You shouldn't be here.
Every fibre of his body told him that he shouldn't be here, and he shouldn't be trying to steal from anyone. If anything, he should take his boots and march right back to the Barracks, and catch a brew. Maybe even play some dice with a few late-arrivals, like him. But noooooo! Because some people are plain stupid, and Dag wasn't one of them, but anyone wandering these streets at night had to be, right? Either drunk, and rich, or young, and rich, or like him, and poor. All were stupid, either for being abroad with so many rogues, or being one OF the rogues.

You shouldn't be here.
His mind told him, even as he ghosted in the shadows of a tall estate, the moon hanging high over the rich district. A guard briefly turned towards him, but Dagon was behind a barrel before the dolt could register much. Old tricks started popping back into use. A coin flew across the courtyard, the guard followed it, and Dagon rushed past in a flutter of steps. Quick and simple, the way he was taught. He was taught well, Dagon Bruth. The man he was named for, Bruth, had supposedly been one of the best sneak-thieves in Belford Port. He'd never met the man, but the name always got him somewhere.

You shouldn't go for that man.
Dag had found a good place to hide, on the edge of an alleyway between two big manor houses. A man with authority was about to stride past; you could tell because of the way he walked, and that meant coin.
He waited. Dag waited. He unsheathed a small shiv, and stepped out infront of the man.
Just as someone stabbed him in the arm.

You REALLY should have checked the alley.
Another thug had snuck up behind Dag as he had been waiting in the alley, and had moved just as he had. With a sickening squelch, the unknown's blade dug deep into Dagon Bruth's right bicep, the tip sticking out the other end.

Then there was the brief moment between him getting stabbed and feeling it.

Navidson had been walking for quite some time before he realized he was no longer familiar with his surroundings and was a distance away from his office. There was much thinking to do lately, and the High General had found wandering the streets of Hightown made the time spent making decisions on these matters less taxing.

In spite of the distractions weighing on his mind, his body reacted quickly to the sudden action taking place before him. His blade was drawn in a defensive motion an instant after the initial man stepped out in front of him, but just as quickly a second man attacked the first.

A quick glance was given to the alleyway behind him, but it appeared that this was no ambush as the way was clear. Minos stepped back slowly, his blade still brandished.

"It appears you have this settled among yourselves... knaves," he yelled. Attempting to avoid a death on the Queen's own streets. "But perhaps I can help run through the weakest of you two runts?"

And there it is..
The lance of pain engulfed his entire arm in the second that he was pivoting, and all Dagon did was grunt. He'd had far worse, most notably in a pus-filled camp bed, with some chirugeon digging around in his back for an arrowhead. But there was also something that all men develop after a decade or so of brawling. That instinct to give their opponent some instant payback for the harm that has already been done. Dagon didn't know why the man had attacked him; maybe he just thought that any target that's easy is worth going for.
But Dagon had his old war knife in his hand. The foe's blade twisted in the Parasan's arm as he turned, and stabbed him. Once. Once was enough, if you had a free shot at the abdomen. The thief had tried to block Dagon's strike, but it was too fast, too precise and done too neatly.

It was as if Dag had simply leaned forward and stabbed a joint of meat, but he dragged the blade sideways, opening the man's guts. He left the weapon in, so as to wrench the dying man's blade from his own arm. It was deep, but fortunate - well, as fortunate as a stab to the arm can be. It had missed any major blood vessels, but torn his arm like noone'd business.

Mugging, Dagon noted, was not for the weak of stomach. Or arm. Or the slow of mind. The Brigand turned his head to survey the man who had been his target, and noted that the man had a fucking sword. Any swordsman can kill a knifer in a straight fight, hands down, so Bruth of the Escovan Army thought quickly.
"I'm so glad I got here in time!" He breathed, making his body shake, as his free arm rose to touch his wound.
"This...this man..." Yes, the one with his guts decorating the alleyway "He was trying to attack you, my Lord!" Obviously a Lord, this was Hightown, after all. "I lost him, and I was about to.." A grunt from Dagon to indicate that, yes, the wound was substantial. "I was about to warn you! He got the drop on me.." His accent was thinly disguised; anyone with a decent knowledge of accents could see through it. Worth trying, though.

The High General's brow furrowed to the point his eyebrows nearly met. Next, his eyes began to squint in such a disbelieving manner, the blade in his hand shook uncontrollably. Navidson's voice dropped low, and his free hand reached for his shiv.

"Your lord? Refugee, I am your General."

The smaller blade was pulled from its sheath and thrown towards the young man's feet.

"I was born some sixty and eight years ago, boy, and you dare to take me for some kind of fool? And, to add to that, you spill not only your own worthless blood, but also that of this fucking scoundrel on the streets of Hightown?"

A booted foot left the ground behind the old solider and kicked the corpse of the dead man square in the chest, further splaying the body across the alleyway.

"Pick up that blade, son. I'll allow you to die an honorable death for saving me from having to kill you both this evening. And make haste, I have matters of great importance to attend to presently."