As Conor came around a dumpster corral behind the auto-parts store he could see the fire clearly. One of three two-story buildings (arranged with the long axis going east-west) was heavily on fire. The blaze had already engulfed most of the roof and second floor. People were fleeing into the parking lot in the in the heavy downfall, most were like Conor, soaked to the skin in the chill (somewhere in the mid sixties without the wind and rain).

Not really knowing where to start or who needed the most help, he was simply going to wade in and figure it out when he saw a streak of flame come shooting from some dead trees in a residential plot south of the burning building. The flaming bolt struck the apartment and added to the conflagration.

“What in the…”

As he looked over closer, he could make out a hulking man standing at the base of a tree, and another man in the largest and lowest branches just above him. As he watched the man in the branch seemed to be drawing an arrow and nocking it into a compound bow. He couldn’t quite make it out clearly in the driving rain so he ran over.

As he got closer, things shimmered and changed slightly. The large man below the tree was enormous; with the red, red skin of a Summer Ogre. The slighter man in the tree branches changed into the pointy earned visage of a red-haired elfin archer – with bow, quiver of arrows, and clad in Lincoln Greens no less.

Being of a direct mindset and in no mood to bandy words, Conor went right up to a gap in the fence-line near them and made his introduction. “Wha’ inna hell are ye doin’ eh?! Who de ye think ye are settin’ fire tae these people’s homes!”

The Ogre roared with sufficient volume to be heard above din, “Get gone Wyldfae! This no concern of yours. Not to interfere!”

Conor stood up straight and shrugged off his now waterlogged light jacket. “Well I’m makin’ it my business bully boy.”

A feral grin split the red-skinned brute’s face “Well, this fun night after all. I am Hamhock. I say two times, get gone Wyldfae. This no concern of yours. Do not interfere.”

The elf took an appraising look at Conor, “I am Triskilen. If you expect the Rite of Equal Blades you can forget it stranger. We are about our Master’s business and have no time for such delaying tactics from one with none of honor, rank, or title. If you fight one, you fight both, Wyldfae. But know you stand between us collecting our lord’s rightful tallage from a vassal.”

The Irishman doffed his wool flatcap, tossing it on top of his coat with a splash. It now had maybe four times its normal heft; the wool had fully absorbed its capacity in water. “Well I must admit I’m disappointed aye. I expected a bit more class from Summer. Honor is it? A lad doesn’t pay his taxes so ye burn his place down. Fine, no worry, fair play, I figure I count as two anyway. I am Conor, late of Ireland, an’ currently of the M-Streets of Dallas. Pleased ta meetcha.” With that he clenched his jaw and right fist; allowing the world to go silvery.

The elf in the tree hopped down, drawing an arrow. He looked somewhat concerned by the sudden appearance of a shining Sidhe in their midst. The Ogre however, was nearly bursting at the seems with anticipation. He roared, “I say third time Conor of M-Streets, get gone. This no concern of yours. Do not interfere.”

Conor adopted a relaxed left fist forward stance, his right silverhand cocked and at the ready at his chest level. His luminous white skin and long white hair seemed to both absorb and reflect all the surrounding ambient light. “Well thrice an’ done my fine Hamhock. Why don’ cha get yer piggy face over ‘ere tosspot… an’ we’ll see who’s best.”

The elf took a step to his left, raising arrow to bow, aiming at Conor. The Ogre had no such plans of flanking or forethought, he charged directly at Conor’s position. His giant meat-grinder right fist whooshed through the wet air where only a moment before Conor’s face had been. The boxer sidestepped the charge to his left, and delivered a ferocious body blow to the Ogre’s gut.

Conor had only a second to look up and see what the elf was up to as an arrow whistled by his neck, drawing blood as the razor sharp broad-head sliced flesh. With a curse, the elf drew another arrow. The red Ogre flung his fist wide and barely connected, the meaty sound of his knuckles connecting with the Irishman’s upper arm only slightly muffled by the splash of muddy feet and rain.

Feeling cocky, Conor danced around a bit and gave a feral grin of his own. “That de best ye got bully boy?” He then balled up both fists together up high, delivering a heavy hammer strike to the Ogre’s broad back just below the shoulder blades. Staggered, the Ogre knelt to pick up a branch from off the ground. The elf was again aiming, waiting for another opportunity.

The Sidhe delivered one of his muddy brogues to the side of the Ogre’s head for his trouble, nearly knocking him down, but not quite. The Ogre, like Conor, had the advantage of a thick and mostly empty skull.

However, the kick did knock the Ogre out of the way and the Elf took the opportunity to let fly another arrow. Again the Irishman was able to sidestep the worst of it. However, the arrow left a line of red across his chest to show now near a miss it really was. Sidestepping the arrow put him in position to receive a friendly love tap from the Ogre’s tree branch across his own shoulder blades. The experience wasn’t pleasant, though he was able to duck and mitigate the worst of it.

Spinning, Conor grabbed one of the Ogre’s enormous wrists, using the leverage to deliver a heavy body blow to the other side of the Ogre’s gut. Once more he glanced to find the archer, again aiming. This was getting potentially dangerous.

Of course, taking his eye of the Ogre nearly resulted in a new dent in his skull. At the last moment, he was barely able to sidestep the branch as it came whistling down. Several of the knobs and other branches leaving welts and tears. At this point, the muddy ground was quickly turning into a bog in the downpour. Being more agile, and genetically predisposed to rain and mud, served Conor well. For just a split second, the Ogre’s footing slipped in the muck. Seeing his chance, the uppercut the Irishman delivered was very nearly textbook. The popping sound of the Ogre’s jaw coming out of sorts told the tale of the power behind his strike.

“An’ now Ham-” he didn’t get a chance to finish his thought as another arrow whistled past. This time its flight left a red groove across his cheek. The Ogre shook his head, clearing the effects of his ringing belfry. With a subhuman snarl he swung the fractured branch wildly. Conor easily sidestepped, the Ogre clearly not fully recovered from the uppercut. He closed the distance between them and delivered a left cross, striking the Ogre’s wounded lower face. Hamhock’s shriek of pain was like an animal’s as he staggered to the side, bleeding from his nose.

Momentarily losing track of the archer, Conor scanned around and just acquired the elf again as a red fist connected with his left ear. Fighting through the ringing sound, he spun on the staggering Ogre. Lacking any other leverage or position, Conor delivered a vicious headbutt to Hamhock’s face. With the sound of crunching bone the Ogre went down in the gooey mud with a plop.

Which was the opening the archer needed to put an arrow right into the meaty part of Conor’s left shoulder. With a shout, the Irishman charged – straight ahead. The elf scrabbled through the mud and debris to avoid the charging Sidhe. Unfortunately for him the boxer still managed to land a strong right jab. Barely any strength behind it, no balance, and yet Conor’s punch was solid enough to break the bowman’s nose.

Moving with elfin grace, the archer darted backwards towards the driveway of the house, letting fly with another arrow. Furious and once again charging his foe, Conor deflected the poorly aimed missile in flight with his silverhand. Then he grabbed the elf’s face with it; bouncing the back of his skull off the pavement.

With a growl of pain, he pulled the arrow from his shoulder, throwing it down on the unconscious archer’s still form.

Returning to his normal visage, Conor stepped back from the dead tree covered backyard of the house and could feel some of the heat from the burning building. The fire department was still not yet here, nor could he hear sirens. Though the rain kept the blaze from spreading externally, the dry interior of the building still fed the flames.

“Please! ¡Amigo! ¡Ayúdame! Help!”

He looked over and saw a young Hispanic woman, soaked to the skin as he was, wearing patterned pajamas that clung to her like a wrinkled cotton snakeskin.

<What do you need and where? Show me!>

She motioned for Conor to come with her to a ground floor apartment with smoke pouring out the windows. He kicked in the door, and then once inside, at the younger girl’s direction… kicked in another. Once there, after seeing her crumpled on the floor trying to avoid the smoke, he moved to carry out the elderly Hispanic woman he found in the apartment.

The next cry for help was to get children out of a second floor apartment… and so on… and so on… for what seemed like hours.

By the time the fire department showed up, a mere 10 minutes from when the blaze was first reported, Conor was coughing up black phlegm. His lungs burned from the exertion and he could honestly not remember how many doors, windows, or even interior walls he’d broken getting people out… most alive he hoped… some he wasn’t sure.

When he saw the firemen, he staggered off into the shadows to the backyard where he’d fought the two Fae. He threw up a shoddy Veil to conceal his passing. With a glance back, he saw the girl with the wet pajamas holding the elderly Hispanic woman… mother, aunt, or grandmother he wasn’t sure; didn’t matter.

Tonight was worth it all.

Shortly after a another black phlegm inducing coughing fit, Conor began slapping the huge red cheeks of the felled Ogre. He was kneeling over him in the rain (lighter than it was, just a drizzle now). What was left of Hamhock’s T-Shirt wrapped around his right hand which was holding a strip of iron, ripped from the rusted underside of a nearby derelict ’72 Volkswagen Bug.

“Oy, Hammie!” More slapping, “Hammie! Wake up you.”

With a grunt, the Ogre opened one eye. Both eyes quickly snapped open when he registers the jagged iron hovering over his throat. “Why the Bane, Conor?”

“Call it the result of a general lack of trust this night between ye and me.”

The Ogre nodded, saying nothing.

“So here’s the thing, Hamhock. Are ye going to seek retribution against me, mine, or those for whom I care as a result of this night’s battle?”

The Ogre looked confused for a moment, “Not… too many word…” He then winced, as if speaking hurts.

Conor sighed, “Are you going to try and get back at me for beating you… or get back at me by hurting my people… or the people I care about?”

The Ogre parsed for a moment, barely moving his jaw he said, “No. Not you. Not yours. Not if I know they your people. No.”

Nodding, he removed the shard of iron from Hamhock’s throat, “Say it twice more, Hamhock.”

Sitting up, the red skinned pile of muscle solemnly repeated. “Twice I say, not you, not yours, not if I know they your people. A Third time I say, not you, not yours, not if I know they your people… it was a good fight, Conor of M-Streets.”

“Okay big fella. You can go, but go quickly.”

Slowly the Ogre got to his shaky feet and staggered off into the drizzly night, vanishing under his own Veil.

Again without gentleness, Conor awakened the elf. He too regained consciousness to see the iron shard at his throat.

“So here’s the thing. Ye said I was without honor, rank, or title. I’ll agree to the last two, I’ve got a big problem with the first… so now you do too. See, the great thing about being one of Changeling kind is… I’m still mortal enough to do things in my own way. "

The elf said nothing.

Conor glared a him, “Are you going to take retribution for this night’s events in any way against me, mine, or those I care about?”

Once again, the elf said nothing, simply giving a sigh through his nostrils.

“Okay. We’ll do it that way. Twice I ask, are you going to take retribution for this night’s events in any way against me, mine, or those I care about?”

The elf closed his eyes.

With a shake of his head, Conor put the edge of the jagged iron against the Elf’s jugular. “Thrice asked and then we’re done elf. Are you go-”

The elf’s eyes came open and he interrupted, “No. Twice no. Thrice no. Satisfied?”

Conor tossed both shirt and the iron away. “Then you can go. Get out of my sight.”

As the elf stood and began to walk away gingerly massaging the back of his head he paused to ask, over his right shoulder, “Would you really have killed me if I’d said yes or didn’t answer?”

“Well, what with me being honorless boyo… I guess you’ll never know.”