-Z E K E .. H O C H I A N-

{Nickname(s)}

Just Zeke. Maybe Hoch.

{Age}

Twenty five

{Gender}

Male

{Birthday}

November 6th

{Sexuality}

Unsure. He’s never really looked at men like that.

{Voice}

Soft, low and honeyed, whimsical. Like a sorrowful tale spoken with a fanciful tongue.

{Appearance}

Facial structure angular, alike to a diamond, he has high cheekbones, prominent just beneath sunken eyes. Eyes which brew decisively like the calmest cyclone. A pale gray pigment with hints of bronze just faintly peppered beside the pupil, overthrown by the dainty pale streaks of silver when cast in sunlight. Eyes that are narrowed and upturned with onyx lashes that elusively spill over his sight; wispy in length. –Like a dark ring; contrasted with the small peeks of fair, exposed flesh. Beneath such slender optics lie the evidence of permanent exhaust; gleaned pigmentation of small eyebags.

Zeke’s nose is of a grecian structure, evenly sloped besides its slight detour upon his facial configuration. Crooked and marginally down turned at the end, pointed with the lack of a bulbous finish and paired with an oval contour concerning his nasal passageways. With vaguely hollowed cheeks and a strict jawline, he’s consistently clean shaven, although his sideburns remain prominent, dark until mistily faded at his earlobe. Zeke's hair is moderately sable; an inky black with the pleasant pattern of curls.

Improper ringlets, but soft ticks and curves that make it appear buoyant. His hair is riotous and thick, stylized like a tapering mullet. It's full at the front and yet thins handsomely at the back of his nape, the sides faded considerably like elfin smoke on a screen. He has squared ears, part of his right lobe concerningly absent, unaccounted for with the jagged flesh left as remains. His skin is a slightly warm porcelain, lips fuller at the bottom, slender at the top; heavy lower lips with a basic peach tone, vaguely scarred. It's a singular scar, reaching just above his mouth and furling delicately past his top lip.

The last of his distinctive markings would be the quaint beauty mark just beneath his left eye, a petite curvature which fairly compliments the stark ashen of his irises. Concerning his dental properties, Zeke possesses slightly longer front teeth, pointier canines which at times can finely enhance the quality of his bold, tight smiles. His smiles, his expressions, all appear soft; sincere. Like fog on a dry branch. His eyebrows are straight, thick at the front where the concave of his nose just begins. The tail ceases into an attenuate arch, a gentle prick; faded just enough to exude a simple touch of innocence and novelty.

Equipped with the measurements of 6’3 regarding height, Zeke naturally has longer limbs. His pecs are just barely protuberant, his chest moderately peppered with cow-licks of body hair. Further down is where the most of his athletic mass appears visually. Cutting abs and a vague view of protruding ribs just below his bosom. His biceps are “slender” per say. Barely large enough so as to compete in a show of quality. Forearms slim and yet connected to square palms and long fingers; thick ridges of veins swarming his knuckles, Zeke's hands could be his greatest weapon. His sparse abdominal hairs which tread well past his v-line might as well be mentioned too, and probably the factor of his thickened thighs with well harbored strength.

{Attributes}

|-violent |-sweet |-flirtatious |-musing |-jokingly coy |-sly |-scheming |-teasing |-wicked |-idiotic |-threatening |-jerk |-jealous |-short/blunt |-oddly patient. |-cocky |-cheeky

{Personality}

Sweetly dangerous. That alone could be an accurate depiction of Zeke Hochian. Suspiciously kind, compassionate. All the while a serrated blade would be twirled elegantly against the throat. He’s superficial, curiously aggressive, faintly violent. And how can one be only half cruel? Well, while being inquisitive does have its perks, it's a trait that entangles Zeke with his “victims” more than he’d often like. Despite his toying, deserting nature, Hoch develops facile, easy bonds, numerous in quantity with varying attachments. Opportunistic. That's the sort of predator he is. What is one to do with all his pertinent scope after all?

A favorable manner in which he mostly behaves would be his bashful, coquettish conduct, teasingly displaying his questionable etiquette upon the most stiff of faces. Purposefully, he’ll target one's discomfort, transforming himself into the newest damsel, one that would preferably need some rescuing. Coaxing others to pity him would be the least shameless thing he could do, something Zeke rather enjoys; similar to that of a hobby. An odd one, but something he favors nonetheless. He’s curt, skipping to points, fast-forwarding to the good stuff. With that said, Zeke is quite insulting, and yet polite. It's a charming propriety, isn’t it?

Zeke is bold, vampish. He’s an active man in the trend of courtship. Though lust would be the mighty least of his desires; exploiting those starved of simple affections would be his fancied department. He’s a crafty character, though his idiocy is far from a mere substitution, rather something that's a concrete segment of himself and makes its cold appearance daily. From morning to night, he can never be taught how to read. Jealousy, yes. Zeke is a jealous creature, although very few witness his saccharine wrath; a small smile with ominous, damning eyes.

{Likes}

>Being a pest.| How can one not turn pesky on a good sunny morning.

>Bribes.|One can’t be too good.

>Trading.| “I’ll trade this baby for that carrot”

>Riots.|Almost self-explanatory.

>Pain.|Heheheh..

{Dislikes}

>Disobedience.|Who would honestly like this?

>Backstabbing.| “It’s only funny when I do it.”

>Loans.|Imagine almost dying, rejoicing that you're alive, and then remembering that you’re in debt.

>Children.|They die too quickly.

>Overexertion.| “No.”

{Affiliations}

TBA

{Significant other}

Estine >A spoiled brat of nobility whom he pays a visit or two every other weekend. Lets just say, he doesn’t worry too much about his funds.

{Other}.

Zeke wears both gold and silver bands on his fingers. None of which have jewels. Only simple engravings, or none at all.

{Theme Song(s)}

1st Song

2nd Song

3rd Song

Residents of wealth, those of valid society, buzzed beneath his feet. It was very subtle. But it could still be felt, the moneyed chortles of the unsuspecting. Jadedly palming a silver knob, on and on the toilet flushed, ripped remnants of tissue and anything else that could fit down the ceramic neck, gurgling down the pipe. Admittedly, one would think the man inside had stomach troubles. Although not far from the truth, the only troubles Hoch possessed were those of the mind. Steady and yet quick to madness. Standing from his lazy crouch on the glossed tile, Zeke ruffled a hand over his onyx patterned vest, eyeing the clogged pot stagnantly. It wasn’t until the knocking of a fist that he’d drift towards the door, blinking boredly at two pools of firm brown eyes below.

His locks dripped fancily down his nape, forearms propped against either side of the wooden door frame. His form was slackened, relaxed. “I think it's about time you retire for the night, young man.” At this, Zeke smiled, letting his arms slip gently to his sides. “It's all yours.” Stepping to the right, Hoch watched the ghost of shock that enveloped the elders face, grey gaze calmly inspecting the sheer disarray of the mens room. Half heartedly ripped wallpaper, cracked toiletries along the rim of the sink, a toilet choked with things it's not meant to be choked with. When the aged man gyrated and began a cautious walk towards the shadow drunk stairwell, instinctively, Hoch planted a hand on his shoulder.

“I can only advise that you keep your filthy hands to yourself, young man.” The stranger had gritted, recoiling from his touch before descending down into the classy peals of laughter below. Shelving a hand into his wooly pocket, Zeke slowly closed the door shut, veiling his curious plight for the next unfortunate soul. Time had passed accordingly. Despite his aimless wreck in the mens room, he hadn’t lost track of his schedule. As he padded down the carved steps, Hoch daintily brushed at his liquid stained fingertips with a handkerchief, his inky locks feathering his clenched jaw as a result. The music peeved him; rippling elegantly from wall to wall, out of sync with the conversing gloats of luxury.

He only observed. For a moment. He stood quietly until his ashen vision locked onto a tall physique, clad in fine brown trousers and a weighted coat, retreating from the liquor sanctuary and into the biting outdoors. Conspicuously, Zeke followed, adjusting his silver collar with an inclined head. A petitely cloaked woman just short of his stature bumbled coyly before him, stroking a coil of bright blonde hair behind her ear. She attempted to speak, softly pinching the fold of his sleeve, but a hand crashed abruptly onto her face, slamming her back against the boarded wall just short of the corner she had rounded. “Excuse me.” Zeke smiled sinisterly, for his eyes had never left the front doors he had been trying to reach.

“Ow-, Sir!?? How dare you!?” Her cry muffled; casually, Hoch would retract his hand, ignoring the rosy stained lipstick on his palm. He’d playfully place an index finger against his mouth, finally turning towards the attractive damsel still collecting her bearings against the boards. Caging her against the wall with his arms on either side of her head, Zeke would speak ever so softly, tilting his lips towards the cup of her ear. “Shut your filthy mouth or I’ll kill you.” He’d leave her by her lonesome, vibrating with terror. And as he returned his gaze back towards the doors, concurrently, his steely smile would fall.

Striding forward until the shawl of nightfall enshrouded his figure, immediately, the dead spell of a cigar would penetrate his sinuses, attracting his narrowed attention. Smoothly, Zeke drew a small blade from his waistband, shrugging off his thick cape and beginning a brisk walk of purpose. There, in the dead of night, he locked an arm around the man's throat, pressing the sharp apex of his knife against his victim's back. “Lord Ekleson. If you could kindly direct me to your carriage, well- I won’t carve my blade into your back.” And yet before the frightened man could so much as croak a feeble response, a clenched lantern from afar had blazed a path of light in their direction, providing a flitting view for witnessing eyes.

“Shit.”

Shoving his target away, Zeke dodged back inside, letting the honeyed warmth of the preened alehouse sleeve his chilled skin. The barking security raced after him in pursuit, the elder man from before watching the chase with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. Really? Over a bathroom? This is what happens when you leave loose ends, huh? Hoch leapt over bar stools and table tops, throwing any furniture large enough on the mahogany panels of floor in his wake. Normally bystanders would flee of fright or station themselves further away from such a spectacle, but not this one. Well, a drunkard to his right.

Before Hoch could reach the stairwell and then later, his escape, a thick bottle had crashed onto his head, halting his agility. “...Ah..fuck..” It wasn’t until Zeke had involuntarily slumped languidly to the floor that a bellowing voice would drawl, peering over his body with a hiccup. “Did I get him!? I….I got ham rite?” His drunken slurs would fall on deaf ears, for the heaving guards had already woven through the crashed wood and appliances and began a slow but steady walk through the disrupted tavern with Zeke’s nearly unconscious body in tow; dragging him carelessly as if he were a dirty doll.

There suddenly came raised tones of alarm and the rapid thuds of boots, incoherent speech and curses. When Hoch felt his body inattentively crash on horse drawn pavement, he fully lost it, blacking out in the loud, terror-filled screeches of night. And it wasn’t until he could feel himself jostling down a road that he came to, blinking rapidly at his new environment. …He was in a box. No, a wagon. In an attempt to feel if the barred windows were brittle or not, he felt his left hand get yanked back, the cool but tight restraints on his wrist. Blinking, he turned to his side, expecting to have been locked to the boards or shackled to the ceiling. But no…eh? A woman? He was shackled to a woman??

Huh?

Dancing shadows flickered across the decorative wall paper. Men and women danced to a slow quiet tune. Strings of conversation flowed like a melody. For a moment it was surreal. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that this was her life.

That moment was short lived.

A cloaked man came crashing through the crowd. Barreling over tables, throwing bar stools, trying to get away. But from what?

Lyra’s eyes darted to the direction he came from. Out on the lawn Lord Ekleson stood with a ghost white face, and a hand gripping the front of his shirt. Attendants and guards rushed to his aid. The old man could only point inside towards the running man.

What the hell.

Her eyes found the cloaked man again just as a large, thick, glass bottle came crashing down on the back of his head. The bottle shattered and the man stumbled forwards. He fought for consciousness but his body betrayed him going limp. He hit the floor with a thud.

Anger and hilarity, polar opposite emotions bubbled up. From the look on the lords face, that man just tried to kill her target. Her target. A part of her seethed.

He looked so confident in his plan of escape. Only to be taken out by a fat old drunkard. A laugh threatened to escape. He got what he deserved. When the guards came to pick up the mans unconscious body Lyra turned, hiding her face from view. The daft princock completely messed up her plan. She racked her brain for a solution, a new plan, when realization hit her like a bomb. Literally.

An explosion tore up the ground in the yard. Shit. Lyra flinched. She groaned and her palm came up to hit her forehead. Men and women scrambled out of the way. Screams and chaos erupted. Pieces of the Lord and others lay scattered in the yard.

Things were falling out of place like dominos, one after the other.

When I find who lit that wick, I'll wring their neck.

Idiots, every one of them. The plan was ruined. You couldn’t hold a man for ransom if he was dead. Bringing her thumb and forefinger to her lips Lyra blew out a shrill loud whistle. From the shadows of the exposed rafters two men dropped down. From head to toe they were clad in black, guns drawn in hand.

“Let's go.” Her words were taut.

Her two shadows followed close behind as they ran through the open doorway. Glass crunched under their feet.

“Stop! Halt!” Shouts came from behind.

Of course they were pegged as the ones who shot the cannon. Not only did they look the part, but only crazy people run towards a sene like that. Glancing over her shoulder, half a dozen guards began to run after them.

“To the cliff,” She said just loud enough for her comrades to hear.

Gun fire erupted.

The long pale blue skirt she wore tangled in her legs as she ran. Lyra stumbled more than once as she ducked and weaved. She noticed that her shadows were slowing down so she could keep up. They’ll get themselves killed if the don’t move faster. She was smaller, a harder target to hit. She hoped.

Silver moonlight broke through the trees canopy. Illuminating the path ahead. The gun fire had subsided, but why.

In the matter of seconds she reacted, even before she heard the sound, her subconscious mind taking control of her body. Shoving the twin on her right out of the way, the muzzle flash and bang followed. The shot came from south west. Lyra sucked in a breath, clamping her mouth shut as to not cry out. The bullet grazed her right shoulder. She could feel the thick warm blood trail down her arm. There are more guards than before. Hurry.

The small forests clearing soon came into view. They neared the northern cliff of the island. One jump and they would be scot-free. An anchored skiff waited below. They paused at the cliffs edge, a look passed between them.

“Go,” She ordered, “I’ll be right behind you.”

“But-,” The twin on her left began to protest. She turned shooting him a look.

“I said go!” She grabbed him by the arm bringing him towards the edge. “Sorry” She whispered. With one big shove she pushed him over the edge. His scream nearly made her heart stop. She waited for him to surface with bated breath. When he did she sighed in relief and her heart started beating again. She looked to the other twin on her right. She caught him staring ar her arm with concern.

“I’m fine,” She covered her arm with her hand. His gaze shifted to her face. “Do you need me to throw you off too?” She threatened.

He held his hands up in surrender, walking backwards towards the cliffs edge.

“You better be right behind,” his words held a threat of his own if she didn’t.

“I will, I promise, just go,” She took a step forwards hand outstretched, ready if he didn’t. Even without the moonlight she could tell which one this one was.

“Ezra,” she warned.

Ezra sighed and spun around, stepping off the edge. With a splash he landed in the water. River had successfully climbed into the skiff, and moved to help his brother. Identical as they were, they were completely different. She shook her head, clearing her mind. Crashing sounds grew louder as guards trampled through the trees. It was now or never.

Lyra stepped forwards ready to jump, her feet had left the ground when an arm snaked around her waist pulling her back. Where did he come from, she hissed. The momentum sent them both to the ground, Lyra landing on top of the guard. He brought a white cloth up to her nose, covering her face. Don’t breath!

Her mind didn’t listen. Instinct caused her to draw breath. In the matter of seconds the powder she knew well began to take effect. She wriggled and fought, trying to break his grip. But her movements grew sluggish. NO, she screamed in her mind. Her eyelids grew heavy, she couldn’t fight to keep them open.

She couldn’t keep her promise.

Daylight shone greedily upon his face, milking every aspect of his features. And he’d calmly watch as the feminine figure beside him rocked alongside the wagon wheels. He was aware of something for the most part. He had been captured. Possibly being taken to the capital to answer for his crimes. Something which could result in death. Sucking his tongue, Zeke ripped his vision towards the landscape; empty pea green swards. Were they further out in the countryside? Had he any time? A clamorous thud would sound to his left, and lazily, Zeke would turn, pinning his gaze upon the thick, silky tresses of copper blanketing the dusty plates of wooden floorboards. The nickering of the working steeds outside flooded the wheeled prison, ridding of his unnerving silence.

With a cool smile, Hoch would plant a hand on her mane of ringlets, drinking in the feeling of a woman's hair. He had just come back from his excursion, invading the waters with his man drawn ship. The captain of 35 crooks whose loyalty couldn’t be any less. They all had their own art, their own way of things. Few cared for each other, and the hierarchy made itself. Although their commander, he rarely lifted a finger. He kept the order, and in return, feasted on varying rewards.

With a callous yank, he balled his fist, fingers curled into her burgundy locks as he kept her head upright. Half heartedly, Zeke began to examine her face. She looked decent. He’d shift his palm against her head, tilting her face towards the ceiling and letting his fingers span across her scalp. Dismissively, Hoch drove his frame closer, “straddling” her hips although hovering. He ignored their chains for the time being, raking his vision from her torso to all along her neck. Becoming slightly annoyed, he’d carelessly flop her unconscious body around, finally rolling her further along her side just slight enough to see the wound. Seemed none but a graze; something that ripped the fabric of her sleeve and nicked skin but surely not the cause of her blank.

Redirecting his gaze, Zeke eyed her coolly, tapping a hand against her cheek rapidly as a fruitless attempt to wake her. “Hey, hey.” He blew on her face, watching as her dark, wet eyelashes shivered. “You must be hot, eh?” Cheekily, he’d place her head back against the boards and shift towards the skirt of her bodice. Slowly, he’d begin to lift it from her petite legs, stopping at an inch or so. “You’re really out of it.” With a soft exhale, he’d lean back on his palms, tilting his head back until his musing eyes fell onto the thick plate of wood dividing them both from the “coachmen.” Craning back towards the unfamiliar woman he was locked to with steel, Hoch would offer a small, demeaning smile. “I’ll have t’a saw you off.”

He’d lay himself right beside her, crossing his arms behind his head and briefly watching as her right hand shifted with his movements. Smoothly, he’d turn on his side, propped up by an elbow.

Leisurely, he’d begin to pat her down, searching for a weapon the guards might’ve missed during confiscation. Sliding a hand down her waist, admittedly, Hoch was slightly spooked by a slight twitch of her leg. Retracting his hand, Zeke would gaze skeptically at her shut eyes, lifting himself just slightly. “If you’re awake, I didn’t cop a feel or anything.” Chuckling softly, he’d hover over her with his hands above her head. “Wouldn’t want you thinking I’m a heathen.”

He could feel the jail wagon roaring down the road, heightening its speed. Immediately, Zeke leapt off of her, the soft clanks of his chain mumbling past the bars. Expression stiffening, he’d rip a splintering plank from the wall, ignoring the hot sear on his palm as he began to sharpen the wooden tool along the ragged edge of the window, occasionally letting his gaze flicker onto the celebratory movements of sluggish patricians along the square, stumbling beyond a thick, grand archway and eventually locking their eyes onto the jail wagon clopping down the cobble street.

Her head thrummed and her body ached. The scent of wood, and ale? was strong around her. Lyra wanted to open her eyes but her body was so tired. Shifting slightly, pulling her arm and legs closer in, the sound of metal chains rang loud. She suddenly remember everything that had happened. The plan failing, her cremates jumping off a cliff, herself getting caught and drugged.

Jerking her body upright with a new found energy, Lyra quickly looked around. She was in a moving wooden cage, and she wasn’t alone. She audibly groaned, a hand coming up to her head. Cold metal clanged together as she did. A metal cuff gripped her wrist. Albeit not her first time in chains, these were tighter, heavier. Grabbing the metal with her right hand she tried to slip the cuff. Twisting and pulling it had no effect except digging into her skin. She would either need to cut off her hand, which she wasn’t about to do, or she needed the keys. Looking around slower once again, Lyra followed the chain to its end.

“You have got to be kidding me,” She mumbled, stretching out the chain until it became taut. Another chained hand was connected to the other end. Nooo they couldn’t have just chained to her the wall or floor, they had to attach her to another whole person. She ground her teeth. Escaping was going to be hard enough by herself.

She sat so her legs were crossed beneath her. She watched her fellow prisoner. He held a piece of wood, no doubt he tore from the carriage, against the edge of the window. Lyra’s brow rose in question. What is he hoping to accomplish with that?

She studied the man. Dark black hair and piercing silvery eyes. Other women probably fell at his feet. What caught her attention was the long scar the crossed his lips. She looked away from the strange man, who she could swear seemed familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Out of the corner of her eye she looked down to where she laid. A dark spot covered the floor. Her mind remembered she had been grazed, and the wound began to sting.

Tsk, Lyra bent her shoulder forward so she could get a better look at it. It wasn’t bleeding much anymore, and that could be a good sign, or a bad one. Digging her thumb into the seam she tore the light gray colored sleeve. At that moment she was glad it was a cheap fabric. Turning it into a long ribbon she wrapped it around the graze, using her teeth to pull the knot tight.

Now down to one sleeve, she decided to tear off the other one as well. She tossed the fabric off to the side. Now she had to figure a way to get out of here before they got to their final destination and executioner took her head.

With tranquility and squatting legs, he gently ran a thumb over the wooden blade, jadedly eyeing the crowing men outside. Squandering various spoils as they padded down the street, advancing on the hefty cage and his captor, Zeke watched as a particular patrician cocked their gaze over to his own, curiosity and yet drunken distaste planted loudly in the nobleman's eyes. He’d smile diffidently, make-shift tool in hand whilst he fantasized how he would plunge it into her skin. The vested man frowned with callous lips, stamping his way over towards the bars while his companions busied the hawking patrolmen, curses of incoherency bathing the ominous breeze. Zeke would raise his brows, chin dipping simultaneously to his fervent pricks and dices along his palm.

Not exact but this could do.

“What an eyesore.” The wheeled vessel had finally come to a stop, and with this disturbance, Hoch launched himself closer to the bars, his sips of sunlight the only thing that could illuminate the interior of his prison past the thick bronze rods. Slightly startled, the embellished patrician tottered back before padding forth mere seconds later; bitter liquor foxing his breath. “-rolling these thugs in on noble soil…preposterous.” Zeke wrapped his fingers around the dense beams, tilting his face closer so as to get a good look at this new party, noting the bruxing courage that inhabited the stranger’s dark pupil. “I know, right?” He’d drop his smile. “It's only a matter of time before that Crimson Ash gang ravages the city. I’m sure they’ve been tracking this transport for a while now.”

Taken aback, the noble grimaced, as if disgusted that such a fiend would try and coax conversation with him. Decisively, Zeke would feed off of the steely, sheltered confusion that had shown itself in his seconds-long expression, gripping the bars tighter than he had before. “Pirates.You know, disgusting pillagers. Crimson Ash should be here close to an hour or two. Such a vile bunch. I should know. - Their captain’s obsessed with me.” He blinked. And the man gaped, turning only to stomp back a second later. “W-we should inform the council about this!” He gyrated once more. “Those bastards will tarnish the district!” Undecided, Hoch watched as the patrician faced the wagon and abruptly slammed a fist against the boards.

“You led them right to us, you- youu savage cretin!” Hoch shrugged, tipping his gaze towards the guards who roughly began to police the outrageous drunkards that grew angrier by the minute. The man closest to him followed his eye before stepping forward with raging howls of a fight. “These buffoons can’t even do their job right! They’ve endangered us all!!”

Idiot. Although the Crimson Ash, Dragons Sun, whatever one would call them, are his despised rivals, frankly, Zeke had no clue as to where they hid as of now. If he had any wishes, he’d hope that Taylor had gotten his ass kicked and is actually a few towns over bedraggled with chains. It’d make the seas a lot less polluted without the Crimson Crooks. “You’re awake.” He spoke in a low croon, shifting himself so as to face the skeptical woman; slowly retrieving his sharpened tool from the girth of his sleeve. He briefly watched as she tore at her cloth, quietly aiding her wound, surprisingly indifferent of her circumstance. Zeke raised his brows, gauging her.

“How do you want it? Slow or fast?” He began his approach, smiling somewhat eerily in the process. But the aggression beyond their splintering cage became tenfold, and momentarily, Hoch could spot the barbaric swings and claps of fists meeting skin through the rods. The sentinels had left their post. Their attention had finally spanned away from the wagon, a small window of chance which could vanish at any given moment. Too opportunistic to pass such a gall, Zeke laughed dryly before plunging his weapon into the crack of the thick, fastened board which covered a shaft to the front seats of the hackney.

“Ya gonna help me, sleepy kitty, or what?” The amount of time it would take to saw off her hand would destroy this perfect moment, something that wasn’t worth it,..right now. They could use each other. And once free outlaws in the empire, he’d deal with her then.

Lyra had been ignoring the conversation between her fellow captive and the man outside, until,

“It's only a matter of time before that Crimson Ash gang ravages the city. I’m sure they’ve been tracking this transport for a while now.” The man she shared a chain with spoke.

Her eyes shot towards the him, her brows furrowed together. Did she hear him right, he said Crimson Ash, right? Only one group in the world has that name, her group, her crew.

What right does this man have to speak our name. He knows nothing of my crew.

She opened her mouth to speak, a choice she instantly retracted. Nearly bitting off her tongue trying to close it before any words got out she restrained herself. Now is not the time to be picking a fight, nor revealing her name. If she confessed who she was, they would never let her go.

“Pirates.You know, disgusting pillagers. Crimson Ash should be here close to an hour or two. Such a vile bunch. I should know. - Their captain’s obsessed with me.”

The words ‘I should know. - Their captain’s obsessed with me.’ rang through her ears over and over like an echo.

Obsessed?!

Leaning slightly towards the side Lyra tried to get a better look at the man. How was she supposed to be obsessed about a man she doesn’t know. She was almost certain she’d never seen this man before. That said she could have meet him while inebriated and have no recollection of the incident. Lyra shook her head. No way, the odds are extremely slim.

-

“You’re awake.”

His soft low voice sent goosebumps up her arms. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, as if she sat before a vicious predator.

“How do you want it? Slow or fast?” A cynical grin spread across his lips, reaching his cold eyes. He held a makeshift wooden spear as he closed the distance between them.

Shit!

Lyra rocked backwards, the chain connection them rattled. Her back hit the cage wall.

He paused, attention drawn elsewhere. Her heart thumped against her ribs.

He was going to kill me

Shouts grew loud from outside. Men grappled with each other throwing drunken fists. The crowd was growing larger. Glass shattered. It was a brawl.

What the…

“Ya gonna help me, sleepy kitty, or what?”

Her attention snapped back at him, and she practically bared her fangs.

“Are you kidding me right? You just tried to kill me,” Her eyes followed towards the weapon he held. The pointy end was jabbed into the wooden board that separated the cab of the wagon from the drivers seats. With the commotion around them it was the perfect opportunity to escape, one that wouldn’t come again. She groaned.

I’m not helping him, he’s helping me. She repeated in her mind a couple times before she got close. Squeezing her small fingers in the gap he created, Lyra pulled. The wood creaked, but the sound was nearly drowned out by the commotion.

Someone or something hit the side of the carriage, causing Lyra to sway to the side, her shoulder hitting his.

The poorly made nails that held the wooden panel together came loose. The backs of the two coachmen came into view. The plan was simple, throw them off, steal the wagon, ride off into the sunset and quickly get away from the lunatic. Not that she wanted to, Lyra glanced at him, giving a slight nod. At the silent count to three she dove under the board. Her hands came around the front of the man, the chain that bound her wrapped around the front of his neck. Lyra pulled. Gasps came from the man, as he struggled, she pulled harder. When his body started to become limp she released the chain, showing him to the ground. The guard coughed, hand to his throat.

“You wont get away, Taylor!” His raspy voice yelled.

A grin spread across her lips, a wild look settled in her eyes.

“I think I just did,”

He didn’t care to watch her. No, he kept his gaze transfixed onto those of the brawling bodies outside, lips curving unmistakably. Cranking his tool further back, nothing but prompt cracks from the panel had lodged into his ears, and finally, he’d flick his vision. Meeting eyes with that of piquing hazel, Zeke’s sight would quickly drop down to the bend of her lips, later reaching the height of her freckled gaze once more.

“Are you kidding me right? You just tried to kill me.”

“You’ll jinx yourself.”

He spoke coolly, a couple grunts slipping from his clenched teeth, jerking his arms back with the combination of her tugging weight, the wood splintered and finally, the panel had flung crookedly to the side. Hoch was yet to leap through the inlet before her shoulder swayed against his, though contact was short. Briefly, he’d scissor his vision beyond the bars, drinking in the pools of aggravation that was the crowd. It seemed that they had gained an audience; pricking eyes peering upon the scrimmage of senseless nobility. Redirecting his attention, Zeke would pat his silver banded fingers atop her head, an unfeeling sort of cheerfulness overcoming his face. “Careful.”

Watching as she launched herself into the shaft, warping their steeled chains and inducing a rapid yank of his arm, Zeke flew in after her, more so by the will of the iron than of his own volition. She took care of the left, and he was to do the right. Dismissively, Hoch would turn to the side, his hand clenching the man's uncovered scalp to the right. As expected, the soldier reacted, attempting to twist his wrist, but Zeke curled his fingers into the man's coarse tresses, reeling his head back before bashing it onto the wagon wall. He’d keep his head there for a moment, cocking his face to the side so as to get a quick glimpse of how she was fairing.

Surprisingly well.. though the way she maneuvered, it was just slight of a struggle to keep his footing. “Hey, Ms. Kitty, how about ya–”

“You won’t get away, Taylor!”

“I think I just did.”

Who the shit names their daughter Taylor?

He’d blink insipidly, his thoughts not only lost upon the thudding commotion advancing on their flanks, but as well as the hot, piercing pain that shot through his forearm like a blaze.

“YAH!”

He’d release the soldier, clutching the bulging handle of the blade that was embedded in his flesh, leaking blood. His opponent laughed darkly, hands fumbling at his side, possibly reaching for a handgun in which its stocked tunnel would be aimed right between his eyes. “Ah…what a bastard. This was my favorite arm…” Zeke mumbled to himself, snagging his tongue between his teeth whilst he tore the knife from his dribbling skin. Wolfishly, he’d snap his gaze back towards the guard, sighting the gun that the man clenched ever so fiercely between his fingers. This would take five seconds. Just five, nothing more.

One. Launching a kick at his stomach, he grabbed his wrists, shooting his hands down to the floorboards despite the soldier's avid struggle.

Two. Zeke would hoist a leg, dropping his boot down on his weapon and smashing the barrel from the man's grasp.

Three? Well three was cut short.

Grabbed by the collar by foreign hands, Hoch was pulled promptly from the front wagon, landing on his ass whilst a cloud of parting dust settled. “Seize him!!” Springing to his feet just in time to evade barreling soldiers, cuffed, defeated men on the sidelines, Zeke grinned, gripping the knife that had marinated in his blood, and thrusting it into the shoulder of a guard that would attempt to tackle him. Shrieking, the man withdrew, but others advanced, some reaching for their pistols. Turning to face the woman, or at least the direction he’d guessed her to be, kindly, Hoch drew her close by their chain, wrapping an arm around her throat and positioning her before him as the pistoleers raised their guns. “Sorry, kit.”

He wasn’t sorry.

“Don’t !!”

One of the coachmen shouted hoarsely, grasping his throat. “Take them alive!”

“Alive, huh? Are ya special or something? Maybe I should take you for myself.” Zeke teased quietly at the back of her nape, jerking them both back onto the wagon not a second later. He’d release her just as quickly, snatching the reins of the two spooked stallions and snapping the wheels to life. As they roared down the street, leaving anarchy in their wake, Zeke’s blinking would multiply, as would his realization of driving skills.

“Here, you drive.” He clicked, passing her the reins as they began to careen into a festival square.