up from the mouth of the alley, and a second later, one of its aggressors was downed with what appeared to be a metal disc to the face. They crashed back into a dumpster and slumped to the floor, barely conscious. A bark erupted from the leader: “Kill the fuckin’ bastard!”
That was all they were spared the chance to say. As the other darted towards Ramsay, a homemade shank clutched in their hand, the first felt a shadow flit across their back before they were being swarmed by the irate Traveler.
Its wings spread and glowing a piercing white, it kicked and struck with its legs, throwing the clothless into the wall and then against the asphalt. They curled into a ball and wrapped their arms around their head, screeching in panicked surprise as the Rythulian stomped on their face.
With a delighted guffaw, Ramsay rejoins the fray. He hadn’t expected the expensive quilt to fight with him! That really spices things up. A dazzling and exciting as it was--focus, focus!
His feet shuffle as he goads on another with gestures.
Starting with a sharp whistle, “Come butt heads with me, buddy! C’mon!”
Broken from their fear and awe-struck stare, the remaining thug growls. They didn’t have the moment to decide--help their leader or attack Ramsay--either seemed disadvantageous. Ramsay swung the wooden sword just inches from their eyes. A poke here and there.
The smile on his face narrowed his eyes. Frustrate the other, and it’ll be easy.
A swing to the left--Ramsay dodges. With every clumsy toss of fists Ramsay weaved through them.
“Am I annoying you yet?” he chuckles.
Swing, miss, trip to the concrete.
“Oh, you are just horrible, pal, awful. Below average. Puh-lease.”
A little too goading there, Ramsay. A headbutt up the chin sends him back a bit.