The Dives | Mid-Afternoon
She stepped into his personal space, their auras suddenly and shockingly pressed together as her hands reached for him and it took all of Rhys' training to not smack them away or flex his field in self-defense. While the witch could have definitely been more invasive with her parting of bloodied fabric and push of her fingers, she just granted him a cursory glance at his wounds before she began to prepare to cast.
The mona moved—not at his will but at the will of this Mugrobi woman.
He wanted so desperately to object but also was terrified of causing her to brail that he shut his mouth with an exhale through his grit teeth, able to pick out the syllables of her words and feel the shifting of Living mona even if perhaps she was unaware of exactly what she was doing with the same kind of academic precision the Brunnhold graduate was. He'd found himself in need of magical healing more than once in his life, even as a student, and the word "reckless" had been stuck on his person almost as often as the words "towhead" and "glamour" had been used in his presence.
"Clock the Circle, I said—oh." He shut his mouth, grunting in pain when the mona began to acquiesce to the woman's requests. Wide-eyed, he listened. Wide-eyed he felt that not only did her magic work just fine, but it was working on him, a galdor wearing a uniform universally disliked among the lower races as oppressors and perpetuators of oppression. He watched her face and heard her Monite and realized that somewhere in the middle, he'd truly stopped processing what was happening, so great was the disconnect between what he'd learned was acceptable and right and what was happening in an alley while the shouts of a riot unfolded in the Dives around them.
The sting lessened to a more tolerable level of pain and while he couldn't tell exactly how well the raked lines across his chest had coagulated because of how stained his uniform already was, Rhys realized he didn't doubt the success of her casting, not judging by the metallic tang in his mouth and the sensation of Living mona ebbing away from their presence as if someone had tugged away a warm blanket and left them to stand in the cold ... only it was Roalis and he was sweating.
The blond Seventen had been taught to fear the magic of the lesser race called wicks. They were wild, undisciplined, disgusting in their use of the same graceful Monite that graced the lips of his people, the proper wielders of magic, the galdori. Now, he didn't know what to think or how to feel and while he knew he should thank Aziza for what had just transpired between them, the young Valentin found the words hesitant on his tongue for several moments longer than was at all polite,
She swayed on her feet and when he raised a hand to offer to steady her, she waved him off, to which he mumbled without hiding his shock,
"Thank you."
The Mugrobi woman dismissed his authority as quickly as she'd dismissed much of what he'd had to say thus far, turning and striking the lead toward the other end of the alley. Rhys scowled, squinting past her even as he reached to gingerly adjust his uniform, his sash, and the blood-soaked fabric of his green-dyed coat. They'd barely staggered their way out of the oven-like confines between two brick buildings when a voice rang out above the din of other rioting, snapping his weary attention just a few seconds too late,
"Stand down!" He hissed, straightening to his full height with a wince, "Stand down—she's with me."
The other galdor glanced up, having already begun to tighten the restraints he'd so very quickly whipped out from his belt and wrapped around the witch's wrists. He was another patrol officer and Rhys' blue eyes caught the flash of only two snaps to his four, "I've got orders to arrest wicks without writs, Sergeant—"
"Special Enforcement Sergeant Valentin, Investigative Division." The tall blond said slowly and with all the authority a wounded man could muster, stepping closer with a bolstering of his field and reaching out to still the other officer's hand from finishing his restraint of the Mugrobi woman. He let his gaze flick toward Aziza as if to warn her to keep from struggling, "And she's my informant. I'm escorting her to safety. Now, would you like to continue to blow her cover in front of everyone or would you mind letting me do my job, Ensign?"
"Aw, shit, Sergeant. I'm sorry, look—this riot—the heat—" The older man was obviously both shocked and cowed by the younger galdor's unashamed display of authority, quickly reaching to set the woman free, though he didn't apologize to her so much as Rhys, "—you're injured, sir."
"I'm aware." He grunted, wanting nothing more than to crawl his way home and forget the violence that sweltered in the summer heat and strained his sanity, more now than ever. What was he even doing? He could have handed the woman off and been done with her, but he wasn't an asshole. He was just so clocking confused, "Where are the blockades? We've been getting out of the center of things near the market and a backlash incident separated me from my partner, Ensign Potiphar of the Investigative Division. What streets have checkpoints?"
The other man blinked, not surprised that an Inspector wouldn't know the Patrol Division's most frequent streets to blockade. He listed them all in military-esque fashion, unwittingly giving Rhys a list of streets to avoid while he chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from swaying on his feet, nauseated and tired, sweating and bloodied, dizzy and frustrated.
"Thank you, sir. Keep an eye out for my partner and ... there is a wounded chroven on the loose on Aster Street, one block that way—" He pointed to where the creature had attacked him, "I'm not sure if there are any survivors, but you need to get Services Division down there as quickly as possible."
"Yessir." The Ensign's eyes widened and he looked back to Aziza for a moment, hints of suspicion still in his glance, only to be unable to question her further with the urgency of Rhys' orders. Nodding his head, he turned and rushed toward where other Seventen were gathered in order to begin gesturing and speaking quickly about what had happened.
Rhys let a hand curl with surprising gentleness around the witch's bicep, almost whispering, "Now we know what streets we won't be taking. Come on. I'll get you as far as I can before I have to start giving up my rank to do so. No more of this clocking ‘after you business’ unless you want someone else in a cleaner uniform snatching you again. I can't be that charmingly convincing all the clocking time, just most of it."
He offered a lopsided grin, free hand wiping his forehead, uncaring if it was even dirty any more. Making their way through streets that weren't blockaded by the Seventen meant that they'd probably run into more wicks, more fighting. The young Valentin hoped they could find the quieter paths, but he doubted that anything would be so simple.