Okay. How long has it been since the wound from the tiefling's dart? Thirty seconds? A minute?

He’ll quickly wring the necks of each man. He’s going to strip both corpses naked to see what valuables they may be carrying.  

What was the large man wearing? Will any of it fit The Nameless One?

The trousers are too large in the waist for him.  The boots look like they’d fit reasonably well.  The cotton vest has quite a bit of fresh blood.  

He’s definitely starting to feel a little bit off.  Vaguely intoxicated - vision leaving a bit of an after image when he turns his head.

He bites both sides of his tongue hard enough to cause lasting pain. What's a little poison to an immortal?

He discards the orange-haired man’s blade. Then he quickly wipes first his bleeding hand and then the vest on the trousers to clear some of the blood. He has to fight an instinctual urge to stop and bandage his wounded hand. He’ll grit his teeth against the pain of continuing to use it and don both vest and boots. The scalpel can go back in the belt of his loincloth. What valuables does he find?

The large man has a small coin purse with drawstrings.  Inside are two copper coins and a squished marzipan ball.  The smaller man wears a gold ring, and has a pocket full of copper coins.  He also appears to have some large silver coins stitched into his coat.

Swift scalpel strokes to liberate the coins, without regard for damaging the garment. All coins and the ring go in the coin purse, minus the marzipan. Coin purse strings are looped over a notch in his loin cloth and carried on the inside, resting against his thigh where the pockets in a pair of trousers would be.

With that he’ll drag both corpses to the Sigil portal in the courtyard, push them through, then pick up the battle axe, and walk briskly through the alley, heading towards Flint Court.

The passageway runs straight back with occasional entranceways and alcoves. 

He can see the end about a hundred yards away.  But he makes it less than half way.  He barely has enough presence of mind to drop the axe and try to raise his hands to deflect the pavement as it rushes upwards towards him.

He hits the ground and lies prone.

He dreams briefly.  

In the dream, there is a creature before him like a gargoyle. It has green skin. It smiles a toothy grin and laughs at him.

It points to a stack of papers and begins peeling them off, one by one, letting them drift to the ground in what is evidently very turbulent air.  

He maintains eye contact with The Nameless One, beginning to speed up his rate of peeling. 

His hands begin to move faster than any mortal man’s. He cackles with a delight that gleams manic in his eyes.

After a few minutes of stillness, a figure approaches the prone body lying in the alley.  She has her knife drawn.

She walks to the man's head and gives the side of his skull a tap with her toe. 

Then she squats beside him.  She slides one hand under his shoulder and attempts to flip his body face up.

Finding him too heavy for her to raise more than a few inches off the ground one-handed, she lets the shoulder return down with a soft thud.

She steps back and now approaches from the body's feet, straddling one of his legs.  She peels the edge of The Nameless One’s newly acquired vest away from his lower back and slips her fingers between the belt and the flesh beneath. She pulls backwards to create a gap between skin and garment and quickly slides her hand back and forth, feeling for anything lumpy or metallic.

Feeling nothing, she swaps the knife to her left hand, then uses her right to trace around The Nameless One’s belt, moving from the buttocks around the exterior of the right leg toward the front.  She discovers the scalpel and tosses it to the side.  Returning her hand, she feels the edge of what must be her dead gang member’s coin purse with her pinky just at the limit of the movement, where the man's thigh rests on the pavement. The Nameless One is apparently lying on the purse, resting his full weight upon it.

Annah makes an audible susurrus of frustration. She withdraws her hand and repositions herself on her knees.  She reaches up the loin cloth between The Nameless One’s legs to approach the purse from the other side.

The garment is apparently like a woman’s skirt: a single loop of cotton cloth without any fabric between the legs.

She leans further over The Nameless One, bringing her face directly above his mid-back to get her arm far enough forward.  Her left palm presses the hilt of her dagger flat against the paving stones off to the man’s side, supporting her weight.

The Nameless One comes to, face down with the feeling of a hand softly brushing his genitals from below as it searches for something along the front of his thigh.

All memories since awaking in the mortuary are intact.

His first thought is: They've trapped themselves. This won’t even test my reflexes.

He plants his left hand on the ground and then swings his right arm behind his back and roughly seizes the adversary’s hair.  He raises and twists his upper body rightward. Driving Annah’s head by a fistful of her hair, he forces it downwards and away from him, pinning and immobilizing her knife hand under her body.

“Yield.” he says.

“Shit,” she says involuntarily as The Nameless One suddenly moves.

Her right arm is twisted awkwardly at an angle between The Nameless One's legs, but she still has her fingernails to work with.  She digs her pinky and ring fingernails - all she can maneuver - into the base of the man's cock.

He's balanced on his left elbow, back and shoulders straining to push outwards. He's facing away from her and can't directly read her movements.  

He feels the fingernails and promptly clamps his legs together to put pressure on her wrist. It won't spare him much of the pain but it will limit the degree of force that she can apply.

He breathes heavily for a few seconds, thinking.

He can hold this position for a time, facing away from Annah and pinning her by her head with his right arm, but he cannot do so indefinitely. It's an angle that requires the use of small accessory muscles far beyond their usual writ.  

He twists his head leftward to the limits of its range of motion. He spies the blade of Annah's knife, pushed flat against the stone underneath her pinned left hand.

She is twisting her hips and flailing her legs but not able to get enough purchase to move her head or free either of her arms.

While the two of them remain in a grappling and not a striking engagement, he has no fear that she can defeat or incapacitate him again.

He needs to rotate his body in order to disarm or kill her. If he rotates left, he'll have to give up pressure on her head, freeing her to roll out of danger. If he rotates right, he'll be coming at her from the opposite side as the one holding her knife, giving her a chance to deliver a blow.

He chooses left.

He waits till her legs have left the ground in one of her periodic flailing kicks, and then he releases pressure on her head in order to swiftly rotate to the left.

The combination of releasing downward pressure and twisting his body with her right hand still squeezed tightly between his legs brings her head and shoulders up and forward, slamming the side of her face against his left flank, her chin colliding with the bony protuberance of his hip. Her arm now fully encircles and hugs his left leg.

He catches his weight with his right hand palm down, and reaches for her knife hand with his left.  He is fast enough to catch her left wrist as it slips out from under her shoulder, and he applies as much downward pressure as he can to reform the pin.

Their bodies are tangled up now. Her legs are more free but her knife hand is now held directly.  Her right forearm is still squeezed between his thighs, now positioned lower down and just out of reach of his genitals.

“Enough.” he says.

The force of being crushed against her knife hand for several seconds considerably slows her reflexes, and so she isn't able to get the knife free before being gripped by the man again.  She continues to put as much energy into moving her wrists as she can for a few seconds.

Then, finding it futile she suddenly stills her upper body.

She is facing orthogonal to him now, with her forehead against his breast.

She bends her knees and brings the soles of both feet flat against the ground in preparation to attempt a lunge.

“Peace, cutter?” she says meekly.

“I am disarming you. Release the knife.” 

He squeezes her hand just below the base of the thumb and begins twisting with increasing pressure. He will begin to break her outer carpals if she does not release the grip on her knife within the next three seconds.

She releases the knife.

Maintaining a level of pressure that is painful but not bone-breaking, he wields their two hands together as a clumsy appendage to swat at the blade, sending it skittering four or five feet hence to the alley wall.

“You can no longer win. You will now untangle yourself from my body.”

Relying on the force of his legs clamped about her right arm to keep her immobilized, he briefly releases and then reforms his left hand grip into what is more of a compliance hold, with the thumb and two fingers in a C grip just below the bone of her wrist. She is slender enough that his thumb reaches his first knuckles and forms a seal beyond her ability to break.

“Remove your arm from between my legs and place it palm upwards, away from your body.”

He releases the pressure of his squeezing legs and raises his hips, placing a portion of his weight on his left knee to allow her to withdraw.

The arm has lost circulation.  She moves it clumsily.  Eventually it flops to her side.

The movement opens her posture towards him, but she keeps her chin tucked and eyes tracking his flank at breast level.  She doesn't want him to read her expression.