Drunken Intercession

The dog stayed latched to the drunk’s forearm like it meant to stay—teeth buried, body braced low, the leash trailing on the cobbles. Lantern light slicked its wet coat to a shine. The drunk swayed, half-turned toward the tavern door, face twisted with pain and outrage.

He lifted his free fist and slammed it down into the dog’s head.

Again—heavier, faster, uglier blows.

The dog’s skull snapped sideways. Its legs skidded on wet stone. The jaws did not open. Its eyes went glassy for a beat, then blinked hard, searching for focus, as if shaking could drive the fog out of its head.

Ṛṣi moved.

He took in the pieces as he closed: the drunk’s wobble, the dog’s locked jaw, the doorway behind them, the wet stone underfoot.

He did not reach toward the dog’s teeth. He stepped in on the leash side—outside the dog’s jawline—and caught the collar from behind, fingers finding leather under wet fur, where the neck was strong and the mouth could not swing.

Then he yanked—up and sideways.

Hard and fast—stealing the dog’s leverage before it could brace. The body rose a handspan; the drunk’s arm came with it, twisted at an angle the jaw couldn’t keep. The bite broke—wet, reluctant.

The dog hit the cobbles yelping, gagging once. Its paws scrabbled on the slick stone. It shook hard, confused, then backed off in a tight arc, hackles up, head low.

The drunk lurched forward from the sudden release, arm swinging uselessly, weight pitching forward, suddenly unanchored.

Ṛṣi was already there.

He drove in low—shoulder into the drunk’s lower chest, using the stumble like a lever. Breath blasted out of the drunk. His knees dipped. Stubborn mass kept him upright for a heartbeat longer—then not.

Ṛṣi’s hand caught the drunk’s wrist and rotated it into a lock. Not a yank. A steer.

He hauled the drunk backward into the street—away from the door. His feet stayed wide on the rain-slick stone, hips turned, weight low. The drunk fought, but it came out clumsy—pulling against angles he couldn’t read.

The patron flashed at the edge of his vision, retreating into the tavern. Ṛṣi did not follow. He kept the drunk moving. Kept space open. Kept the doorway from becoming a trap.

The patron reappeared with a crossbow coming up, rain beading on the arms. He hunted a shot and found none—only Ṛṣi and the drunk tangled too close, too fast, too human for a clean line.

The bowstring drew back—and a sharp screech sliced down from above. A clear warning.

Maeril’s familiar—the hawk—dropped low over the raised crossbow, wings beating once across the lanternlight, cutting straight through the weapon’s line.

Ṛṣi heard it. No time.

He pulled the drunk aside and dropped his own weight low, using the lock, his hip, and a planted leg to drive him down onto the cobbles—fast enough that the drunk hit before he could brace.

The crossbow string snapped dry.

The bolt hissed through the space they’d occupied a heartbeat ago and slammed into a nearby wall with a heavy thunk. Wet splinters jumped.

The crossbow’s string still quivered.

Behind Ṛṣi, the drunk scrabbled, trying to get up. Wet hands found nothing but slick stone and rage. One boot got under him.

Ṛṣi kept hold of the back of his coat—just enough to deny balance without turning it into punishment. The drunk flailed: wild fists, backward kicks, heels thrown back without aim. Nothing landed clean. Ṛṣi stayed just out of range, body angled, breath even, letting the storm of limbs spend itself.

Then—no warning, no wind-up—he stepped in.

A hard, straight punch into ribs, driven through leather and bone.

Air burst out of the drunk in a harsh bark. His posture folded. His feet tangled. He stumbled into the wall and slid down it, one hand smearing rain across stone before he sank toward the ground.

Ṛṣi released him carefully—careful even now.

Across the lane, the patron raised the crossbow again, hands shaking with anger and fear.

Ṛṣi turned and went—direct and fast—on an angle.

Before the patron could ready the crossbow, Ṛṣi drove all his weight into the patron and slammed him back into the inn’s doorframe. Wood cracked. The patron’s breath popped out. His boots skidded on wet stone; his head clipped the frame—enough to rattle him and take his balance.

The crossbow slipped from his hands and clattered to the cobbles, skidding end over end into the doorway, out of reach.

Ṛṣi kept the patron there, forearm across his chest, weight set. Not crushing. Not kind. Decisive.

“Stop,” he ordered.

The patron pushed back once—more reflex than will—then the fight ran out of him. His eyes blinked too fast. His throat worked.

Ṛṣi held his gaze until the shaking eased, until the man’s posture sagged into something that couldn’t lift a weapon.

Then he released pressure and stepped back.

“Please,” he said—flat, purposeful. “Let me help this wounded man. I’ll take him off the street.”

A beat. Rain ticked on wood and iron.

The patron stayed braced in the doorway, blinking, swallowing hard.

Ṛṣi turned only when the weapon stayed down and the man’s shoulders sank, and moved toward the drunk on the stones.

Rain kept ticking—steady, small—flattening the street’s sounds into a damp hush. Lanternlight smeared in puddles as Ṛṣi took the drunk by shoulder and belt and pulled him upright, just enough to move.

No speech. No explanation. He took the weight and went.

The drunk sagged into him with dead heaviness—sour breath, wet wool, damp leather. The bitten forearm hung wrong at his side, wrapped only in rain and shock for now, the air around it sharp with blood-salt. Each step tugged a quiet answer from Ṛṣi’s own bruises, a reminder written under his ribs and along his forearms. He did not change pace for it. He chose streets he knew, straight lines where lanterns were already coming on and the docks’ smell began to rise.

Lantern Hall’s light showed ahead like relief and obligation wearing the same face. He felt it in his chest before he reached the threshold.

Inside, the common room held its usual warmth: worn wood, soot in the grain, low light that never fully chased the corners away. A few tables. A few chairs. The steady quiet of a place that kept taking in what the city threw out.

Elisa was at the altar—Lantern Hall’s spiritual anchor, the one who mended what words could reach when wounds were deeper than flesh. Still. Hands set. A small flame’s glow held to her face and left everything else in gentle shadow.

She lifted her gaze only enough to register him and the limp body at his side. Her eyes held him a beat longer than the wounded man, and something in her face softened—small, controlled—like she’d been braced for him not to come back at all. Ṛṣi felt her tension release.

Ṛṣi guided the drunk through as if he’d done it a hundred nights in a row. He checked the small room kept for the poor and wounded. Four bunks. All taken. Breath and sleep already rationed there, bodies wrapped in the Hall’s thin mercy.

He did not argue with it. He did not waste time wishing for more.

He brought the drunk back out and lowered him to the common room floor where he could be seen and managed. A bedroll went down quick. Blankets over it, then over the drunk—arranged to keep him from rolling, to keep the injured arm from being trapped beneath his bulk. The man muttered once, thick with drink, then sank into heavy breathing.

Adequate. Contained. Safe enough to get through the night.

Ṛṣi cleared space the way his hands always did—without treating it as important, because it was necessary. Chairs scraped back. A table corner opened. A lantern drawn closer and angled down, its light made functional. He went to the supplies nook that was his by habit more than ownership and opened it with the familiar economy of someone who replenished what he used.

Clean cloth first. Wraps. A small blade and scissors. A stopper-bottle of cleansing spirits. A jar of salve. More bandage rolls than he liked to see disappear in a week. He set them in a strict order—not ritual, just fatigue-proofing, so his tired hands could not reach wrong.

Then he knelt and inspected the drunk’s forearm.

The coat’s thick leather had blunted the worst, leaving tooth marks that were deep but not down to bone. Still, the wound was angry—ragged edges, darkened by rain-filth, swelling already gathering under skin. It would hurt worse by morning. It would tempt infection the way street wounds always did.

He laid a folded cloth under the wounded arm and positioned it so the drunk’s weight wouldn’t drag at it. The drunk breathed hard, mouth open, lost in drink.

Ṛṣi cut away clothing cleanly, avoiding any pull across the bite. The blade moved with competence. He exposed the wound fully, then poured the cleansing spirits and flushed it, slow and thorough, lifting grit and rain-dirt out in a thin, stinging wash.

The drunk twitched, a half-wake reflex. A low sound scraped up his throat.

Ṛṣi did not rush. He steadied the arm with one hand and worked with the other, keeping pressure where it mattered, letting the reflex pass without turning it into a struggle. He flushed again until the runoff ran clean enough to trust. Then he dabbed—not rubbed—and laid salve over the torn skin in a thin protective layer: enough to seal, enough to discourage rot, not so much it went slick.

Bandage came next. Firm tension. Even tension. He wrapped to hold without stealing blood, watching skin color and swelling as he went. Layer one supported the forearm and elbow properly, locking the joint into something the drunk’s unconscious thrashing couldn’t easily undo. Layer two bound the arm across the drunk’s chest—functional sling-wrap, snug and unglamorous, built to stop the drunken flail that would tear the work open before morning.

The drunk twitched again, then settled. His breathing thickened, then smoothed into a dull rhythm. Ṛṣi finished the last turn of cloth, tucked the end, pressed once to confirm it would hold.

Only then did he let his shoulders drop a fraction.

He put the room back in order: wraps re-stowed, jars re-corked, tools wiped and returned to their places. He turned the lantern’s flame down. He checked the drunk once more—bandage secure, sling binding seated, blanket placed to keep the wrapped arm from slipping free. The man was alive. Contained. No longer one more body the street could steal.

Ṛṣi stood, and the day finally reached him. Fatigue wasn’t drama. It was weight in the joints. Ache in the ribs. A faint tremor that wanted to start and didn’t—held back by habit.

He did the last small caretaker sweep—doors, corners, the common room’s quiet—then went to his small room as if it were another duty.

He lay on the plank bed, pulled blanket and fur up, and let his hands go still at his sides. For a moment he took one measured breath—in, out—and kept it plain.

Finally.

It’s been a long two days.

Tomorrow: a cold plunge, to clear my mind and reset my body. Then breathing. Stretching. Training.

I’ll be myself again.

He closed his eyes and let the Hall settle around him.