[Memory] Wrong Place, Worse Timing

Az, please.

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Rhys Valentin
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Location: Vienda
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: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
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Mon Jul 16, 2018 4:17 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
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By the Good Lady, it was so clocking hot. Waves of heated air danced above the cobblestones like some Perceptive sorcerer's illusions, some spoke's vroo, and everyone had been on edge for the past week because of the unbelievable wave of too-warm air that had settled over all of Vienda. It seemed as though the Dives were currently the unwashed armpit of all Anaxas, the hottest, sweatiest, most disgusting location possible, and apparently everyone who even lived or worked there knew it to be true.

How could Constable Inspector Valentin come to this rather unsavory conclusion?

Well, it was easy.

That unwashed stench was just the familiar scent of another clocking riot.

That's how.

Feuds among traveling wicks weren't an uncommon occurrence out in the uncivilized and unpriced wilds outside of the jurisdiction of the Seventen, especially considering the laws had decreed centuries ago that nomadic wicks were sovereign and could do whatever the clocking hell they pleased so long as they didn't do it in plain view of their galdori superiors. However, given wicks still had the right to bring their questionable businesses and suspicious wares into the cities to sell in the markets in places like the Dives, so, too, did the halfbreeds bring their opinions and their conflicts.

It was well known that the Red Crow and the Yellow Eye had been feuding for years, although Rhys had absolutely no idea why or if it would even matter if he did have a clue, but he knew that in heat like this one, there was very little anyone could do to put out the fires of tempers once they flared with earlier curfews or more patrols.

That hadn't helped, obviously. If anything, the extra patrols had only made the risk of conflict worse, and today was a fine example of that truth. Or, at least, it would be. For the moment, it was easier to hope that this wildfire could be contained before it got out of hand.

It was, as far as the young Valentin was concerned, most likely a lost cause.

The scuffle started simply enough: a Red Crow merchant had set up his humble stall in the early morning hours, his writ of merchandizing stamped at the gate by a loyal galdor officer in green without a second thought. His wares consisted of careful beadwork—necklaces, bracelets, a few articles of leather clothing. All of it quaint and well worth the hats and forts he was charging for it all to feed his three little wicks back in the wilderness. That same morning, a Yellow Eye basket weaver, who also seemed to like to dabble in the beadwork, also had his writ stamped and brought his nicer, less humble cart into the narrow street in the Dives, parking himself next to that Red Eye with only a cursory glance in the other wick's direction. His baskets sold for almost a whole shill, sometimes a handful of tallies. He even asked far more for his beaded bracelets than that quiet Crow did, as if he thought more of himself than his neighbor who simply had learned to live on less.

The comparison became a topic of conversation, the conversation turned into a debate on tribal politics, and like all political conversations eventually devolved into, there eventually came that first blow. A child squeaked. A kenser snorted. And suddenly, everyone on the street jumped right in.

At least, that was Constable Inspector Valentin's completely made up but probably just as likely story that he told himself as he attempted to hover in the shade of the dilapidated building that looked just as unremarkable as the next one this deep into the Dives, one hand cautiously resting on his baton while the other shaded his sharp blue eyes against the bright mid-afternoon sun at this house.

Gods, it was so clocking hot. Unbearably so. He'd rather be stuck indoors doing paperwork today.

But no.

Practically swimming in the hand-dyed green of his uniform soaked through with sweat, the tall blond with his three snaps waved two more patrols forward to wade into the mess, this time, thank Alioe, they had begun to bring in the chroven. He wasn't there to stop the fight so much as find the perpetrators and take them in for questioning. He would have gladly leant a hand in breaking up the scuffle as it left stains on the cobblestones and probably at least one dead body to stay warm in the sun, but he and his Ensign, Potiphar, were asked by that clocking ersehole of a Patrol Captain—Captain D'Arthe, a name that made his chest ache and his face twist into a sneer at the same time—to wait until a path had been cleared before they started questioning witnesses.

They'd been waiting a clocking half an hour,

"By the Circle, Pots, I think we should just jump in, don't you?" Rhys hissed impatiently, shifting to reach for his baton, "We can subdue those stop-clockers over there and start our questioning."

"Oh, sir, I don't know." The young, small-statured man shoved the spectacles up his nose for the umpteenth time that house, his sweaty face an imperfect surface to keep them in place, "I'm rather afraid of Captain D'Arthe."

"Clock him. You know Haines has our erses. We outrank those two Patrols anyway. Come on." Too hot to stand still anymore, too restless to just stand by and let the work be done for him that he'd clawed his way through Brunnhold to wear the uniform for, Constable Inspector Valentin stepped out into the blinding light and moved toward the three wicks who were engaged with each other—one with a frying pan, one with a dagger, and the other with ... a dress.

"Alioe—" Ensign Potiphar groaned, gathering his field and beginning to mutter a few careful, almost studious words in Monite, words meant to set their targets' skin burning and stinging with a sudden, uncontrollable rash, especially near their faces.

"That's enough now. Time to break it up. Everyone step away from each other and get against the wall—"
word count: 1080
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Aziza
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Wed Jul 18, 2018 8:42 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
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She'd just come to visit the market. Usually the market didn't turn out to be this exciting. Sure, it was hot and tempers could run a little high here sometimes, especially in this sort of weather but she hadn't expected for things to become quite so... violent.

The witch had decided to nose around while she was picking up some foodstuffs, gain a sense of what else might be on offer today. She'd checked with a few different herbalists, picking up some of the dried herbs that were tricky to come across in Anaxas or she hadn't discovered a local source for yet. She'd also decided to take a gander at the different materials on offer, hoping to find some particular nice swathes to bring back to her mother. Her mother was far better at things like sewing so any clothing made would come from her. They could just buy clothing of course but that was something to be done on rare occasions. Buying cloth was usually cheaper than buying a ready-made product. Besides, any cloth she picked up could be used for patching as well as making full garments.

Unfortunately, any thoughts she'd had about clothing and such concerns were quickly knocked out of her head when a pot went flying past her head. The young woman had obviously heard the shouting and the curses, the insults thrown back and forth but it hadn't been her concern. It had been over there but now the anger had crossed into what she'd thought was a bubble of safety, the violence firmly shifting to here.

"Havakda! What ye playing at, you mu-" her rebuke cut off in a scream as someone clocked her in the side of the head with a basket. She ducked away from the blow, her balance upset and very nearly fell on top of a stall on her way down to the ground. Aziza crawled under the stall as bodies started to topple around her, people smashing fists and whatever else was handy into each other.

"For the love of Hulali, I didn't ask for this," she muttered as she crawled away, seeking a safe path through the bedlam. She ducked under various stalls, making a mad dash when she had to duck out into the paths between them. The witch just wanted to get out of this mess, to get to safety so she could duck out of the market and get out of Vienda before the Seventen came looking to crack open some wick and human heads.

Alas, she managed to duck out into the middle of a trio of people engaged in a brawl. The stall she'd been under had been struck with something, sending it toppling down on top of her so she hadn't really had a choice. If she'd had a choice, Aziza definitely would have looked before she leaped because she ended up right in front of some Seventen. She appeared just in time to be hit with a nasty bit of magic, letting out a scream of pain and rage as the stinging effect took hold. The young woman clawed at her face, tears beginning to flow. She couldn't counter it, couldn't ease her agony because she wouldn't be able to concentrate to use the mona.

"Clocking gollies! Ent ne need for tha'!" she hollered, clawing for anything within reach, anything she could throw. She could barely see, the agony so great but she found another nearby stall, something wooden with at least a little heft behind it and with a squint, she found the caster and flung it. "Stop it!"
word count: 635
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Rhys Valentin
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Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Location: Vienda
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: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
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Thu Jul 19, 2018 2:53 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
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Ensign Harold Potiphar, dearest small-statured, good-natured, well-meaning, clumsy as a kenser Pots, was not at all expecting anyone to throw anything at him, let alone a ladle straight into his bespectacled face.

"Tocks—" He squeaked, thankfully finished speaking his very polite Monite, but losing his concentration and brining both hands to his face with a whimper of pain that raised in volume until it became a high-pitched but very official-sounding tone of voice, "That's assaulting an officer, spoke!"

"By the Lady, it sure is. Tsk. What a shame. Even foreign spokes can't respect our uniform when we're trying to keep the peace, Ensign." Sergeant Valentin smirked, though his expression was forced because he wanted to hide the chagrin of his Ensign accidentally catching a bystander in his spell. Maybe the dark-skinned witch was innocent, but then again, with a clocking throw like that, maybe she wasn't. His baton now at the ready, he used it to point at the four suffering creatures who were swatting, rubbing, and clawing at their faces, though the spell was quickly fading with Pots' injury and distraction, directing them back toward the shade of the dilapidated building in order for them to press themselves against it, "All of you sorry lot against the wall, stand apart, and everyones' hands where I can clocking see them."

Pots groaned, a large bump and bruise marring his face above his eye, making him squint and forcing him to remove his spectacles, which were, thank the Circle, not shattered. He picked up the ladle and shook it at the Mug who'd chucked it at him, "I'll keep this for evidence, missy."

Rhys tried not to roll his eyes, aware that the younger, dark-haired Seventen didn't at all seem interested in growing up some days. Or perhaps the tall blond just took his rank and title too clocking seriously when there were godsbedamned riots to worry about. He couldn't say, but he assumed it was an appropriate mixture of both,

"Knock it off, Pots."

"Yes, sir."

"Now," The Sergeant hissed through his teeth, pointing first at the older, round man who'd been wielding the dress like a weapon, "Name and tribal affiliation?"

"Junta. Beren's m' name an' I gots m' writ right here, officer. I ent a spoke, I'm jus'—" He was fumbling in his patchwork vest, dark eyes on Rhys who was admittedly very tall for an Anaxi galdor. He seemed to be reaching in and lingering, either because he couldn't find the paperwork he claimed he had or because he was searching for something he shouldn't have.

Blue eyes narrowed and the young Valentin gathered his field, his words in Monite quick and made quicker still by a sign in the air with two of his fingers, his spell adding a very, very convincing weight to his words that seemed to fill the space between the chubby wick's ears and cease the movement of his hand almost immediately, Rhys' persuasive but gentle use of magic full of an implied command that wasn't meant to be impossible to deny so much as highly recommended, "Stop. Remove your hand from your vest. Let's just settle this calmly, shall we?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, but jus' lemme get my writ here an'—" The dark-haired wick hesitated, caught in the spell but still able to resist. Rhys hadn't really wanted to use full magical force and his spell had been mere suggestion, not forced compliance.

"Gun!" Potiphar squealed at the sight of the butt of a small flintlock, the two wicks next to their dress-wielding opponent immediately panicking and dropping to the ground as he drew the weapon and leveled it at the tall blond's chest.

Firearms were the boon of the Resistance and the bane of galdori society. They were rare and illegal, sure, but all it took was one stop clocker to have one and gollies could be dropped like flies caught in an electricity spell. Abso-clocking-lutely terrified of them, Rhys knew only a small number of self-defense moves to counter the deadly things, and all of them were meant for close combat. Which meant, of course, that he had to get closer instead of farther away. Godsdamnit. Fucking wicks and their stupid in-fighting. Did they forget they were oppressed? Surely not.

Had the portly older man with his feeble field been further away, he could have opened fire on both himself and his Ensign before either of them breathed another word of Conversation. There was no time to speak more Monite into a spell and no chance of surviving if he'd tried, so the Sergeant simply moved, and quickly, stepping forward instead of to one side, literally straight for the wick and his gun. Panic filled him, the kind of deep and biting fear that crippled most sang in his veins instead, lit up his nerves like the streets of Vienda on Clock's Eve. The portly older man was not at all prepared for a physical retaliation, and as Rhys all but leapt into his personal space, his field hardening into a barrier of determination and anger, he was too slow to turn and fire the pistol into the Seventen's ribs as he'd wanted to.

Instead, a baton was swung upward, smashing into the wick's wrist with the crack of metal against bone and knocking the volatile weapon from his hand while the rotund merchant howled in pain. A follow-up swing brought the same baton crashing downward at a merciless angle toward the side of the man's head, just as the flintlock hit the ground and—thank the whole Circle—didn't fire.

Pots flinched, cringing as if he'd expected it to even as the offending merchant groaned and dropped to his knees, Rhys hesitating to strike him again because out of the corner of his eye, one of the other two wicks was diving for the still live weapon,

"Fuck th' brigk!" She was growling excitedly, the tall blond aware he wasn't fast enough to stop her and his poor Constable just looking up in time to see the movement, madly attempting to intercept.

Last edited by Rhys Valentin on Thu Jul 26, 2018 11:26 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1094
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Aziza
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Sat Jul 21, 2018 6:34 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
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Her missile hit her target, the ladle whacking against flesh in a grimly satisfying way. The witch had no particular desire to hurt others but she was in pain so she was willing to make an exception. Disturbing his casting had the desired effect, the spell's sensation slowly dissipating. It was a slow relief, even if the one she'd hit seemed to be talking about assaulting an officer.

"Havakda! Ent assault, I was defending m'self! You're the one chucking vroo around and hitting thems you oughtn't to, ye chen?" she threw back, still rubbing at her face, bangles on her arms jingling. "Ent looking too peaceful to me. Not doing benny qalqa, are ye?"

For all her grumbling, she wasn't going to be daft enough to do a runner. There was no sense in trying to get away and finding herself on the bad side of the Seventen. She doubted that there were many people around here who looked like her, wick or otherwise, so if her description went out... No, it was better to clear this up now, simply cooperate and get out of here sooner rather than later. She was an innocent bystander. She had every right to defend herself, especially as she hadn't had the wits about her to make use of the mona; pain made casting a near impossibility for all but the most skilled of sorcerers and she wasn't one of those.

She raised her hands, making sure that they could see that she was unarmed as the girl walked towards the area to which she'd been directed. The one she'd hit was waving a ladle at her, the first time she'd actually seen what she'd thrown, and he didn't look too bad for all his complaining. She could fix him easily, the mona unlikely to react ill to such a spell. She was no golly but it would be a noble use of her gifts.

She stood waiting, doing her best not to roll her eyes as they went through all the rigmarole of throwing their weight around. Clocking tickers!

However, when one of the wicks started digging around in his vest, the witch tensed, hyper alert as she gathered her field, holding herself ready, considering what spell she could use, what would be brief enough to be used in a pinch. When the gun came out, she shrank away, flinching when one of the Seventen bodily flung himself into the man. Her concentration vanished, the violence getting to her more than anything, the smacking of a weapon on flesh making her wince. Her field was temporarily scattered before she clutched it to her again, tense and ready even when the gun hit the ground.

Aziza took a deep breath, pressed against the wall with her gaze fixed on the gun. When the witch dove for it, she had a split second to decide which to focus her magic on: the witch or the gun. Instinct made her hit the witch with a gust spell, the quick word and a pushing motion with her hand sending a force into her side so that the other lost her balance and fell over, sprawling on her side. It bought her seconds to work with, re-gathering her concentration so she could pull the weapon towards her. She bent quickly, ignoring the lightheadedness that resulted from the casts in quick succession. Snatching it up, she shoved it behind her, straightening up quickly and slamming her back up against it, wincing a little as her hand grated against the wall. She sent sparks popping and fizzing in the air, keeping the other wicks distracted, disorientated and at bay. Every second counted here.

"Here, golly! Do something, would ye? Rather not see any kov shot here, ye chen?"
word count: 659
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Rhys Valentin
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: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
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Thu Jul 26, 2018 2:01 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
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"Complaince is a better defense, witch." Pots couldn't help himself, though he was usually much better behaved, especially compared to his Constable, Rhys. It was hot. His face hurt. He was sweaty and his feet were sore from working so hard during this damned riot. So, he snapped a little and immediately his field tightened as if he had more to say. He resisted the sudden urge to apologize to a lower citizen, glancing away when everyone turned to line up against the wall.

Thankfully, he glanced up in time to see that clocking firearm get leveled at the tall Sergeant's chest, although he could hardly believe that Rhys stepped forward to engage the wick without a second thought. The spectacled Ensign was already gathering his field as the blond galdor swung his baton, but with his superior officer and the wick engaged in close combat, Potiphar had no room to get a spell in without risking the other Seventen's safety.

The pistol skittered across the ground and Pots began to leap toward it, only to be surprised as one witch leapt forward. As the ersehole in front of him dropped to his knees and raised his hands, Rhys was already turning at the shouted insult, the Anaxi witch leaping past the edge of his vision. He felt the shift in the mona, as did Rhys, and both galdori heard the Mugrobi witch cast.

The young Valentin had never heard spoke magic, had never seen its results, but when he felt the mona move in obedience to her words, something twisted and coiled strangely in his adrenaline-filled veins. It felt like the whirlies, but it was something else—the use of magic by a lower race both fascinating and disgusting at the same time. The Mug's Monite was different, her intonation so casual and carefree that any of his childhood professors would have been clocking horrified. Her field hardly felt that different from his own meager vibe—but the gust of wind was just as real as anything he could have produced.

The diving witch hit the ground and Potiphar intercepted, having tugged free the restraints from his belt and all but tackling the woman to arrest her. The witch seemed prepared, rolling onto her back and kicking at the portly young galdor, growling a string of Tek insults and reaching for a knife at her belt. Who were these creatures and why would anyone resist the Seventen? Was jail time or worse, corporal punishment, really more appealing than life outside of Vienda?

Good Lady, what a clocking mess.

Of course the Ensign didn't even reach for the clocking firearm, struggling to get the upper hand on the witch who attacked him—

But the Mugrobi did.

—Shouting clattered off the walls of the dilapidated buildings, and it became obvious that a crowd of folks were headed for the alley, probably escaping a Patrol round up from the rioting in rest of the market place. The Sergeant didn't have time to look, didn't have time to warn Pots, who had the upper hand and was twisting to begin restraining the witch, but he did see the dark-skinned woman press herself against the wall, flintlock in hand behind her back.

She had helped them, and with her words, she had helped the pair of Seventen twice.

It was rather unexpected, given how filled with violence the Viendan Dives were in this moment, but it was impossible to find the compliance refreshing because there was still too much going on at once for Rhys to process the generous gift the Mugrobi woman didn't even realize she was giving with her willingness to actually be an upstanding citizen ... as a foreigner.

Her next spell made him wince, however, the quick phrase of her Monite enviable in its causalness—like some she was having a cup of tea with the sentient particles instead of the formalities required of his kind.

He was too full of adrenaline and fight reflex, and Rhys shifted his grip on the baton in his hand warily, blinking at the Mug witch, stepping closer, almost instantly aware of how different her field was—the tall blond was quietly fascinated that wicks could use magic at all, honestly—and he immediately stuck his hand out for the firearm, moving so that his shoulder was near the wall but still not risking a glance beyond the woman with the weapon. The wick he'd beaten had fallen over to shade his eyes from the sparks, cradling his arm,

"Right then. Here. I'll take it." The young Valentin waggled his fingers impatiently for the pistol, tense and on alert, his own field taut and drawn close as if both somehow protecting himself from the strangeness of the witch and yet also ready to begin casting a spell if necessary.

The distinctive sound of chroven could be heard—a low rumble of a growl above the crowd of fleeing bodies that would be washing past their scuffle in a few more seconds. Ensign Potiphar was rambling off the witch's rights as he bound her hands, none to gently pressing her to the cobblestones.

"Hurry, though."
word count: 910
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Aziza
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Thu Jul 26, 2018 7:07 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
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The world was still too exciting, the young woman simply wishing that she could be free of it. It was the violence that was awful to her, the needless pain caused, the anger. If there was anything she could do to lessen the turmoil then of course she'd do it, although perhaps to this pair of brigk, her motives were obscure. Perhaps it wasn't even possible for them to grasp that she might be doing it for a selfless reason. Still, although she had a good, pure motive, it didn't mean that she wanted to be here. The witch desperately wanted to be free of this situation, to escape to her kint and take to the road. The road was safe, not like this place where people were cooped up and miserable, trapped together until they reached a boiling point and exploded. They had nowhere to put their anger, no safe form so it rebounded, imploded. It was horrible, something that seemed unique to cities. You couldn't quite have the same sort of thing in a moving wick settlement, things could just... disperse.

The mona felt almost as excitable as she used it, eager to be part of the fray. She wasn't sure if it was more enthused by the idea of helping the Seventen or the idea of defeating the others - conquest. It didn't seem quite as eager about the sparking although it was still helping so it wasn't inclined to refuse. Her reasons were good and the mona knew it; it knew her and it knew her heart too.

The blond golly, the one who seemed to have more wits, approached her slowly, warily. Did she seem like some sort of wild animal to him? She'd gotten the weapon but hadn't turned it on him so surely that was proof enough that she wasn't a danger? Perhaps it was simply the fact that she was a wick, considered wilder, more base than his own race. She was tempted to give him a clout to the head, see if she could knock some sense into him but they didn't have the luxury of time. Besides, she didn't want to move from the wall just yet and expose the gun for all to see. The sight of it might drive people to rash and dangerous action.

As he drew closer, she wanted to shrink away from him, not wanting them to touch, her field becoming doetoed as she anticipated touching a golly field. However, she found herself caprising his field in spite of herself and got a shock. It was smaller than she'd expected, bearing some similarity with wick fields she'd encountered so it wasn't wholly alien either. It wasn't like other golly fields she'd encountered in the past and so she was... confused. It had a focus to it, something strict and more contained - disciplined was the word she was seeking perhaps - and that was more of a golly trait. It was like a mixture of golly and wick at once but it couldn't be. It must just be because it was smaller. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that it had something underlying that was close to home. She tried to shake it off, eager to get him out of field range so it was a matter of getting rid of the gun as fast as possible.

"Take it! I don't want it! Get rid of it!" she whispered feverishly. She moved swiftly, shoving it into his grasp as if it was hot. Honestly, the spoke couldn't get rid of it fast enough. She couldn't get rid of him fast enough. Still, she couldn't cut and run just yet, couldn't simply sprint off and potentially end up in the thick of things again. Besides, if she ran, she felt that that portly man binding her fellow witch would be ready to chase her down, especially given the ladle she'd struck him with. Aziza needed this man's aid. Perhaps she could throw herself on his mercy.

"Ye chen, help me. This isn't me," she explained anxiously, waving in the general direction of the other wicks and the nearby noise. "I will cooperate but please, my daoa - my mother - she'll be scared for me. I don't need to come back with ne bruises." She nodded towards Potiphar's painful looking arrest, going to great effort to try to modulate her Tek so she wouldn't be misunderstood.

"Please, help me get out of here without getting hurt. I can heal some, I can help, smooth damages I've done but please, I don't deserve this. I just came to buy food and that's gone," Aziza explained, tears rising in her eyes. It wasn't something purposeful, something designed to be manipulative. The events were just finally taking their toll, the shock ebbing enough for feeling to return properly.
word count: 856
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Rhys Valentin
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Race: Wick
: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
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Wed Aug 01, 2018 2:46 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
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Rhys had been told for as long as he could remember to never trust a spoke, that wicks were disgusting half-breeds, and that their wild ways were so difficult to tame that the wise Anaxi government had handed them sovereignty just to wash their hands from all the blood and grudges. The young Valentin had only been on active duty and out of training in Numbrey for less than two years, and yet he already doubted the truth of such pejorative, sweeping statements.

One might have assumed the Patrol Division saw the worst of things, being on the streets day in and day out, dealing with the front lines of the woes of the lower races in the name of their stewardship and peace, in the name of keeping galdori in power. However, the blond Special Enforcement Sergeant knew better.

The Investigative Division crawled into darker places and was called into deal with the most difficult of crimes—the Resistance, drugs, Bad Brothers, and, lately, intertribal warfare that spilled into the neatly ordered streets of the capitol. In less than two years, Rhys was sure he'd seen the minds of mortals in ways he'd never imagined as a schoolboy focusing on Perceptive magic, and, in all honesty, several of them had been galdori—not wicks, not humans. That wasn't to say that the lower races weren't full of trouble and strife—by the Good Lady, this riot was just a small sampling of their ridiculous crimes!

Still, he'd grown used to suspecting wicks out of necessity instead of relying on just simple training, and so when the Mugrobi witch assisted the pair of Seventen in unexpected ways, the young Valentin was caught entirely off-guard. She was shoving the flintlock pistol into his hands quickly as if it had bit her, as if she was afraid of it or him or both. He felt the caution in her field in their vicinity, the Perceptive mona that he'd come to favor allowing him but a glimpse of the panic and disgust at violence that rippled through her thoughts just by the nature of their invisible contact.

Immediately, his hands moved deftly over the weapon to disarm it, going so far as to empty the barrel just as several people ran past them, shouting and obviously no less afraid than the dark-skinned woman next to him. Potiphar barely got out of the way in time, quick to snatch up the witch he'd just bound with a surprising amount of care and concern considering where they'd just been wrestling, dragging them both to the opposite side of the alley and pressing them against the wall as two chroven with their Seventen atop them growled and clawed past, one of them glancing at them both before he shouted for what must have been the umpteenth time by the sound of it,

"You there! Stop!" Pointing into the fleeing crowd and giving his chrove a swift nudge in the ribs. The older galdor was bleeding, dirty, and the fleeing handful of wicks were mostly supporting one of their own who was also injured, slowing them down.

Dust and filth filled the alley, kicked up by the sudden excitement, and it took a moment for things to settle, the two mounted Seventen quickly catching up with their quarry and cornering them further down the street, just out of hearing range. They were only after one of the handful of wicks, truth be told, but it became quickly obvious, had anyone watched, that more than just that single man would end up arrested that day, given the scuffle that ensued once the wicks were cornered.

"You know, everyone says this sort of thing isn't them. Everyone." Rhys smirked when he finally responded, tucking the flintlock into his jacket, watching her gaze stray to his partner, Constable Potiphar, who was stepping away from the wall with his hand on the other witch's bicep, about to cross the street to rejoin them. He felt a hint of indignant distrust rise like bile against his throat, burning his tongue, aware that the bespectacled galdor hadn't been entirely gentle, but also aware that the woman had gone and dove for the gun instead of remaining still, "She resisted. You can't blame him for doing his fucking job, even if you don't like us."

She mentioned her mother, she spoke of family and fear, and while watching his partner cross the street with the other witch in tow, he nodded, distracted. He was listening, processing, but there were more shouts the next street over. Citizens were dying. Arrests were being made. Tribal conflict he didn't understand was unraveling. And he was stuck in the middle, burdened with the task of sorting out the so-called good from the so-called bad. It was a responsibility he'd taken on willingly, he could admit that, but that acceptance didn't make anything easier when he too often felt so clocking disconnected from the cause,

"Are you outside of the city, then? I can escort you, if that's what you're asking. Pots—"

Turning his blue gaze back to the wick he'd left groaning on the ground, he spoke as he removed cuffs from his own belt and knelt down to finish processing the man who'd almost shot him point blank in his narrow chest,

"She assaulted me, Rhys. She should be arrested like the rest of them." The portly Constable frowned, calling his Sergeant by his name without a second thought.

"She's a bystander. It was just a clocking ladle, Pots, not like that godsbedamned piece of chroveshit who pulled a gun. On me." He hissed, flexing his field for emphasis before he looked back over his shoulder at her, narrowing his eyes for a moment as if to let her know without speaking that he was taking a risk in trusting her word. Standing, he hefted the injured wick to his feet with a hiss, "This one here is the threat. This bastard who thought it was a clocking good idea to try and fucking shoot at a Seventen. That's a long time behind bars. The Mug, despite casting unsanctioned magic in the vicinity of uniformed officers of the law and smashing you in the face with a ladle, has been helpful and compliant. I think we can work something out—"

Potiphar looked less than impressed with the idea, but made sure to give the Mugrobi witch a glare that spoke volumes for his own trust in her from halfway across the street. It was as the pair of Seventen were still separated by several steps with the three wicks between them that something terrible happened down the alley:

A chrove roared and there was a gurgling noise of pain before a wind, almost painfully hot, rushed through the alley, tingling the exposed skin of their little, ragtag group. The same chrove, riderless and sizzling as if someone had tossed a torch against his face and flank, turned with another snarl and began to tear it's way back up the street toward them. Whatever was dissolving into combative chaos behind its black, hulking, armored form was invisible in the immediacy of its charge,

"Constable, that way!"

Rhys tilted his head toward a connecting alley, blue eyes wide as he took in the bloodied, open mouth of the huge, angry, confused beast. Reaching out of instinct to grab the Mugrobi witch, he wrested the handcuffed wick to his other side and began to tug them both down the opposite direction of the alley from Potiphar and from the swiftly approaching chrove, hoping to make it to another cross-street before the blackblack got his maw near enough to sink his teeth into any of them.

Why the clocking hell had he disarmed that flintlock again?

The Sergeant was forced to switch tactics, to shift the flow of his thoughts in the rush of the moment, especially when the wick he'd attacked was expectedly far slower than himself and the uninjured woman.

The chrove knew exactly who to go for first, and it was the weakest of potential targets. The sight of the cross street would have been a relief had the wash of hot, carnivorous breath not tickled the back of their necks and the poor gun-wielding wick not been wrenched from Rhys' grasp like a child's toy, the huge chrove's amber eyes wild as it sank its sharp teeth into the back of the bound man with a spray of warm blood and gurgled terror.

"Clock the Circle—" The tall blond hissed, shoving the Mugrobi witch ahead of him and gathering his field, perhaps more roughly than intended in his shock and panic, making sure she was just a scramble away from the narrow—too narrow for a chrove—space between buildings. The chrove didn't toss the unfortunate wick like a doll, choosing instead to maul its way through him, Rhys turning and half-falling, half-backing his way into the cross street in time to avoid a swipe from bloodied claws that dug into his uniform and stung his skin instead of ripping muscle and bone.

It was enough to disrupt the Monite that was about to leave his lips, to scatter his meager but organized field, and leave him sputtering expletives in pain instead of casting anything helpful.

The chrove attempted to crawl in after them, unwilling to accept failure, a once-tame and obedient creature completely driven mad by pain and whatever backlash had happened just a few steps too many up the alley. Stuck and snarling, jaws snapping, the beast growled and struggled while Rhys ignored that some of the blood smeared by the thing's massive paws on the walls was his own,

"Keep going. That way."
word count: 1695
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Aziza
Posts: 53
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Race: Wick
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Sun Aug 05, 2018 8:32 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
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To say that the man was confused simply wasn't a strong enough description for the look on his face, the texture of his field. It was stark, something she felt to her very marrow, that her actions were so unexpected that he hardly seemed able to truly grasp the truth of them. It was something she felt for a few moments and then he was taking the gun from her, fingers moving over it deftly in what she assumed was a disarming action.

She wondered if the Seventen golly was utterly floored by her actions. Perhaps those other wicks had acted as he'd expected - perhaps that was all that he expected of her kind. Gollies didn't have a high opinion of wicks, she knew that. When the Mugrobi had come to this kingdom, the girl had learned that her race were hated, truly hated, by the gollies. At home, wicks weren't loved either but they were left alone, they were allowed certain privileges. Something Aziza had learned since her arrival in Anaxas was that most of the Anaxi wicks couldn't read or write. Here, there were things that her kind could not do, the gollies discriminated against them and she had come to detest them for it. Still, she could put up with a great deal of shit from them, except when they looked down their nose at her profession and her way of life. She detested their violence.

This blond one who accepted the gun from her, she wondered if he hated her on principle as well. He had made no move to stop his colleague hurting them. Hadn't that colleague thrown painful spells at them and when she'd fought back, injured him, hadn't this one agreed that she'd committed assault? That fat one was currently grinding that other witch into the dirt, heedless of the damage he might be causing and this blond one... he did nothing to help.

Two chroven rode past, the other witch tugged to her feet and dragged out of the way, in a movement that was surprising; it was a wonder that he hadn't allowed her to be trampled and shredded under those claws. She flattened herself against the wall, desperate not to run foul of the blackback herself. They were chasing wicks, those massive creatures easily able to shred them if it got too close, if the gollies lost control. She'd heard horror stories about what chroven could do to a body. They didn't really need them, surely, didn't really need such massive foul beasts to deal with humans, passives and wicks; there weren't that many guns around and no wick's magic could really stand against a golly's.

His comment was met with a deadpan stare as the chaos carried on around her. Yes, he was going to make assumptions about her, that was quite clear. She was going to be taken as guilty and highly unlikely to be found innocent. Thus, his next words were met with a snort, the spoke quite unwilling to offer him kind words.

"Oes, this ent my doing, this ent me. If it was, I woulda shot ye, wou'n't I, golly?" she retorted, rolling her eyes. "Is it yer job to keep the peace or to grind someone's face into the ground 'til it bleeds? Oh, epaemo! They're the same thing, ent they? In yer minds anyway," the young woman explained, shaking her head, evident disgust on her face.

He talked about escorting her and she shot him a doubting, disbelieving look. She didn't think that his idea of an 'escort' would be nice. She wondered if he'd call what his colleague was doing a form of 'escorting' too.

The fat one butted in, bringing up the assault thing again, her ears pricking up as she caught the name of the blond one: Rhys. That was when he caught her off guard, speaking on her behalf, pointing out that she wasn't the threat. It had only been a ladle after all, it really wasn't anything compared to a gun. There wasn't a word of his that was lost on her though and it wasn't all positive towards her.

Unsanctioned magic.

Her magic had saved him from being shot. Her unsanctioned magic had saved his ungrateful, high and mighty erse. Did he think he was better than her because of the lucky circumstance of his birth? The uniform he wore? His field didn't even feel that different than hers. Just because he'd been allowed to go to a magical institution didn't make her magic any less valid than his. Anyone could fall foul of the mona or earn its favour; anyone could have it backlash and come back to bite them.

The dark-skinned woman bit her lip, mouth pressed into a hard line. The fat one glared at her across the street but she hardly glanced his way, focused instead on this Rhys fellow, trying to decide what to make of him. Was he on her side or not? Could she trust this golly who seemed more than prepared to look down his nose at her?

That's when the roar came, a sound of agony and fear and rage. The witch's head swivelled, mouth dropping open as she gawked at the chrove, heat rushing against her skin in an odd, unnatural seeming wind. Despite the warmth, she shuddered, inching along the wall, something telling her that she didn't want to be anywhere near whatever was unfolding down the alley from them.

"Oh Hulali!" she cried out, hand pressed to her mouth as she saw its burned state, the fire that had tried to consume its living pain. She empathised with its agony but she feared it as well, the animal driven quite mad by it; she could see it in its wild, roving eyes and hear it in his bellows. She froze before it until the touch on her arm came, the Seventen's grasp on her livening her up again with a start.

"What-" she began, too shocked to finish her question. Besides, how would he know what was going on any more than she would?

He pulled at her, hurrying her along as the terrible beast chased them. It was too close, huffing hot, stinking breath over them as they tried to get away.

He wasn't fast enough for her. Alone, she stood a chance perhaps. The witch moved, intending to run faster, perhaps grab him and tug him along, her urgency great.

Then came the tugging wrench. She felt it through the brigk as his other prisoner was pulled away by the animal. She howled, agonised over what had occurred so near at hand. The blood, fountaining out, hot droplets splattering across the back of her blouse, finding the bare skin on her arms, the back of her neck, catching the side of her face as she partially turned.

She was thrust forward, falling onto her knees, skin scraped open and left bleeding. She scrabbled up, trying to look and see what was going on. The former wick mutilated, tossed aside lifeless and discarded, the ground drinking deeply of the blood of the fallen.

The mona shifted and she tried to think of what she could cast to help, clutching at her own field in some pre-emptive preparation for some manner of strike. That was when it grabbed at the blond, the mona he held whipping out. She flinched away as if slapped, the sentient particles around her furious at being released when it had gone to the effort of coming to his call.

Aziza had no idea how he managed to get into the alley with her, the furious beast trying to follow him, leaving scarlet everywhere. She needed to get away from that mad animal but not without taking her odd ally with her; he was an innocent bystander after all.

She'd gotten to her feet and now she dove, shoving one arm under his armpit, moving to sling the other arm around his waist as she tried to lift him, support him, and lead him away.

"C'mon, golly. Ye need to get out o' this madness so ye can be seen t' by one of 'em healers. Ye dint have a benny look to ye, brigk, but I'll do what I can. Will ne be much but I'll do what I can," she informed him from between gritted teeth, panting a little. "Even if ye are an erse."

She moved forward, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and that gods forsaken creature. In her panic, she didn't really know her way around, didn't understand where she was going. She tried to guide him right, chaos going on around them - screaming and blood and violence. Her face was wet with tears, the salty taste on her lips clueing her in to the sobs she hadn't realised were coming from her. The young woman didn't even notice the repetition of Hulali's name that rolled off her tongue.
word count: 1559
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Rhys Valentin
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: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
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Fri Aug 10, 2018 1:49 pm

Roalis 51, 2716
The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
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"Look, witch, now isn't the time for me to be disciplining my subordinates even though they should know better, but when the time comes for me to write this incident up, don't think I'm a clocking ersehole who leaves out any details." The Sergeant hissed under his breath at her accusatory defiance, blue eyes darting toward his Constable and his methods of arrest before they were interrupted.

Before they were forced to flee the violent consequences of what must have been a horrible backlash.

Rhys was far too full of duty and adrenaline to be able to evaluate the severity of his wounds, scrambling away from the angry, struggling chrove as it attempted to squeeze its still-smoldering, hulking form into the narrow alley. Thank Alioe it failed to do so, instead finding itself stuck and, if it was even possible, angrier than before. Growling and writhing, the blackback desperately attempted to get itself out of the too-small space it'd shoved itself into. The witch grabbed for him and helped him up, attempting to support him once he realized he was a little more unsteady on his feet than he expected. The mona were displeased, but perhaps it wasn't entirely his fault—his gaze lingered warily on the dark beast as he let the Mugrobi woman tug him away.

His Tek was decent enough and though her accent wasn't Anaxi, he understood her, but it took the young Valentin a few extra moments to process her words while his pulse roared in his ears and a burning pain slowly crept into his chest with the red stains that darkened the bright green of his uniform. Some defiant and proud part of him welled up with the physical hurt and he struggled,

"I'm fine." He exhaled with obvious bravado before he simply allowed the extra hands to keep his balance, unable to help the curl of distaste on his lips and in his tone at the very thought that the Mugrobi wick was offering to use her watered-down magic on his behalf. A disgusting imitation of centuries of galdori study and perfection, was it not?

He'd been taught his entire life that wick magic was more akin to glorified parlor tricks and stolen secrets than actual well-crafted spellwork, but it confused him as to why the Mona at all would acquiesce to the lower race's requests if that were really the case. It was an odd mystery he couldn't quite ever fully wrap his acceptance or understanding around, much to the chagrin of his peers. It was easier not to question too deeply, but her offer dredged up well-taught fears and prejudices, "Are you offering to heal me? N-no, thank you, but I don't think ... I don't think that would even work. Would it? Probably not. Wick magic is ... it's different. I'll be alright ... we ... uh ... we just need to find another patrol—preferably one not so dangerously engaged in combat. I'm fine without—"

He stopped and looked at the dark-skinned witch. The tall blond was far more calm than the panicked woman, either because he processed shock differently or because of the intensity of his two years of training in Numbrey. Perhaps a cocktail of both, but eventually he found his footing as they pressed on down the narrow space between two buildings. From the other end of the alley, the end without the crazed chrove stuck in it, shouting and chaos could still be heard. The riot wasn't a small one, apparently, and the anger and violence had spread like wildfire in the Roalis heat,

"—hey."

He paused, reaching out with his other hand to lean against the baking brick wall with a wince at how hot it was, the Dives in the afternoon practically an open fire today in all the wrong ways. The dark-skinned witch seemed to be bordering on the hysterical. Clearly, she hadn't expected the kind of violence her kind here in Anaxas were capable of. The intertribal warfare between the Red Crows and the Yellow Eye was infamous at this point, and it had only gotten worse, not better, over the past handful of years since the Kingdom of Anaxas took its place as head of the Symvouli, "I meant what I said about getting you back to your family, but getting out of the city in a riot is going to be a clocking challenge. So long as I don't run into a superior officer, I have enough authority to push us through barricades, but you can't be a sniveling mess in front of the Seventen. I know it's a little frightening—and that, well that was clocking ridiculous—but, I need you to focus. Then again, I can't exactly help you like this, either—"

The Sergeant smirked and leaned heavily against the wall for a moment, burning pain seeping in. He wasn't about to convince any other uniformed galdori that he was alright when he didn't look it, either. He'd be detained for healing and that would be the end of it, for he was quite sure the witch in front of him would end up arrested by association the moment they were separated,

"—give me just a minute to, uh, think here. Plan our next steps. Catch my breath. Ugh."

Maybe that beast had hit him harder than the thought, suddenly dizzy, and the tall blond began to unbutton the jacket of his bright green, bloodied uniform to peer at his wounds while he continued to speak, "I'm Rhys, by the way. Sergeant Valentin. Inspector. Whichever. I don't clocking care what you call me. Brikg, is it? In Tek, that is. I speak a bit. For ... reasons. Ah, godsdamnit. I clocking hate chroven."

In the tight space that felt like an oven, the Mugrobi would feel the mona around them shift like the tide and immediately be able to recognize that Rhys was gathering his field, but it was difficult to concentrate, to convince the Perceptive mona that made up his field to gather again as if there was a worry he might be interrupted. No one had brailed, but the sensation of caution was almost tangible. Undaunted, he quietly spoke words of Monite, eyes fluttering shut to concentrate. His intonation felt comfortable enough, but Aziza would hear a ridiculous level of formality–extra turns of phrase that seemed to be important to the tall blond where those seemingly wasted words wouldn't have mattered to a wick. Ever.

He sought to dull his own pain for the moment, which was difficult enough because it was his pain and not someone else's, but it was as he began to weave in the Living Conversation request to stop the bleeding, to speed up the clotting process, that he felt the dull ache of resistance in the muscles of his jaw and tasted the bitterness of the mona's denial. While the sting lessoned and his bleeding may have slowed a little, the tall Sergant was neither skilled at Living magic nor a medic. His basic training had covered some triage, but his own personal magical limitations always became clearer and more obvious when he strayed into the experimental realm.

"Fuck. Nevermind, then. I know my way around the Dives well enough. We'll improvise."

Rhys groaned and began to push off from the wall to head toward the busy, riot-filled street, waving a bloodied hand in both dismissal and invitation for the woman to follow, choosing to ignore his injuries should she let him.
word count: 1333
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Aziza
Posts: 53
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Race: Wick
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Thu Aug 23, 2018 7:27 pm

Roalis 51, 2718
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The mona seemed to squirm around her, agitated, hyper. It was particularly slippery around them, giving her the sense that if she reached for it, it'd skitter away from her grasp. Now wouldn't be the time to force it. Aziza didn't think it was displeased with her specifically but if they could put some distance between themselves and this unhappy spot then she might be able to do the man some good.

If he'd let her.

While she watched his green uniform darken with blood, leaving her to wonder how badly he'd been struck, the Seventen had the gall to say that he was fine. From beside him, she shot him a deadpan look, the disbelief clear in her expression as she shook her head. Was it his own stupid pride that had made him spout the blatant lie or was it what she was? To him, she was lesser and obviously, she shouldn't come near her with her dirty, inferior magic. Perhaps it was a combination of the two, the fact that he was a golly making him willing to bleed out and possibly die rather than accept a wick's aid.

"Dint be mung. I got eyes, ent I? Ye haven't got a wee scratch; ye're full of fucking holes, kov!" the Mugrobi gasped out derisively, shaking her head some more until he stopped abruptly, stuttering through a refusal of her magic, her help because he said that she couldn't do it. Who was the one planning to do the casting here? He didn't know her capabilities, he couldn't judge her power or her intent. Although maybe the fact that she was trembling like a leaf and was as nervous as a frightened horse. With the way things were in her head right now, she might not be very capable of much at all.

"I chen my own vroo. I know it ent golly magic - thank Hulali for that! - but I can do more'n ye think. Ye mustn't think I can do much," the young woman retorted, fighting back the sudden urge to burst into tears as they pressed on. Not that they got very far of course, the man leaning against the wall in what she assumed was pain until he started talking about her.

The witch stared at him, wondering if she really seemed that bad to him. She wasn't snivelling, not yet but she leaned back against the wall opposite him, wincing a little at the heat and roughness against her exposed skin. She leaned down, hands on her knees while she took deep breaths, trying to calm herself a bit before they went anywhere near any of the barricades that the brigk talked about. Her bent position afforded her a wonderful view of the slow drip of blood, the man having left a shallow trail of it behind him. It was clear that the bleeding needed to stop. She wasn't sure how much blood someone had in them - golly or otherwise - but he seemed to have lost a fair bit of it.

The young woman remembered the last time she'd really pushed her healing abilities, how it had been her own fault that she'd needed to use them in the first place. She'd shoved that lecher into the door frame and then she'd have to knit his split head closed again. It had made her weak, ready to drop and she'd been awfully sick but it was doable. She didn't plan to do anything that big, not this time. If she could just slow the blood, thicken it, then he might last until they got to a real healer. She wouldn't pretend that she was that; she had no illusions of golly grandeur.

"Rhys, eh? I'm Aziza m'self. Ye're a brigk, oes, or a kov. 'Spose ye're too fancy to be jus' a kov," she commented, laughing lightly, smiling nervously as she watched him. She would have said more but she felt the mona move, realised that he was about to do some casting and decided not to distract him; she doubted he'd have an easy time of it even without her interference.

The Mugrobi watched him closely, brows pulled together as she carefully paid attention to the shifts in the mona, listened to his fancy phrasing as he tried to dull his own pain. By the sounds of it, all his complicated wording wasn't getting him anywhere. She could feel it, the way it rippled away, unwilling to do his bidding. And just like that, he was ready to give up and press on.

"Rhys, Sergeant... whatever. Ye can stay still and I'll do what I can 'fore you collapse in a heap," the witch said finally, pushing off from the wall to approach him. If he tried to sidestep her, she'd place herself quite squarely in his path. She shut her eyes, taking a deep breath as she gathered her field and stepped forward to lightly lay hands on his chest. Her eyes snapped open, the young woman doing her best to gain a sense of what damage had been done without actually stripping him. She nudged torn cloth aside, dark fingertips hovering over the bloody wounds as she called on the mona, a plaintive tone to her voice, choosing words that would convey both her need and her respect for it.

The witch asked it to slow what tried to escape, to thicken the crimson liquid and stop it from oozing out any further. She wanted it to coagulate and she repeated it, her intent gaining in strength, each repetition giving her confidence, calming her down. She knew what she wanted and she was calm enough for the mona to listen. The blood became jelly-like, sticking up the holes for the time being although a jolt would set things flowing freely again.

Aziza breathed heavily, resting a hand against the wall briefly while she readied herself for more and threw herself into it again. She used more flowery language than she might have normally, trying to make it understand that she wanted his pain to ebb, drawing back like the tide going out. She had no illusions that she could stop it and she could just as easily stop him feeling altogether if she wasn't careful. She just wanted to diminish it a little so they could carry on.

When she finally released her field, the heat hit her hard, everything tilting at a dangerous angle as dizziness struck her. Her shoulder struck the wall, the young woman wilting, waving a hand vaguely as if to ward him off, anticipating worry.

"I'm fine, jus' gimme a second. Jussa second," she murmured thickly, struggling with manoeuvring her tongue, almost feeling as if it had swelled and she was trying not to choke on it. There was a throb in her temples, a faint taste of metal in her mouth as if she'd lapped up some of the blood. "Right. Right, let's go. Ye ent quite benny but ye'll do, I think. Ye don't need to lead, I think I can get us around. Avoid an'tin' that looks like to cott us."

Without waiting for his input, she set off again, heading for the nearest clear looking alley that seemed to be in the right direction. She knew where the sun rose and fell, could work out some basic direction from its placement and so she was reasonably sure that she was heading the right way. As long as they moved vaguely in the right direction, they'd escape at last, even if they had to go out of their way a little. Perhaps her step was a little unsteady, the young woman moving as if a little drunk. Maybe that was what made her stand out or maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, too close to the Inspector more like.

"Witch! Stop right there! Stop now!" a gruff male voice roared. "C'mere!"

A Seventen man rushed forward, moving to grab her. "I ent done nothin' wrong but yer sergeant, 'spector, whatsit... he could do wi' some- OW! What ye at, ye crazy brigk?" she hollered as he wrenched her hands behind her back, slipping something painfully around her wrists and tightening it so she couldn't get free.

"Help me out here, would ye? Tell 'em I bin helping ye!" she pleaded with Rhys, whimpering a little as she pushed and pulled.
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