[Riot 2718] [Closed] The Unlikely Bonds

[29 Yaris 2178] Saunders' Forge, the Dives. Gale runs into

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Thu Oct 18, 2018 3:57 pm

the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
The wood groaned, a creak of noise as the forge door opened. A single green eye peered out, form crouched as it peered out onto the street beyond. For the moment it was quiet, the latest crowd of the angered rage having swept on by. There was smoke, a lingering scent that was richer than before, having climbed up into the sky and blotted out any light that dwelled above. What replaced it was the faint distant flickers of flames, clawing and reaching up into the sky - hiding the dipping of the sun and the approach of darkness. The door closed.

Exhaling, Gale turned her head back into the low lit forge. The shutters had been barricaded, the work spaces removed of goods and laid down as breaks between the entrance. It was huddled at the back, the tiny frightened eyes staring at the smith. Their lip forced up into a curl, a finger placed across before she turned back to the door. Her voice whispered, "I'm just steppin' out for a bit. Gonna see if I can find your ma. Mark, while I'm gone you are in charge. You got?"

The pair, Mark and Eleanor, had run straight to the forge when they lost their mother in the chaos of the rioting. Mister Saunders was always a safe person to go to, capable of keeping young minds in one place while he worked. Gale did not hesitate on opening the door and ushering them inside, hiding them towards the back and keeping them out of sight. That was two days ago however; there had yet to be any sign of the woman in question. The smith frowned, it was problematic - drawing out to more of an issue as time stretched on. Carefully, Gale took the forge key and secured it on their person. The coat came next, hiding the sin that she hid beneath the layers - Liberator loaded with shot and caps, another six of the prototype cartridges within an inside pocket. The main weapon of choice however was an iron knife, a good ten inches of blade and a curling, twisting hilt.

"You know the knock don't you? Answer for no one except for that one."

A small whimper of noise. Was it really okay to leave them here?

It had to be. She needed to get answers of some form - or if not that then food.

The smith slipped out between the gap in the door and promptly locked it.

Darting out across the street, the form ducked into the shadow of the alleyway. Feet moved softly, form slinking as it lingered in the low light. The faint murmur of voices gave her pause, a rasp that echoed between the buildings and before being sharply snuffed out. A louder footfall moved away, indistinct voices fading from earshot. Continuing to move, the smith shuffled, bending to see what had been left behind in the gloom. She regretted looking. Form froze at the junction of alleyways, the remains of a smashed in face and a throttled neck absorbing her vision.

Male. Blunt force.

A small crouch in, she saw the dark green clothing, the start of finer features.

An Unc-

"Oi, over there!" Her head turned as she saw the shapes returning, humanoid in shape growing into more. She blinked, hearing the feet move into a run. Gale did not hang about. The form immediately darted away, leaping over the left corpse and down the other way. No time to think, the feet thundered off down the alleyway and away from the forge. She was too close to safety, running back would only drag others into danger. Feet skidded, the alley opening out into the next street over.

Don't stop!

Up and over, she gave a pivot as she looked back. The hunt was on. The body lurched away, catching the glimpse of the three who began their chase. Down the main street, the effects of the rioting opened out before her. Mere snatches, burned wood, slumped forms of others left behind. A hissing crack sounded out, a thunderous roar racing out from behind. The smith threw themselves to the floor, hands above their head. Slamming to the ground, the smash of shot splintered against one of the buildings. The knife skittered across the floor. Behind the hoots and hollers rung out, herself groaning as she dragged herself up. Fingers fumbled for the hilt, a glance back as she watched the shooter haphazardly attempt to reload the pistol. The others continued on.

Not like this!

Scrambling up, she forced her legs into movement. How many seconds did she have - thirty? Forty? Line of sight needed to be broken. Dashing down the street, she took the next turn, form twisting as she grasped whatever came into range to block the way. No time to pay attentions to the signs, a crashing of racking falling into the street behind. A string of curses from the pursuers, the smith threw themselves down another alleyway. Feet picked up, up over the debris as the line of sight was broken for a moment.

Ahead a wooden fence loomed, cutting the alley in half. The smith leapt at it, hands reaching up for the top. Feet pressed, pushing upwards while the arms moved. Behind the shouts continued, attention drawn her way. Clambering up, the awkward climb continued as the pair closed in. At the end now she saw the shooter, standing at the mouth of the alleyway. The foot kicked down at the grabbing hands, arms straining as she swung herself up onto the top. Leg over the top, the pistol at the end took aim.

"Shi-"

The thundering shot fired once more. Arms flaying, the tentative balance at the top was lost. Hands grasped at air, lungs screeching as gravity took its toll. Over the other side the smith fell. Twisting, the side met earth, head smacking into the ground. White noise filled her ears, hands pressing as she tried to pull herself up. Numbing took over, legs wobbling as she found purchase despite the splitting of her sides.

Never should have left. Not like this. Come on Gale.

Shaking her head she pulled herself along. Chest burning, teeth gritted. Shoulder bumped into the wall, the shouts coming from behind. Cheering, the sick bastards. She had to keep moving, it was not safe here. Up towards the end of the alleyway, the heaving form of Gale took its pause - a momentary respite as the route onwards was checked.
Last edited by Gale on Fri Dec 07, 2018 10:15 am, edited 4 times in total.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Rhys Valentin
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Fri Oct 26, 2018 1:29 pm

29th of Yaris, 2718
CLOCKING BLOODY DIVES | DON'T be out AFTER DARK
"Fall back!" Special Enforcement Sergeant Rhys Valentin's voice rang out above the din of combat, above Pots' chanting voice next to him as the Constable gathered his field and began to cast another spell. His voice was hoarse, torn and broken after almost half a week of this clocking fighting. The riot had exploded, had grown so out of hand, had swallowed the Dives in chaos and fire and looting and bloodshed. He hadn't slept in at least a day, possibly more, but he couldn't remember. His temples ached from the flow of mona through the streets, Perceptive magic having already warped his eyesight over the years that all of his casting these past few days surely should have left him blind had Alioe not felt so merciful to even keep him alive.

There was blood on his three-day old uniform. Mostly not his. Some of it Hours'. Some of it Pots'. From over his shoulders, hunched as his Ensign was like a child across his back, Aliendra groaned. The warmth of her blood was staining his coat between his shoulder blades, the stab wound to the ginger woman's ribs still bleeding. There was nowhere safe enough here in this quarter to heal her,

"We need to get the fuck out of here, Constable. Blind them all and let's go." Rhys hissed through grit teeth, swaying on his feet.

Pots let the Monite flow from his dry lips, the heat of Yaris oppressive and cruel under the cloud of air pollution that gave the Soot District it's ugly moniker. Light grew at his words from nowhere, drowning out the ambient light of what few phosphor lanterns lit the late night main thoroughfare they'd been fighting on. Hours added her voice to the chorus, stepping in for her Sergeant who she knew had already exhausted himself enough. The mona stirred, irritated and electric, a buzzing stinging all of their ears and raising goosebumps along their skin. The three battered, angry wicks that faced them, that were advancing on them as they'd backed them into undesirable dark side-streets, stopped.

The buzzing became a painful whine and as the light grew everyone's eyes grew warm with it. The mona was tired. Everyone was tired. The wicks howled in greater pain, all three of them reaching for their eyes as the light literally seared itself into their vision, but Pots and Hours hissed and whined in pain, too. Heat seared his own vision for a moment, and Rhys began to back away, terrified of backlash as the mona around them seemed to shift like some out-going riptide.

"Scatter!" Constable Hours had the presence of mind to shout, "Meet back up at Checkpoint Sixteen!"

The mona was leaving, the void left in its place tangible and disorienting. The wicks would recover soon, writhing on the ground with the stinging that felt much like pepper spray and the glowing annoyance of Potiphar's spell lingering at the edges of their vision.

All three of the able-bodied Seventen fled in different directions, though Rhys staggered under the weight of his Ensign, Aliendra mumbling in pain against his shoulder, confused and disoriented from her blood loss, "Soon, Ensign. I just need to get us somewhere safe."

He slipped into a dark alley, the tall blond dragging his shoulder against the dirty brick wall as he doggedly stumbled his way over cobblestones he couldn't see, crashing past refuse and splashing in questionable liquids, boots squelching in a stale mire of forgotten garbage and the rainy season's drainage. It was nauseating, as if he wasn't already, and while he had a vague idea of where he was going, it wasn't until he stepped out into the next wider street that he recognized the area.

"Clocking hell—" His words were cut short by a blow to his ribs, the shorter, broader young man with a hood over his face wielding a piece of piping he'd bloodied on other Seventen over the past few days after first ripping it from the factory that had once held him as an indentured servant. The young human was grinning even if Rhys couldn't see it, and he hit the uniformed galdor so hard that it sent him tumbling backwards, landing on the slowly fading woman he carried and the grungy street.

Rhys saw stars and his lungs protested his broken, raspy inhale. The surprise bastard had surely bruised something, but as exhausted as he was, the blond Sergeant was too stubborn to stay down. Slipping from Aliendra's grip, he shoved himself up from the ground and rushed his attacker, only for the far better-rested, faster youth to simply shove the end of his pipe into the Seventen's jaw and drop him right back down, face-first, to the cobblestones,

"Fuckin' uncle. Y' should jus' stay down. Lemme help you w'that." The young human who by the sound of his voice was no older than a teenager raised his pipe again, resting his foot on Rhys' blood-stained back as he prepared to smash him firmly in the skull.

Rhys twisted his whole body like a trapped chroven, reaching as he did so for the human's leg and wresting him to one side with a strength that belied his assumed heritage. The youth yelped in surprise, pipe clattering to the cobblestones, but his body landed right on the Sergeant who'd been desperately hoping to get away. The tall blond groaned, ribs objecting to the pressure, and he scrambled to get a hold on his attacker. The two exchanged a few hard, bloodying blows in their attempt to wrestle superior position out of the grip of the other man until Rhys was quite sure he'd had enough.

His fingers curled into the human's hood in desperation, grabbing and twisting at his collar until he managed to begin to cut off the angry youth's ability to breathe.

Gods, he didn't want to kill anyone else, he just wanted to go home. He wanted to make sure Aliendra survived her first year out of Numbrey. He wanted the Anaxi Armed Forces to finally arrive on this disgusting scene. He wanted to arrest every godsbedamned tribal wick in all of Vienda until they apologized for this mess.

The young thing gurgled, Rhys unaware of just how much of his exhausted frustration had been channeled into his fingers, into the forcefulness of his grip, the young thing growing wobbly from his position straddling the Sergeant's aching chest, "I'm going to stop and take my leave. Do you understand? I'm not even going to clocking arrest you, alright?" He wheezed, every word an effort to put the syllables together coherently even as the young man he was suffocating attempted to fight back for a moment.

The young Valentin shifted his body now that he had the advantage and unceremoniously tossed the youth to the cobblestones, hearing him inhale sharply in pain and half-starved need. Rhys kept his word, backing away, snatching up Aliendra again and trying weakly to get her up again to carry on his back, spitting blood. His sharp blue gaze were locked on his attacker however, vision swimming with the darkness that already clung to the Soot District at this forsaken hour of the night. It was quiet on this street and the tall Seventen didn't like the way that felt.

He did know what was nearby, however, and it would have to do for shelter if he could make it there.
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Gale
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 7:27 am

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
Gale wheezed, lungs rebelling as she peered out into the street. Fingers flexed around the knife handle, every muscle twitching in anticipation for whatever came next. Besides the cries of the others beyond the fence, the clattering sound of movement as heavier frames rocked against it, there was silence. She gave a peer back, seeing the shuddering of wood as they either looked to scale or smash it down, before she dragged herself out and to the left.

It was one of the main streets. She did not dally too long, spying the distant towers of the factories piecing above the lingering smoke and fires. Pace quickened, head shaking out the ringing sensation that rattled within. The crashing of the fence some distance behind, followed by the shouts of anger at an escaped quarry made her once more dart across the street. Forced inhales, she ducked beneath the remains of some stall, dropping to a crawl to clamber beneath the wreckage. Teeth gritted, the smith held back a hiss. Fingers clenched, body writhed, as she curled up into a ball. The shouts rushed past, feet thundering off. The slither of gap revealed their passing shadows, breath caught in her throat as their movement continued on past. Gradually the noise of their chase faded, another, echoing shot rumbling out as a new target was seemingly picked out.

Poor bastard.

Rolling out, the smith blinked into the growing gloom, before turning on their heel. A pivot, the light steps dashed in the opposite direction of the once pursuers. Gale was far from a sleuth, but the various activities in the past taught her to keep her head down and stick to the places of shadow. Prowling, head lifting and dipping while the pain continued to burn. She would need something for that – something stiff. The side was aching too much, something far too sharp for her liking.

Still, hunched down the smith continued. They needed to eat, they needed to survive. She paused in the low light, carefully sifting through the remains of debris, of smashed in doors and still bodies that had been trampled in the rioting. Her nostrils twitched, catching the distinct scent of burning meat – it was easy to presume the deceased – on the wind. Every sound was amplified, the creaking groan of buildings that swayed in the wind. She ducked and dipped, beneath the slumped door of a tobacconist she frequently attended, eyes shifting to the other door beyond that hung limply open. The alleyway it opened out onto was silent.

Scurrying around, the smith shifted through the smashed bottles, the pungent scent of some strong liquor mixing in with something else. In the low light, the fingers cautiously moved, shifting along the shelves to find anything remotely useful. Purchase was found on some cheap bottled whiskey – Gale was not a whiskey drinker by choice – and she carefully lifted it away from the debris and into the coat pocket. She shrugged as it hung half out, lips craving the taste of tobacco more; the hands grasped some random packet of cigarettes and matches – before she slunk out the back door.

This is bloody bull-

The sounds of a scuffle down the mouth of the alleyway caught their attention. Head turning, the smith peered down the dark alleyway and to the street beyond. A youth attacked a Seventen, their shapes barely distinguishable in the light. But the shock of blonde hair did not miss the eyes of the smith. Normally they would have left it as it was, but the jaw of the smith merely tensed. Youth was tossed away, trying to climb back up while the Seventen tried to tend to something else. Another? Gale did not really pay attention to that factor – he was however swaying, while the attacker was trying to get up. Was the idiot going for another go?

Oh for fucks sake.

Gale reacted. Slow quiet steps picked up, hitting the sloshing muck, growing faster as the youth finally reached a stand. The pipe came swinging back, intent clear – only to have a shoulder barging firmly into his side. The pair struck the ground, smith tackling and squirming onto him until they sat promptly on top. The fist recoiled back, the momentarily stunned target feeling the hit of the pommel against the temple while the smith relentlessly beat down upon him.

And there goes my side.

They winced, teeth gritting while a final wide punch slammed down, a collection of angry grunts escaping, “Why. Don’t. You. Just. Stay. Down. You. Bloo-.” He stilled, spluttering beneath and twitching. The smith’s lip twitched, head turning to the Seventen and recognising him for who he was.

Bloody Rhys.

“Inspector. Pleasure,” Gale wheezed, she gave the youth a punch for good measure and unpeeled herself from him, “Look. Let’s just make this quick, ye chen?” Her hand rubbed her side, wincing as she leaned up against the wall, Fuck. You look shit. Bloody.” She spat, catching her breath – hand touching the bottle and finding it still intact – a small blessing, “Good. Good. Whiskey. Good. Disgusting, but good.” Her hand pointed back down the alleyway, “You… want to go that way… no. No bad idea. People with a fire… thing. ARM! Words are hard.” The hand pointed down the street, pushing herself off the wall with the other, “Just… fuck.” Rubbing the temple, she stepped over the youth and gave him a good kick as she left his vicinity, “Come on you arsehat Uncle… and compan’.”

We must be better than them. Not in just strength. But in mind and soul. We must show compassion where they show none.

Giving him a wide berth, she stepped around and behind him – eyes blinking in the dying light. She only looked over her shoulder briefly, brow raised as she regarded him, “You need a place to hide right? Ease pick otherwise. They’d love to have you. Mean, ‘less you like the beatin’ for fun,” She muttered more to herself, “So much for bloody ma and food.” She would have to lead him up and around the backstreet, looping back to the first street she was at. She waved her hand for him to follow, “Come on, ‘fore my mind changes. Quick mind, not safe out here.”

Fingers adjusted around the knife handle, gaze turning forward in the gloom. Her innards gnawed at her, a lingering discomfort that was overshadowed by the pain growing in her chest. The ears adjusted to the silence, feet finding firmer steps while the Seventen made up his mind. She paused only briefly before a set of smashed in shutters, peering in to see if there was anything remotely useful. She needed to be quick, shifting a shutter aside and letting it groan. Crashing to the ground she flinched, fingers flexing around the knife. The empty palm twitched, form growing still as she listened, itching for the grip of Liberator.

It would be so easy to. So easy.

The voice whispered, “How much trouble will I be in if I use maximum force against any problems that might happen?”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 10:16 am

29th of Yaris, 2718
CLOCKING BLOODY DIVES | DON'T be out AFTER DARK
"Let's just go our separate ways. Yeah?" Rhys was struggling to get his Ensign up, the younger galdor obviously unconscious now. He paused to spit the blood that pooled in his cheek and threatened to drown his tongue, metallic taste that trickled down his throat not an unfamiliar one. He groaned, ribs objecting to him lifting the very limp, suddenly heavy body of an otherwise diminutive ginger galdor woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hooded human move, field tightening as he realized it was not at all in a compliant, agreeable manner, "Listen, I don't want to—clock it all—"

Some other body appeared from nowhere, tackling the youth to the ground in the Sergeant's defense. They weren't in a uniform, but the blur of blond hair and the gruff voice were no longer unfamiliar.

For fuck's sake.

Aliendra nearly slipped from his grasp, a few wet expletives mumbled before his hoarse voice managed to find syllables more worthy, "That's enough. Now, really. I don't think that's ne—Good Lady." Rhys was incapable of intervening, achingly aware casting was dangerous in his current state of body and mind, finally managing to heft his unconscious Ensign against his back, adjusting his grip and just barely catching himself from falling over. He was dizzy. Air felt like little daggers in his lungs.

Inspector.

There was no pleasure in the other blonde's tone of voice and he held her gaze while he licked blood from his teeth, "Mister Saunders." His riposte was a very liquid wheeze and Gale regarded him while rambling, attempting to make a reasonable attempt at conversation while Rhys' ears rang, overspent and long overdue for a moment of rest. The last time he'd seen the creature before him had been unexpectedly compromising, Charity—

His mind strayed like he was half asleep, like a daydream, and he heard the human's voice but couldn't put the words together until the end, until there was an invitation,

"What? You're helping me? Oh, I fucking know who wants my bloody uniform as a flag, thank you—godsdamnit." Gale was moving, and the tall Seventen didn't really have any other options. His Ensign mumbled in her unconsciousness, her weak breath against his neck and he could only gurgle a pained noise, staggering under her weight and following his unlikely rescuer. It was difficult to keep up, but he was beyond exhausted. His body moved because he wasn't in the mood to die, not here in the Dives, not like this. He kept up because he had no other choice but to trust Mister Saunders with what little of himself he had at the moment.

Were they even now?

Was this repayment or just a deepening of a debt he wasn't capable of understanding?

His focus drifted, back to the delicate pianist, back over the faces of his squad—his!—that he was now isolated from almost completely. Too weak to scry. Back over the faces of angry wicks and angry humans, over the faces of suffering and oppression it was his job to somehow put back into order. Everything felt out of order and it was all he could do to breathe. His shoulder dragged against the alley while he blearily watched the blond human whose looks were too familiar to what he could see in the mirror every morning. She was asking another clocking question and he inhaled sharply, raspy whisper of a response barely audible,

"I don't fucking care. I've got a dying officer here. Do you think a few more bodies in the Dives are going to matter today? I'm in no condition to arrest anyone, especially not someone assisting the law." He swallowed and made a sour face at the taste, ignorant of the layers of irony picked at like an ugly scab while telling the younger blond in front of him he didn't have it in him to bother with whatever laws she broke simply because she was helping the Seventen, because she was helping him.

He thought she'd promised safety, so he just hovered against the wall, confused. Was she breaking and entering? What was she looking for? Why had she helped him? What—his eyes fluttered closed and his bruised face was a mask of nothingness,

"Do what you want."
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Gale
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 11:39 am

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
“Good,” breathed Gale. The more nimble and able smith gave him and his load a glance, nostrils twitching to the scent of blood, “I’ll be… to a count of thirty at most.”

And with that, the smith ducked in through the gap. Toes creaked on woodwork, hands shifting and feeling the various bumps. She had spied something, beyond the distinct scent of decay that lingered within its belly. Across the narrow gap, they were momentarily pleased that nothing could be seen clearly – it would have been an unpleasant sight.

One, two, three, four, five.

They all looked a mess. Covered in dirt and blood. Her hands found some shelving, fingers knotting around some fabric, she pulled it without thought and felt it give. Use for the blood. Staunch it. If possible. The rest of her continued to move, feet shuffling and catching something – a basket? Her hand pawed for it in the dark, hand entering to feel a rougher texture within. Lifting it out she brought it to her face to inhale the scent. Bread. Probably stale. Better than nothing. Her hands continued to tap in the darkness.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

Gale was not a thief by trade, and she held little interest in finding anything valuable. But it did not stop her from attempting to find something useful – edible. She hissed, feeling the crunch of eggshells against the surface, the hands not stopping to move until it found something more solid, it was pulled and bundled into the quickly overflowing pockets. In the end it was little more than a random assortment of edibles, and the smith quickly duck back out through the remains of the window.

“Thirty.” She hummed, tucking the loaf under one arm – there was dirt on it, but it was still good as far as she was concerned. Her hand twitched, shoulders hunching in as she gestured, “Right. No more stops. This way.”

It was the next left she took him down, fingers flexing around the hilt. Her chin lifted as she inspected the narrow street, before she darted along it. Quick, moving with purpose, she gave only the occasional glance back to him, brow furrowing. The length of cloth she held was slung over her shoulder, grey tones taking up a majority of the shades. The other hand moved in gestures, rising when necessary to bring him to a stop, a careful glance around the street corner before she pointed to the next alleyway over, “So, there. Alleyway, take the first turn in it, follow it out into the street. Forge is right across. Got it in you right? With me?”

Lead. Direct. Control the situation. High alert. You just ache.

Her lips pealed back, feeling the distinct amount of pain ache within. Pinching, prodding, she gave another glance around to check. The smith jerked back when the thunderous cracking noise escaped. Throwing themselves back against the wall arm swinging wide in an attempt to push the Seventen away from the line, the other arm coming up to protect the face. The corner splintered, her entire form growing tense as the shouts of pleasure sounded once more.

“Great. These three chuckle fucks. Time to distract.”

Thirty seconds.

The smith shoved a hand into her trouser pocket, pulling out a single, wrought iron key and thrusting it at the man.

Really? You’re about to go and do something stupid for hi-
Yes.
Do you think he’d even care? You think it’s even worth-
Yes.


“Run. Don’t look back. Get to the door lock it. I’ll knock two, then three. Ye chen?”

And you call him an idiot-
Twenty seconds.


“Oh, and try not to scare the kids,” she shrugged, pulled a face, and darted out into the street. Fingers of the free hand rose to the lips, a high pitched whistle screaming out. The rough tones pitched into a bark, the various shapes of the three peeling into sight, “OI. UGLYS. YOU NOT TIRED OF HUNTING YET?”

Moron. Just run already!

She only gave a glance to check the pair had gone, form forced into movement. Quick steps to and fro, darting from left to right while the shot was reloaded. The other pair she recognised from earlier began their own closing in. Features were harder to pick out in the low light, but that did not really matter now. Another cracking shot, she cursed and threw herself down – unsure exactly on where it was aiming at. Rhys however was not important now; she swung the blade broadly at the nearest target, the other hand reaching back to the base of the spine and Liberator.

Another thirty. Hack. Slash. Unload. Quick and dirty.

The firearm whipped out as the first came in. Broad over swing, the chest exposed. There was a brief look of surprise on his face when he saw the barrel of the gun. Thumb pulled back the hammer, the shadow of his frame a perfect point blank target. Without thought beyond survival, the trigger was pulled.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 1:45 pm

Educated as he was, Rhys was rather confident that in this moment, he couldn't have counted to thirty if he'd wanted to. Instead, he nodded, warily watching Gale disappear into the abandoned bowels of someone else's home or shop or whatever the clock it was. He closed his eyes in her absence, listening to the ferocious thumping of his heart, the cries of combat just a few streets over, attempting to gather his field in the hopes of reaching out to Hours or Pots, one hand curling into his pocket to brush fingers over his scrystone.

Perceptive mona shifted uneasily in his field, and in the thirty seconds the human smith was gone, all the young Valentin managed to do was make his ears ring and feel nauseated, for he was so overtaxed that even the Monite that dribbled from his lips did nothing to stir the magical particles his unusually above average rapport usually managed to luck out with.

He groaned, opening his eyes to see Gale slip from over the windowsill and gesture the direction of their next move. The tall Sergeant's body objected, back aching under the unconscious weight of his Ensign, but he shoved off the wall and staggered after the other blonde, blue eyes blearily fixated on her lanky form from behind. The familiarity of her softened features nagged at his delirious mind, but he followed without question, stopping when stopped, starting when beckoned, all in a somewhat comedic imitation of his usual self.

She was giving him directions and he managed to focus on her face. So fucking tired. Her face. His face. Mister Saunders wasn't really a mister and he struggled to understand the ruse. Charity hadn't. She'd just snatched the stranger probably by the collar and assumed the human's lips were his own. He blinked,

"Alley. Turn. Street. Right across." He reiterated, licking the corner of his bloodied mouth, watching her face as if attempting to pick out the differences because he could already see the similarities. About to summon the breath to make a snide remark, a crack startled him, the sound of gunfire sending a panic through all of the war fog to the very marrow of his soul. He nearly dropped Aliendra, a few choice expletives hissed between his clenched teeth,

"Wait—what are you—no—" Mister Saunders was shoving a key into his bloody hands, telling him to run, talking of children. The Special Enforcement Sergeant was suddenly snapped back to attention, his training dragged up from beneath trauma and exhaustion and shoved back into his nerves like a hot iron pressed against skin, "—Gale."

She was shouting, turning on her quicker feet and bounding into the street. Rhys inhaled, chest objecting to the expansion of his lungs with pins and needles, and he slid his unconscious companion from off his back. She groaned as he set her carefully down in the dirty alley, shoving the forge key into his uniform coat's inside breast pocket, reaching for the baton at his belt. Like he was in any fucking shape for combat. Like it mattered anymore, hardly sane as it was.

He rolled his head toward where the human had disappeared into the dark and began to follow, almost staggering to a crouch at the sound of gunfire. Once. Godsbedamned firearms. Galdori had brought fire to the mortal races, even to the lowly ones to whom the mona didn't listen, or so he'd been taught. Humans, in their helpless jealousy, had taken that fire and forged it into something far more deadly. Gunpowder. Metal. They'd seen what power magic held over them and sought to steal it, one fucking bullet at a time.

It worked.

There was nothing left of himself to steel against melee or death, Rhys just a shell of muscle and bone and too many distracted thoughts, all held together by a dirty, bloody, green-dyed uniform and a doggedly burdensome sense of duty. And pain. So much pain. He heard the shouting, at least two other voices besides the young smith, and while he was vaguely aware most firearms only had one shot to waste before they were spent, he was sure one day that would change (and when it did, so would his Kingdom's landscape of power, an earthquake of blood and smoke loomed in the darkest places of his Seventen-shaped mind).

He'd seen what a gunshot did to a body, up close or far away. He'd yet to be on the receiving end of gunfire, but he'd heard enough stories. Staggering into the middle of the conflict unfolding as one of the three thug's chest blossomed in red and smoke, the tall officer didn't waste a moment of surprise, long legs carrying his unsteady self right past Gale and the dropping body of some lugger he didn't even bother to take a second glance at, and swung with all of his very ungaldori strength with his baton into the closest face.

Rhys didn't have it in him to fuck around. He wasn't going to pretend he wanted to arrest any of these ersehats anymore and he was quite aware he was already authorized to use fatal measures to ensure his own survival. His rescuer would just be a nameless accessory should they both live at this point.

Satisfied by the crack of lacquered wood against flesh and bone, the Seventen simply continued to plow his way forward into the heavier, stronger body of the other man he'd just rattled some teeth of, the surprised wick growling in pain and surprise and quickly bringing the butt of his pistol to bear toward his uniformed attacker, a mixture of fear and excitement at the glory that destroying an officer of the law would be in the riot chaos,

"Havakda, jus' our luck! It's a brigkt." The bastard spit the word at the young Valentin with blood and wicked enthusiasm, smashing his weapon into Rhys' sore shoulder in hopes of convincing him to drop his baton. The first and second time proved him stubborn, and by the third, the blond had hands in his opponent's shirt and was bringing a boney knee toward his gut, mindlessly focused on surviving instead of pain.

"That's Inspector to you, ersehole."
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 3:58 pm

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
The thundering crack of noise reverberated through her arm. A pure sound that sent a spray of blood and gore across the short space between. The arm recoiled back, air driven from their lungs. The gaping hole was there, the seeping colours draining out across clothing and to the floor. They shook, eyes growing wide as the destructive force revealed itself to her, unfolding neatly in a patina of flecks. So caught in the moment, so driven by something so simple that it had pushed them somewhere to cross a boundary that they thought they would never have to cross.

Somewhere beyond the objection of the Seventen rattled around in the skull – the last demanding noise in objection to her actions. She had not been thinking, not clearly at least. She knew that now, but as the shape moved her attention jerked into reaction. Base survival overrun her, and in the end was probably for the best.

Gale had never killed before. And that thought slammed across her as she brought the firearm round. The thumb found the hammer, the click as the chamber rotated around muted to her ears as she pivoted to face the second attacker. That vacant look in his eyes, the creeping look of fear was a picture that burned upon her mind. The shouts of the final one, giving some lip to the blood lusting Inspector, disappeared behind a ringing white noise.

The second however, had managed to hit first. Her head snapped around, some blunt instrument striking across the side. Numbing. The entire form lurched, knees buckling beneath as the weapon of choice came swinging round. The knife in the other hand however snaked forward, a mind of its own found as the exposed tip found the fleshy tissue of thigh. A mouth full of spit, balance lost as she found herself on her haunches – it did not stop the firearm swinging around and unloading into the target.

Another rumbling shot. The smith slammed into the ground beneath, the corpse of the second slamming into the ground. For the longest moment Gale stayed there paralysed, sunk into a blank space that tried to comprehend what had just been seen. Fingers rubbed at her face, the brief instant of combat was over, a smear of red covering her features. She could feel it, sticking and seeping into the surface, clinging and refusing to let go. She saw Rhys, unloaded by the weight he carried, fists pummling in. She needed to move, despite the tight clenching of her stomach, the shaking of limbs that looked to control.

Must become steel. Must become the cold unfeeling metal you so wield. No room for feeling. No room.

She looked at the barrel of Liberator. Another four rounds.

Move.

The smith pulled themselves up their feet, eyes still wide at the destructive power of the firearm. How quickly life was snuffed out by its power. They knew this; but seeing it up close left a cold sensation sinking into their spine. They staggered out of the gore, hand pulling the knife from where it was left, stepping over to the struggling pair. What had happened? She could not look at the bodies left behind, vision blurring as the pain in her skull bloomed – blinding as she staggered. Thumb found the hammer once more, the Wick bent double from the blows from the Seventen. The body took a mind of its own, the resounding click as barrel pushed against his temple.

A final crack of noise.

It was over.

The smith stared blankly at the remains. Jaw slacked. Pulse elevated. They could feel the short, snapping breaths, the eyes turning from corpse to firearm, back to corpse and then finally up to Rhys. A blink, the colour draining from their face, lip quivering.

What have you done? You idiot.

“Ffff…uck.”

A sickening noise escaped their stomach, head jerking away. A gasp, hands to knees as she made a distance from the immediate gore, body dry heaving as it found nothing to expel. Vision dipped briefly to the firearm, mouth agape. They did this. Was this what her father meant all those years ago? That knowing was one thing, but actively using became a weighted burden to bear? The sound of retching continued, the cold sweat clinging to the flesh, while the exposed wore the same caked colours. Their lips moved, silent as they tried to find the words, the knife hand gesturing back to where they came from. It took effort to form anything remotely useful, “You. Your… Whateffer. We need to. Shit. Shit.”

Was she crying? She could not tell, but she felt the sting upon her skin, the way her throat choked up and refused to let her breathe. Worse however, she had let a Seventen witness it. Her eyes swivelled to him, fear clinging and weighing across her shoulders – what were her options? Did she really have any?

Could she kill him?

No. She could not. Which left the harsh reality of what was to come slamming into her consciousness. After this was done, when the rioting was over, she knew she would have to disappear. She was too useful of an asset to loose; but remaining where she was meant it was only a matter of time. Until then, it was merely waiting for the countdown to begin.

Her head still hurt, her hand awkwardly returning the cold steel of Liberator to the base of her spine. The coat flapped over it, once more hiding it from view. Forget it, for now. It was not important. Now was important – fighting down the sensation of nausea while the darkness began to take over.

“You alright? Come. We need to…” she inhaled, “I need a fuckin’ drink.”

She staggered and swayed towards the alleyway, hand fumbling for the cheap bottle of whiskey. She pawed at the lid, awkwardly unscrewing it and taking a swig. The vile bitter taste burned down her throat, face twisting as she forced herself to swallow the concoction. She shifted down it, staring back to him on the street as she attempted to smear away some of the gathering grime. Why did she worry? He had a key, he could get in if he wanted to.

The smith spat away a mouthful of blood, a loud snort as the turning was taken. There it was across the street she lurched to the forge door. Leaning against it, they forced the air into their lungs before knocking on it. Twice, a pause, then thrice. Her voice groaned, “Mark. Mark, it’s Mister Saunders. You let me in, I got… a friend followin’ behind. You got to be nice okay?”

They could hear the faint scrabble of footsteps, the gentle unlocking of the door before it opened. There the frightened face of young Mark stared back, the warmer, gentle glow of the forge welcoming her back in. Propping the door open, she waited for the Seventen to follow her into safety.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 11:04 pm

Special Enforcement Sergeant Rhys Valentin had never considered himself a violent man, and yet he'd consistently excelled in areas of physical expression, from sports to combat. He had a lot to be angry about, perhaps, had someone other than himself glanced over his life from the outside, objectively, and took it apart piece by piece, laying it before him like some careful taxonomy of his personal history. His father had hardly cared for him and yet seemed to so desperately want him, letting tutors and maid servants raise him, kissing his forehead, and sending him to Brunnhold with a noticeable amount of unease. He remembered the man's nervousness, and he also remembered, for the first time in his life, Theo Valentin's elation at the precocious blond boy's acceptance. As if it clocking mattered—what galdor didn't get accepted into the school, anyway?

His father had, for the most part, been an aloof ersehat. He'd also been just an ersehat. Period. Always.

Children mocked him early: he was a towhead; he was from clocking Elmonton; he was tall; his field was weak.

Rhys fought back, and early. He learned a good shove interrupted a spell. He learned a quick wit shut up bullies before they even started to cast. He distanced himself from his father. He poured himself into his studies. He sweat and struggled. He made a few friends. He met Charity D'Arthe. Her father despised him, and, eventually the powerful ersehole took her away. And yet, in his sadness, his grades didn't falter, they focused. He excelled in adversity, a faster thinker even if he wasn't a stronger mage. He graduated, he went onto Numbrey. He poured his entire self into Seventen training, surpassing his peers in strength and strategy, as well as sarcasm and studies. He graduated again, top of his Recruit class, and quickly fell into his proper place within the Investigative Division.

But he never forgot her.

Nor did he ever cease seeing the shadow of Captain Damen D'Arthe at the edges of his vision, no matter how brightly the young Valentine tried to burn—

This fucking riot.

Everyone was the fucking same. The wicks fought each other. They fought against the galdori. The humans fought amongst themselves. They resented the wicks. They fought against the galdori. The galdori vied for power amongst themselves and fucking hated everyone else.

Rhys found it all ridiculous.

The wick smashed the butt of his pistol into the Seventen's face again, raising it for another good blow until the crack of Gale's pistol rang out a second time and he flinched, Rhys using his surprise and fear to barrel him over and take his advantage. How did the smith even have time to reload? Was her pistol double-barreled? The tall blond's heart was all but crawling out of his chest, but he was no longer a thinking man so much as an acting animal, bloodied face twisted into an angry sneer.

Perhaps, had things been different, he wouldn't have wanted to hurt anyone, but today? Today the young Valentin didn't fucking care. He'd broken so many rules already. What were a few more—

His opponent tossed him onto his back, struggling to stand, and as he did so Gale appeared, bloodied and wielding her pistol. The Sergeant's eyes widened—she'd fired two shots already, surely her weapon was spent, and yet she leveled the thing against the wheezing man's temple. His eyes widened, field tightening and body tensing as if he could move fast enough to stop her,

"No! Please! Let's just go—"

Rhys had never been so close to the firing of a gun, but the noise reverberated through his head, through his flesh, and through his soul at point blank range. He winced instinctively, feeling the warmth of some stranger's blood and bone and brain bits splattering his person even as he brought his bruised hands up to shield himself too late. He blinked and cowered in what could only be seen as shock and fear, already on his knees. Looking up at the blond human who'd conquered three men faster than he could have intoned any Monite, he understood more things about the Kingdom of Anaxas in a single, fluttering heartbeat than he had in twenty seven clocking years.

He was silent except his breath hitched, a wet wheezing noise as he desperately tried not to gurgle, staring at the mortal who the Mona had denied from birth with the kind of terror humanity usually reserved for himself, a uniformed galdor with all of Anaxas' legal rights at his fingertips. His lungs burned because he held his next breath too long. His ears rang, the left one muffled. He felt every particle in the air ebb from his field. He felt like he was underwater, everything moving in a different tempo from his thoughts and disconnected by rushing, cold liquid from his own body.

Was Gale going to shoot him too?

"Don't—listen—I'm not—fuck."

He lowered his hands as if he was making peace with the idea, but the younger blonde's lip was quivering and her face was a mask not of victory but of confusion, not of triumph but of surprise. How'd she get her hands on such a weapon? Firearms were almost entirely found only in the hands of Harbor criminals and Res—she turned away in sickened shock and the Sergeant understood, his training taking over for his utterly broken mind and adrenaline moved his body where fear had held it in place.

Everything had happened so fast. The street was still dangerous. All of the gunfire was sure to attract vultures hoping to pick the bodies clean. Now wasn't the time to debrief. Now wasn't the time to process. Now was the time to move.

He groaned and stood, ignoring how his heart was a hot coal searing the inside of his narrow chest or how all of Vita had tilted on her axis, upside down. Wrong.

A machination of perfected education, the uniformed man found his footing and shoved his thoughts into the writhing darkness called not now, called later, called clocking never, finding he had no response other than to follow, to drag himself to the alley where all that was left of his Ensign was a pale, crumpled ginger galdor. Gods, he was going to lose her if he didn't hurry. It would be his fucking fault. Forever. He had no strength to cast, no way to reach any of his squad, to reach anyone for that matter. With a gentleness only reserved for those who'd once been sure they were about to die, Rhys lifted the woman and cradled her against his chest. Her head tilted toward his shoulder and she exhaled a groan, still alive, thank Alioe.

He grit his teeth and followed directions, needing to lean against the sooty walls of buildings, dragging himself along, until he crossed the street—right across—to walk into the forge as if it was the most perfectly sensible thing to do.

Right into the monster's den.

Who was this ... Mister Saunders?

The pair of terrified children cowered at the pair of green-wearing creatures that crawled in from the dark, scrambling back at the wash of fields and at the sight of grime and blood. Rhys thought to say something, to apologize, to tell them not to be afraid. But it would have been lying. He looked at them with pity and the muscles of his face refused to even fake a smile. He was neither sorry nor innocent, and so he simply brushed past everything to the closest worktable, tossing things out of the way with a sweep of one arm to roll Aliendra onto the surface.

"Right—"

He became something else, someone else. He became the Sergeant and hid the young Valentine beneath the weight of his four snaps, speaking far louder than he needed to because he struggled to hear above the ringing that buzzed in his ears. Reaching for the bottle as if he was going to use it to pour over the still-oozing stab wound under the ginger gilder's ribs, once it was handed to him, he simply took a long swig, sputtering and hissing. Still holding the bottle, he let a shaking hand move to his youngest officer's shirt, fingers parting an opening as he generously poured whiskey over the injury, barely eliciting a sound of pain from his Ensign.

"—now, one thing at a godsbedamned time. We can drink all you clocking want once we cauterize this officer's wound. Ye chen?"

Two lives saved for the price of three left oozing on the street.

It wasn't a fair trade, but it would have to do.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Tue Oct 30, 2018 8:15 am

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the forge and the dives | evening
29 YARIS 2718
“Mark, Eleanor. Both of you, up into the attic. No comin’ down until I say.” Whatever was going through the minds of the children in that instance was beyond her. Where they scared? Probably. The Seventen were the monsters under the bed that were very real. How many times over the years had they been warned by their mother? That if they were naughty that the Seventen would take them away? The creak and groan of the ladder as they hid up in the loft was noted by the smith, but largely ignored.

The coat was pulled off, the outline of gore and blood more apparent, the blooded digits still shaking. The whiskey bottle was absently passed, but the eyes were vacant, the distinct ringing drowning out a lot of the sounds.

What have you done?

There was a lot of blood. A lot of different people’s blood. All mixed in and staining, refusing to give no matter how much the hands rubbed. It just smeared together, unrelenting in its hold.

You killed them. You murdered them. For him? For a Seventen?
He’s –
No. You have no right. You betrayed us all. Their screams cut short in our-
But-
Their families, their loved ones. For what? FOR WHAT GALE SAUNDERS?
I-
So you can play house? Play family? You sicken me. He does not care. He would never care. No one will ever want you. You dirty. Broken thin-


“Cauterize?” Gale croaked. She was not sure how long she had been standing there, perfectly still and staring down upon her hands. Stuck in her own head, it was the notably louder words that shook her back into reality. Her gaze slid from him to the Galdori on the workbench, “Yes. Yes. Right away.” The smith lurched into movement, fingers slicking back the mess of hair that crowned them.

She chose to focus on the now than the recent events, on what could be done to stop it all from going wrong. Though, in some ways it already had. She paused, looking at the forge, mind doing the mental calculations for heating the metal, “Metal will be too slow to heat. Not enough time.” Animated, the smith found the sheet of cloth from earlier. Ripping a strip from it, she passed it to Rhys, “Needs to bite this.”

The hands were wiped on away onto the leather of the smithing apron, arms moving to the Liberator. There was no cocking back of the hammer this time – instead the fingers fumbled to unscrew the cylinder, “Lift the… let me see the wound – just skin. Yes,” The pieces were awkwardly placed down, the nails picking at the back of one of the loaded caps. Copper clinked to the floor, but it was disregarded and forgotten as the amount of gunpowder pooled into the palm of the hand. A mere smear of it on the fingers, before moving to the injury.

Gale was not a doctor. But she knew enough about gunpowder to understand its properties. Fire seals. Salt purifies. It would be unpleasant, but probably not as painful as red hot steel.

Gale knew that pain intimately.

The powder was gathered, mere pinches of it across the wound a smear of granules that peaked out against the blood. Before he could object the smith had found the box of matches and lit it.

There was no explosion. Why would there be? The powder hissed and sparked, a slow flame that traversed the open wound, spreading out across the exposed fuel. Was there a scream? Gale was far from paying attention, another strip of cloth, the rip submerged in the quenching trough before the count of barely a few seconds passed. Cold damp clasped over the wound, extinguishing the flame and snuffing out the heat. The smith paused, holding the pressure there before withdrawing. She cleared her throat, “Gunpowder. It uh… only holds explosive properties when compressed. Pressure. Otherwise it just… burns.”

Gaze averted, the smith withdrew. The door to the forge was locked, a final barrier of security, before they moved around to the furnace. The cold furnace welcomed her, an in an attempt to find something to do, keep her occupied. She reassembled the firearm to begin with, sliding it away and out of sight at her spine. Before long the rest moved to get the flames going, the coals heating up and through. The minutes passed by, eyes staring blankly into the forge while the mind internally wrestled once more.

You are WEAK.

“How is it looking?”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
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Tue Oct 30, 2018 1:12 pm

Ignoring what hurt, both physically and mentally, the tall Seventen shrugged off his coat and used the inside of the green uniform to wipe his hands before tossing it somewhere for later. On his belt, among all of his other supplies in a small, handy leather case was all that was left of his first aid kit, and he fumbled for it out of reflex and muscle memory. Ignorant of the human's internal conflict and choosing very purposefully to remain ignorant of his own lest he simply arrest Gale on the spot for not one, not two, but three murders as well as possession of a firearm, Rhys simply moved through the motions of basic medical training that everyone in his position had learned in Numbrey and had to use on various occasions when out in the field,

"This is a forge, isn't it?"

He hissed at the thought that heating metal would be too slow, frayed field bristling like feathers rubbed the wrong way. He was in no state of mind to cast, and even if he was, he was rather limited in his strength when it came to Living conversation. Ensign Ward was well beyond his abilities. Gale was handing him strips of cloth and he glanced at Aliendra, his tone far less biting while he attempted to revive her from the twilight of blood loss with a few gentle touches to her face and a fee quiet words, giving her the cloth to bite down on, "Sssh, Ensign. We'll get you sorted—Good Lady, what are you doing? No—wait!"

The Sergeant flinched instinctively at the motion of the other blonde as she drew the pistol again, his hands immediately raising in preparation for bodily defense. She would feel the shift in his field, a struggle for focus, as his blue eyes widened and his expression twisted into a terrified semblance of a sneer, "For fuck's sake! She's not that far gone—there's no clocking reason to—oh."

He relaxed only a little, warily acting upon her request, warily watching the way the smith nimbly unscrewed a tiny cylinder, learning far too much about firearms in less than an hour than he had in two years of training and five years as an officer of the Seventen. He took it all in, though he had no idea if he'd remember a second of it, unsure of her plan and yet having no excuse not to trust the human who had already held life and death in her hands and chosen to let him live.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She could, of course, change her mind at any given moment, though what his usefulness was in this moment, what Ensign Ward's usefulness was in this moment, he didn't know. Bargaining material? A special prize for some secretive contact? He wasn't capable of thinking that way, not now, probably not for days, but as Mister Saunders spread the powder along the wound, he felt his pulse pick up behind the muffled noise of the ringing still lingering in his ears, terrified of the results of this experiment.

Aliendra was awake again with the searing pain, whining and hissing, finally making a more hurtful noise but still too weak to scream. Her eyes went wide and she searched her Sergeant's face while he reached to hold her shoulder, desperate not to struggle, "Just need to stop the bleeding, Endra. We're too far from a checkpoint for now, if there are any left. Let me see what else I can do to hold us together until then. I'm a shit mage and the whole squad knows it."

He held her until she relaxed, Gale putting out the flame and holding the pressure down over the sloppily burned wound, sliced veins scarred shut and bleeding stopped for now. Healers would have to fix it all properly, healers who were superior mages to himself. Field medicine was brutal, focused on stabilizing instead of treating, if only because even galdori recognized the dangers of casting in the middle of a conflict. The risks of brailing or, worse, backlash, were far more fatal than staunching bleeding until proper care could be given,

This would have to do, and Rhys smoothed his younger Ensign's hair behind her ears and wiped her face while he muttered assurances that sounded empty and insincere. He cleaned what he could with what little antiseptic he had, wiping grime and blood and checking for any lingering oozing. Satisfied, he packed and wrapped the wound with practiced ease, glancing up when Gale turned away,

"We bought her a few extra houses. I don't know what it's like on the inside, so, I'm going to pretend to be an optimist for now."

Easing the smaller, lighter galdor from the worktable and finding somewhere to set her comfortably on the floor, he bundled her in his dirty coat and attempted to make the best of things for her. She wasn't awake for long, and anything she managed to whisper was incoherent and confused. Once she was quiet again, he curled gross fingers into his hair and dug knuckles against his scalp, staggering back to the worktable to stare blankly at the bottle of whisky and consider his next moves.

The young Valentin no longer had anything immediately deadly to focus on, Gale excluded, and he felt everything slowly crawl out from the darkness in his thoughts like hatchers in the mist, jaws snapping. He punched at them by stringing the syllables together that were, in his wild, exhausted, delirious mind, inevitable:

"You didn't need to do that."

Rhys breathed flatly, his hoarse voice wavering with the weight of the reality of such an admission. He didn't ask, reaching for the bottle of liquid fire in the hopes he could burn away the other words that smoldered on his tongue. Years of well-practiced student drinking while at Brunnhold allowed him two long, uncomfortable draughts before he set the whiskey back down heavily, wincing. The motion to wipe his face with the back of his hand reminded him that his face was battered and he whined, eyes stinging with tears that he refused,

"One bullet out there instead of three would have landed you two dead Seventen and a fuckton of street reputation." The taller blond wheezed, digging elbows into the wooden table until they ached and hiding his stinging face in the palms of his hands.
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