The morning's downpour had turned the streets of Kirkwall into a sloppy, muddied mess, creating a slurping noise whenever the steel covered boot of the fleeing templar fell and met the ground. It was as though the very earth was beginning to grapple at him, conspiring to snare him in place. Worst of all, he thought, the wet foot prints left thick, obvious signs of his flight, leading his pursuers right to him.
There was precious little time for actual thoughts, however. Ser Josain's entire mind was consumed by the simplest of concepts. Flee. Find help. Danger. Close. For a moment, however, the young Templar felt his thoughts beginning to mold, distracting from his desperate run. He was impossibly far from the Gallows, leaving help virtually a world away. He cursed himself for his own impetuous sense of adventure, of taking matters into his own hands, but the young man had grown tired of the constant jabs and barbs of the old and the grizzled. Soft Hands, they would call him, which he supposed was not the worst insult that could have been leveled against the son of an aristocrat who had fled his military service, but with his past chasing him as doggedly as his pursuers the sight of what seemed to be an obvious blood mage was enough to spur him to action. Soft Hands was going to finally put some callouses on his palms, dragging an apostate screaming back to the Circle.
Like the temptress that she was the woman, girl more like, led him with the lightest step through the streets, further into Lowtown, spinning her crimson robes about like an Orlesian ballet dancer, tossing back the occasional taunting giggle. Ser Josain had gripped the hilt of his sword so deathly tight that he had felt his knuckles turn bright white, his heart pounding at the prospect of subduing his first apostate.
She had led him down an alley and he was there to set upon her. At the end of the shadowed path, however, her allies seemed to have had other plans, brandishing crude weapons, the most sophisticated being a simple shiv that appeared to have been crafted from what was once a bigger blade, rope serving as a handle. Even in spite of his polished plate armor, Josain knew the odds were not in his favor. There were at least seven of them, maybe more, he did not bother to get an accurate count, did not even bother to insure he was still gripping his sword, and only as he turned down the road disparagingly known as Mummer's Street did he realize he did not even have that weapon with him anymore.
Caught up in his thoughts as he was the templar suddenly found his own feet to be his worst enemy. No longer devoting the entirety of his energy to his careful steps Josain felt his ankle twist painfully, a thick, disgusting pop heralding his sudden fall and unceremonious crash into the mud, covering his polished armor and matting his hair.
Instinctively, Josain wrapped his arms about his head in a desperate attempt to protect it from the onslaught of crude weapons that would no doubt be coming. He tensed up, clenching his teeth, anticipating the fatal blows, wondering for a moment if the Maker would mercifully take him before the worst of the pain set in. When nothing immediately happened he dared to open his eyes, then roll about on his back. He lowered his arms from his head and immediately became aware of the burning pain in his ankle.
No one was there. Had they abandoned him? Given up the chase and fled with their apostate in tow? Ser Josain did not dare to hope, not yet.
Quiet footfalls in the mud snapped his attention across the way, where a young, red haired girl watched him curiously. She was as flea bitten as any of the other low born of Mummer's Street and there was a fascination in her eye as she sized the fallen knight up. She scratched at her scalp while she stared at him, but barely seemed to acknowledge that he was anything more than an object.
Ser Josain lifted a finger to his lips and made a soft "shh" sound, fearful that she would give him away. Without making a sound, the little girl simply shook her head, her silent gesture doing little to put the fallen templar at ease.
All at once her head suddenly jerked down the alley, her small doe eyes widening before she disappeared into a crevice so wholly that Josain found himself questioning if she had ever been there at all. Only a moment too late did he think to look at what had startled her and the sight of the approaching men caused a twisted sinkhole to form in his stomach.
He tried to crawl away, looking the part of a pathetic sow stuck in the mud as he did so, his effort doing little more than buying him inches.
"Come after our friend will you?" the nearest man, wielding the shiv, said, a glint of a golden tooth caught in the moon light. His lips sneered in a twisted glee at the violence his weapon promised.
"Let me go..." the Templar pleaded, hand falling over hand as he tried to crawl away.
"The templar wants us to let him go," the marauder laughed, looking back at his massing comrades. Josain looked between them, seeing only contemptuous stares eyeing him back, their hate only challenged by the joy they got from mocking him. There was no sight, however, of the red robed woman he had chased that started the entire calamity he found himself in. For a moment Josain found himself silently cursing the cowardice of the apostates. "I wonder, little templar," the man with the knife continued, squatting down and gesturing it at the templar, "how many apostates have you let go like little birds? Little birds that just wanted to spread their wings and be free."
A lifetime of cowardice began to catch up to Josain. All at once he didn't care about anything else, not his vows, not the Chantry, not the cold, angry look his father would have when he heard that Josain had abandoned another post. All he could think about was the pain of that knife piercing his belly, the life extinguishing from his own eyes and whatever darkness waited beyond that. Staring down the man that reeked of bourbon and body odor made Josain care about nothing at that moment except somehow staying alive.
"Please..." he started through trembling lips. "I've never even caught a mage...I..."
"Listen here," the knife holder barked, swinging it in circles in front of Ser Josain's face. "I'm gonna' stick you with this blood letter here, and I'm going to find out if it's true templar's bleed blue, savvy?"
Josain yelped and swung forward with his right arm, but the man's friends were on the templar just as quickly as he had mustered the strength, kicking, clubbing and beating with a reckless abandon. In the moment of that searing, jarring pain all Josain could see was white as he felt his precious warm blood sink into the wet roads of Kirkwall.