The account of Ioan Cochran

[Me4]

“Brutal?” Samson repeated skeptically, his tone as disheartening as the stride he liberally took down the streets of the bustling port town. The informant, who first uttered the word to Samson, struggled to maintain the pace set by the man as the throng of poorly coordinated, criminal-looking armed men marched behind them, following their lead. He hesitated, taking the time to wet his seemingly suddenly parched mouth.
“Brutal, sir.” he stammered eventually. Samson offered a glare and seemingly unspoken, a notion was concluded by the informant that his answer did not satisfy – such was evident from his reaction. “Flayed, sir.” he added hesitantly. “According to nearly every person we’ve questioned the half-orc has gut-wrenching scars across his torso, arms, even his face.”
Samson stopped in his tracks, the rest of the unit behind him eventually halting behind him as well, his trimmed moustache twitching a moment yet the rest of his demeanor remaining stoic. His beady, glassy eyes darted to Milo, the informant, and significantly narrowed. Samson needed not speak, for Milo recognized the gestures immediately and spoke up again. “Blind in one eye, as a result. It also broke open one of his cheeks, and his upper and lower lip. Apparently the skin across his face is shifted and scarred as one would expect, the skin whitened where he was apparently stitched back together as well as from the initial scarring. Frankly, sir, I can imagine that the half-breed could still speak. Surly the wound to his mouth would have caused some sort of,” he hesitated to find the appropriate word, “disability.”
Samson grunted his disapproval, and resumed his quickened pace with the rest following smartly behind. “I’ll believe it when I see it. This brigand better be floating face down in the harbor before the sun reaches the far of the horizon, do you hear me?”

Down at the very harbor Samson and his gang of miscreants and cutthroats were marching to, the crew of a particularly inconspicuous looking ship hastened to finish stocking the hold. They carried barrel, crate and other craft as vigorously as they could find the footing. Standing far from their crew and ship a single man and a half-orc stood at the base of the docks, looking outward to the town.
The man, seemingly dwarfed by the half-orc beside him, stood with his hands in the pockets of his knee-length leather coat. A flail hung over his shoulder, the head of which rested against his back, and wide-brimmed hat resting over his shoulder-length red curls, he pivoted on the heels of his boots to face the broad half-orc. His sharp, blue eyes narrowed and his jaw slid to the side as he let out overstated growl of thought. The half-orc, previously preoccupied with eyeing passersby with his naturally grim scowl, lifted a brown curiously at the audible antics of the man beside him. He shifted his gaze to him, leveling his two different eyes on him attentively. His face as requiem of former blatant injury – From his brow to the length of his exposed neck stretched a network of scars, bending twisting and blurred into each other with the evident passing of time – both his top and bottom lip had clearly been torn and reset poorly when they healed - one eye was blue, the other milky white and assumedly sustained from the same injury that carved his face into permanently grim expression. The orc’s head was covered with a plain bandana, both his ears littered with piercing. His attire was plain and clearly tailored for his hulking form, slacks of humble cloth and a long-sleeved, free-flowing shirt covered by a worn, leather vest.
The red-haired man took a moment to acknowledge the half-orc’s features, and needed to blink his way back into concentration, abruptly clearing his throat to speak. “No matter how many times I’ll see that mug, I swear on my mother’s grave I’ve never seen the hide of a lawman as uglier.” He nodded at his own words to emphasize some clearly ambivalent notion of observation. The orc’s brow curved inwards into a frown, and he showed no interest in response. Regardless of his demeanor, he did reply. “I thought I was your mother, Gal.” he retorted gutturally.
Gal smirked and rocked on his heels. “You should be calling me Captain, you half-bred bastard.”
“I’ll stop calling you Gal when you start acting like a captain, Gal.”
The two indulged each others dubious laughs and the vocal silence resumed. A brief time did pass when all that could be heard of the surrounding ambience was the perpetual bustling of the port street before them, and the colorful language of the crew behind them. The half-orc squinted and glanced to the assorted people crossing before them. “The hells are we waiting for, anyway?” he asked in a naturally condescending tone. “It’s not like you to meet folk this way,” he added, “in public.”
Gal remained silent for the moment, seemingly making all effort to avoid eye contact with the orc. “A stubborn contact, that’s all. Wouldn’t meet with me any other way. Do you have a problem with that?” he added condescendingly, shifting his beady gaze to the contorted face of the half-orc. The orc returned the gaze, folding his arms across his chest in the silence that fell before them. After a moment, he responded accordingly.
“No.”

“Twelve men!” Samson cried out, violently pushing an unsuspecting bystander out of his way. “Twelve of my bloody men under the sword of that half-breed and no one, no one who is in my bloody employ can kill this beast?” He stopped abruptly, to which the swarm of armed thugs behind him came to a halt as well, and he turned on his heel to face them, pointing accusingly at Milo. “I have over four hundred men.” The volume of his voice was controlled yet his tone remained threatening. “So tell me why this bastard has managed to stay out from under my nose for so long, Milo. Tell me why I’m marching down to the bloody docks to deal with this piker myself.” Milo opened his mouth to speak, but subsided when Samson continued his monologue. “I’ll bloody tell you why, Milo! Because every hooplehead behind me here couldn’t stand on their own to bloody feet if I didn’t show them how to stand up!”
His hastened marching resumed. Milo struggled to return to the side of the irritated man. “The half-orc just doesn’t stick out, that’s all, sir.” He offered. “Consider that his name is Ioan Cochran. Typically half-orcs don’t carry common names, sir. Sure his demeanour is undisputable, but his trade is different from your own interests, after all.” He stammered.
Another halt proceeded impeccably. Samson, his brown knitted in a familiar frown, turned to face Milo once more. He opened his mouth to evidently spout an array of colourful language but hesitated, swallowing his words and taking a few sharp breathes through his nose. He turned to the men linger behind him, shifting his irritated gaze over them. “Shiv this man, I need a new informant!” he shouted, turning on his heel and continuing his march.

Ioan, with his feet remaining firmly on the dock, facing the street, twisted his torso and neck to glance behind him. The crew had finished, and had all clambered aboard the battered sea vessel. The dock was now near empty, only a few of the locals attending to their business. With a worried look upon his disgruntled features, he returned his attention to the bustling street. The two stood in the silence each others company provided, neither looking at the other. Eventually, there seemed to be a disturbance further down the road, attracting the attention of them both. At first a muddy mass of activity flooded into their collected perception. It slowly grew definition, and they could clearly make out the assorted blur to be what appeared to be a battalion of criminal scum – led by a single man. The people in the streets parted like schools of fish to avoid the decent of the mob.
Soon the details of the man leading the party because apparent to their squinting eyes - He was impeccably well dressed in what appeared to resemble a grey, pinstripe suit. His black, oiled hair was combed back over his head and he had a long, thin moustache. He drew closer with the band of thugs close behind, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze morbidly set on the two before him.

Samson halted about fifty paces in front of them, pivoting to face his men. He appeared to utter something to his men, clearly inaudible to the two standing on the docks, and returned to his former position. He resumed his pace, now casual – none followed and instead stood casually, in the respected throng, and looked on.
Samson’s gaze drifted lazily from Gal to the grim exterior of Ioan, offering an unimpressed look. Ioan folded his burly arms across his chest and glanced to Gal, smirking. “Looks like he’s caught a bad case of the clap, eh?” he bellowed in his orcish growl. Gal returned the remark with a gesture of a nervous smile. This worried Ioan, evidently from the frown on his brow. The common, meaningly banter they evidently always shared when meeting any contact was suddenly being shied away from. Narrowing his mismatched eyes, Ioan’s gaze resumed its previous target as it stopped before the two.
Samson dropped his hands in his pockets. “Not the prettiest offspring from Featherdale, are you?” he offered sarcastically. Ioan only smirked distantly, seemingly still thoughtful over Gal’s sudden tension. Samson turned his attention to the captain. “Hope the day has been productive, Captain. I’d hate to hear ill-word spread of my little town.”
“Mayor now, are you?” Gal retorted snidely, though visibly shaken.
“Come on, Captain, you know well that I need not be mayor to own it.”
“What’s this about?” Ioan interjected.
Samson turned his derogatory gaze back to the half-orc. “I’m here to settle some business, as a matter of fact.”
“And what business would that be, then?”
Samson’s expression flattened considerably. “Well I don’t like the sight of you either, half-breed. But I’ll indulge you nevertheless. Twelve of my men have died at the hands of some savage half-orc with a face that looks like it’s seen the underside of a wagon for a few good years.” He inclined his head though maintained his degrading expression and tone of voice. “I haven’t heard of any other half-orcs that fit the bill. So it looks like my business is you.”
Ioan’s gaze unwavering, he unfolded his arms and set them on his hips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well best reconsider yourself there, blighter. I can put a gash right down your middle before you can get back to your men.” Ioan’s tone was naturally dark and deep, being of orcish stock, yet he seemed to speak a matter-of-factly.
Samson did not bother responding, only lifted his eyebrows slightly, showing no sign of worry and maintaining his confidence. Ioan shifted his gaze in enough time to glimpse at the reddened face of Gal, only a blurred sight sufficing as the captains flail connected with the side of Ioan’s head. A sickening crack sounded as the head of the flail glanced off of his temple. He reeled a moment, remaining upright though his head and torso twisted with the weight of the assault, and then promptly collapsed. The thugs waiting behind Samson slowly approached to witness the spectacle. Gal, red and clearly flustered, struggled to control his erratic breath, his shoulders slumped and the head of his flail resting against the wooden dock. Ioan lay with his form somewhat twisted, shuddering with a blank look in his eyes. Crimson pooled around his head and dripped down through the planks of wood, staining the ocean beneath them. He made a few grabs for nothing with his tense hands before his arms and fingers seized up. The dark, red blood flowing freely from his head spilled over the side of the dock. As the crowd of thugs curiously descended one by one, Samson approached the half-orc casually, passing Gal with no regard whatsoever. With a brief examination of the Ioan, he pressed the flat of his polished boot against his side, and shoved the half-orc with a grunt. Once over the side of the dock Ioan’s form slide freely into the water.
With his unimpressed gaze, Samson turned to Gal. Gal remained silent and quivering. He bit his lip to keep his breath from growing out of control again, and he watched Samson with worry. Samson merely nodded his satisfaction, and turned from Gal. The wall of thugs gathered parted for their employer, and as Samson took stride to head off he uttered merely two words - “Shiv him.”

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Account name: Battleships
Charecter name: Ioan Cochran

[Celandine]

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