[Open] Actions and Consequences

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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
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Wed Nov 21, 2018 11:04 am

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Saunders Forge | Evening
26 Vortas 2718
“Fuck me it’s cold,” Lance whined. He had jammed his hands into his pockets, his eyes occasionally darting over to Gale. The smith merely rolled their eyes to him, cigarette hanging limply in their lips.
“Should have worn a coat,” they mused, adjusting their collar so it protected the back of their neck. The pair of humans had been stamping their way through the dives for a while now, the afternoon sun submitting to the approaching night, firearms hidden but close to hand. The evenings began to stretch and grow long, the frost that melted in the day threatening to refreeze. Every breath released a plume of white now, the inhabitants of the city turning to bundle themselves up beneath their layers. Lights came on sooner too, the lamps lit and casting dull ochre glows along the streets – marred by the smoke of industry.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” Gale turned their gaze ahead, past the lingering pedestrians and stalls, “Mean, I can take care of mys-”
“Normally I’d agree with that,”
the short, greasy man shivered. He rubbed at his shirt sleeves in an attempt to return life to them, “But after what I saw, that guy, what he was doing… and what you…” he gave a small bump against their bicep, lips attempting to pull into a smile, “People like us, we’ve got to look out for each other. How else are we gonna make the world a better place?”

Oh Dancer, spoken like a true Cadet.

“Besides, someone’s got to drag you out that stuffy forge every now and again. Else you might forget what outside is like.”
Gale snorted, “Fine, I’ll let you have that one.”

Smoke exhaled from their nostrils, the cloud lingering behind them as they walked. Ever since the fourteenth the Gentleman and his men had been quiet to the point of being notably absent. It caused the smith to occasionally glance over their shoulder, waiting to see the looming face or lingering eyes that followed. But there never was, nothing was wrong or out of place. Paranoia had simply taken route where it was not warranted.

“So… what you doing tonight?”
The smith coughed, giving him a long hard look as they traversed one of the smaller streets. They awkwardly stepped around some of the frozen puddles that had not received the direct light of day, “Well, just going to go back to the forge. Do some work-”
“But you don’t have any?”
“Well, what you suggestin’ then?”
the smith stopped then, watching his expression twist. His ears had flushed red, “Wait. Lance, are you?”
“I mean if you don’t want to go get a drink, that’s okay.”


He’s asking you out Gale. Don’t just stand their gawking. Answer the man.

Eyelids fluttered, expression turning in confusion, “I mean… sure? If you want?”
He swivelled at them, the smile affixed to his features. Here a man, barely a few years older than was grinning ear to ear, “Yes, course! There’s a pub near yours, right? We can go there?”
“Uh, aye?”
Gale leaned away and continued walking down the street. The next left took them onto Smollett Street, following it down would inevitably lead them pass the forge and onwards to the establishment. Perhaps it was fortunate that the cool of the evening air stung against the prickling rise of blood. It did not stop the occasional glance back to the man as he gingerly walked beside them.

Gale rolled their eyes and turned their attention forwards. It was quiet here, the usual crowd of the day absent. The darkness began to grow, the small bump of shoulders as the sounds of nothing greeted them. Ahead they made out the shape of the forge, still and silent. They paid little mind to the distinct lack of light, it was the usual case for them to be late in doing the rounds of lighting the lamps. A cold wind blew past; Goosebumps rising as they picked out a stark colour that was contrasted against the painted white brick. Gale’s steps quickened, springing off down the way with Lance hot on their heels. It was only as they skidded before it that the smith read the single word in a black paint. It was still dribbling as it dried. The smith felt cold, body stiffening as it stared upon the word that marred the wall. Lance’s hand grasped upon their wrist, eyes growing wide as he looked around their immediate surroundings. He shook their shoulder, incessantly tugging, “We need to go. We need to go now.”

Peeling out of the darkness came the shapes. Upon them both in an instant, they felt the warm hand of Lance being ripped away. Slammed against the ground, they rolled while the other shouted. Hands came, dragging and pulling in all directions. A strike in the gut, the smith brought a fist swinging round only to find it caught. A kick to the back of the knee sent them buckling once more, cheek pressed against the ice. A slither of light came in, the half dozen shadows above dancing around them as they kicked and punched. Lance was still struggling as they dragged him opposite, fighting to get to his feet while two brutes held tightly onto his arm.

The seventh, the bearer of the faint lantern was the one to speak. A broad hood covered his features, a gnarled hand clawed around the top of his walking stick. If it was not for the beard that plumed out from beneath, Gale would not have known much on their appearance from their current angle.
“Going so soon?” he asked, a rich, heavy voice. Their gaze slipped, looking across and noting the tattooed man was one of the ones who held Lance in place. In the meanwhile a third was rummaging through his pockets, before locating the flintlock he carried. It was quickly taken away and presented to the cloaked man. He waved it away, “Good. Good.”
“The Gentleman?”
Gale hissed. The earth dug into their cheek, features wincing as their arms were pulled back behind them.
“The one and only,” he tutted, snuffing out the cigarette that had been lost during this short bout, “It is a pleasure to at last make official acquaintance, Gale Saunders the Artful Gunner and daughter of Beckett Saunders the Masked Gunner.” The smith pulled their arms, attempting to wriggle free and upright. The Gentleman clicked his fingers and the smith was dragged up to their knees, “Enough of that let the lady be comfortable for the show.”

“What do you want?” they snapped, teeth gritting as they continued to fight.
“Are you familiar with actions and consequences?” The Gentleman lowered the lantern to the ground between them. Barely the shape of some hooked nose was made out before it disappeared beneath the darkness of the hood, “You have repeatedly refused to do my requests, despite my lenience to your existence. You look to struggle, and to fight against something you would be much better off obeying. Worst of all,” he was stepping around now, behind Lance. They saw a glint of steel in the gloom, a slither before it disappeared, “You keep actively trying to work against myself and my honest intentions-”
“There’s nothing honest about this.”

A small gesture of the hand. Bare knuckles cracked across the jaw, a hard smack that left a buzz in its passage. The smith blinked, head rolling as they attempted to shake the sensation off. Something coppery filled the back of their throat.
“You would be wise to listen,” the Gentleman grimaced, before turning his attention back to Lance, “So, when one does against the law they are punished. And the punishment matches the crime – fitting no?”

Do not ask your ‘friends’ for help.

A weight sunk in the stomach of Gale, a creeping realisation sinking into their core. Muscles contracted, arms twisting as they continued to pull. They could feel their knee throbbing, leg trembling as pain began to hiss in, “Don’t you dare!”
Another blow, this time to the gut. The pain fed the fires that were beginning to grow within. The Gentleman gave a tut, “You should have thought that before you became a disappointment. A shame that is now all you will be.”
Gale pulled on their arms again, just a little more, just one final push. Green orbs caught sight of the steel in the glow, the knives in the hands and belts of many, “Please! No, don’t! Leave him alone!”

They pulled upon the arms, right jerking free as the first of the knives plunged into his back. It was withdrawn, another came round as his struggles and grunts picked out into pain. They released him and he rose, fists up before the next came. Gale’s freed hand found Liberator, drawing it as the rest of their rose up. It felt like a punch in their side, withdrawing before they could bring it up to aim. Gasping, another punch in the back this time, another grasped onto their armed hand, the sharp point quickly piercing. Firearm wrenched from grasp, the heat chasing after the cold of the blade. They gasped, shoved away as the sharp pain kicked in all but dropped from the hold.

Shadows danced within the low light, the gurgled gasps turning into cries as Lance was grounded. They attempted to rise, gaze regretting looking down. A stain bloomed where the first punch was, a rushing cold creeping in. Fingers slick looked to grasp, the male Cadet finally falling silent. Another blow, the smith clattered to the icy ground. A firm kick, the air driven from their lungs. A spit of something escaped their lips, another kick as their vision swum. Shapes danced, fingers desperately trying to reach out and grasp something – anything. A boot stamped on their hand; the smith let out a howl. Words slurred, the light stolen as the darkness rushed in. Footsteps thundered away, body screaming as it tried to drag itself closer to Lance. Fingers knotted into blooded fabric, the smith alongside him.

“Lance, Lance. Come on… Please?”

Somewhere their mind realised they were alone in this street, but that was not important right now. Blood covered their hands, strength lost as they slumped covering one of the numerous wounds in his chest. The world dipped into a buzz, eyes slowly blinking as their head rested against the cold street. A rattled breath, they felt them growing slower. Gale’s eyes rolled to the front of the forge, body refusing to move further. Somewhere else they heard a scream – or perhaps it was their own cry for help. Logical thought detached from the physical. They coughed as the word solidified in their mind.

‘DIE’

Like fuck I am.
Last edited by Gale on Fri Dec 07, 2018 10:18 am, edited 2 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
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
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Location: Vienda
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Wed Nov 21, 2018 1:42 pm

26th of Vortas, 2718
SOOT DISTRICT | AFTER HOURS
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To say that the tall Sergeant knew he didn't need to be here on this end of town at this hour of the evening would have been an understatement. He would have also left out the admission that he wasn't even in the Soot District out of his uniform to meet with any particular informants for official Seventen business, despite the fact that tucked under his arm was a small package wrapped in simple brown paper. The young Valentin had pulled the hood of his thick wool coat up and hidden within its warmth, conveniently hiding his face. He'd reigned in his field—no, his fucking glamour—a restrictive, taxing choice that kept him even less noticeable as he wove his way into the darker recesses of the Soot District to meet with his tsat dockhand of an informant he'd come to call a friend instead, Allen, and check on the young passive servant, whose name he now knew to be Odette, that his own squadmates had managed to smuggle out of Captain Damen D'Arthe's home while he'd been away.

Away.

Rhys watched his breath dissipate like a cloud in front of his face from under the faint, flickering glow of oil lanterns that lined the street he walked down, nearly alone. Ol' Theo's truth still wrenched like a knife in his gut, and the revelations of the past season and a half coagulated slowly, leaving the once-galdor with the sinking sensation that was strangely reminiscent of bleeding out from a wound. His ears still rang faintly with a tinnitus that was supposed to fade like the vertigo that had finally left him, and as he hissed quiet curses with the seething frustration of his thoughts, it took him a moment or two to realize just how close he'd wandered in the direction of Saunder's Forge.

Too close for tonight, no matter how fleeting the uncomfortable warmth of paying the younger blonde who he could call sister was in the cavity of his chest. Perhaps on the way back. Perhaps he shouldn't.

Gods, nothing was safe anymore anyway. His thoughts unraveled in that moment, and he made to turn down the wrong street, the wrong way. Blue eyes roamed down alleys and lingered, a chill wind catching his coat and digging beneath it toward his skin, clawing up his spine. A sudden paranoia gripped him tightly, stealing his next breath with a sharp inhale as the ringing in his ears became silence and he instead remembered the loud cracks of gunfire—

"Fuck."

Package slipped from under his arm and onto the icy ground with a dull smack, the motion of chasing after it almost demanding to take the blond Seventen's footing in the process. His boots scraped against wet, semi-frozen cobblestones and he grumbled a few more choice words, fingers reaching for the wrapped bundle that contained extra clothes and a few more papers to sign in secret as he continued to build his case against Charity's father while the piece of chroveshit attempted desperately to find purchase on a counter against him. He had nothing. Yet.

Thank the Circle Allen could read—

Another breeze brought voices with it and Rhys stopped.

Familiarity was sharp, but memory was sharper. Another slice in his already wounded resolve, those memories of the riot forcing him to scramble for a darkened alley and press his body against the chilled brick of one of the two buildings that created such a crevice in the first place. The rush of his pulse took over for the ringing in his ears and his heart burned with heated terror against the back of his throat, scraping at the back of his ribs at the same time.

Footsteps. Coarse whispers. Someone had the nerve to laugh a ragged, choked sound of inappropriate humor.

"We'll have to go back to that damn forge, you know."

"Y'think?"

"Stubborn one, that. Man—er—woman. Shit, that's messed up. Whatever. We'll go back—"

Rhys wasn't a Sergeant in the Investigative Division because he had a pretty face, and it was only a single slip of the tongue that made all the difference in any good interrogation. Fear and anger clarified his thoughts, or so he told himself in this moment, the cold invigorating a well-trained body into action. The shadows washed past him, the warm breath of their words leaving a trail while he waited for them to move and like an exhale of his own, the young Valentin released his field.

He wasn't in uniform (he'd been here before). He was otherwise unarmed (not that such a realization was a problem). He wasn't even sure he had much to lose (Charity would disapprove of such a thought).

The tall blond stepped from the alley and glared at the backs of the two laughing men, clearly separated from a larger group now that their job had been done. There was still blood on one of their coats, the other raising a hand with a sweeping motion as he began to explain why they'd be going back to Saunder's Forge as if it was an epic tale that needed to be told in such a fashion to be fully appreciated. It was all that Rhys needed to hear, and he didn't even bother to announce his presence with anything more than a hissed cloud of spoken Monite—wick or galdor, his magic still worked as it always had, even if the rest of his life felt upsidedown the mona didn't seem to care either way.

The men had but a heartbeat to make sounds of surprise, their visions stolen and their ears filled with a loud ringing that the Seventen behind them had slowly grown used to at a much quieter buzz. Long strides brought him within reach of the confused pair, their senses confused only temporarily, the spell leaving Rhys' own vision blurred but not enough that he couldn't function. Package dropped again, long arms reached out and simply smashed their heads together as if their skulls were pint glasses coming together for a cheer. Only harder. Much harder.

The Sergeant didn't bother to say anything nor did he bother to look and see if they had companions or if the dark, barely lit street they were now engaged in melee in was at all populated by anyone else. In these temperatures and in this weather, probably not.

He curled fingers into the longer hair of the man on his left and while his spell was fading as he let his concentration slip and his focus change, his other hand gripped the other, larger man's coat by the collar. Not stunned enough but still confused, blind, and hardly able to hear for the pain in their ears, bodies writhed and hands began to attempt to grasp at him. Rhys smashed their heads together again, wanting to be quick about things, suddenly aware at the rush of excitement that tingled its way up his chilled veins at the freedom his lack of a uniform allowed him in this moment.

"Who th' fuck 're you?"

Rhys didn't answer.

What would he say?

Just another dirty half-breed.

"Clock off. We don't got any spare change. Go mug some jents."

"Hey—"

The shorter man found his coat, twisting his broad frame and growling in dizzy confusion, blood trickling down his temple. The well-trained Seventen released the taller man and swung the one holding onto him like a weapon, once again crashing the two opponents' bodies together, this time toward the dirty wall of a building. His grip on the curls of the smaller man tightened and he heard him whine, ignoring the sudden sharp pain of a fist in his ribs—

there was a moment of recognition, a flash of understanding with the knuckles digging into bone that Rhys was crossing a line he shouldn't—

—but by the time he found himself with only a single, panting, bloodied man in his grips while the other was unconscious on the icy cobblestones, he'd stopped caring about everyone's fucking lines and everyone's fucking rules.

The tall blond spit blood and ran a tongue along the bit flesh inside his cheek from where someone had landed another good fist, squinting at the groaning thing in his grasp. He stooped to pick up his package and tuck it under one arm, not bothering to tug back up his hood, shifting his grip on the half-conscious human before kneeing him in the direction of the alley and leading them both toward where he wasn't going to go but was going anyway,

"Now, what am I going to find when I get to the forge?"

"What forge—oh—a mess. Before—" The shorter man's legs wobbled and his head dipped to one side, forcing Rhys to scramble for footing and lean his reluctant captive against the wall of the alley. He'd just beaten first and asked questions second, which was more than just against his training as a Seventen, but simply terrible form all around.

Fuck it.

A mess. He'd already seen the streets enough of a godsbedamned mess,

"If you've hurt anyone, I'll—"

The man gurgled a wet, bloody laugh, dark eyes sweeping up to meet Rhys' bleary blue gaze, "You'll what, take us all on? Goddess guide y' there, ersehole. You got lucky we was all split up—"

The young Valentin dropped him there, releasing his grip and making sure to knee him roughly in the gut before smashing his head against cold brick. That was enough of that kind of talk, and in the panic that gripped him, Rhys simply turned and staggered his way up the alley, mind racing and confused, unwilling to process that he'd just attacked a couple of strangers over a singular suspicion, regardless of how correct his assumptions had been made. He was an unhinged creature, at once furious and yet achingly aware of his helplessness.

It was as he slipped from one alley to the next, just a stone's throw from the forge, that he saw crumpled bodies in the darkness. There were no lanterns here, no oil flames or phosphor glow. Footprints had cracked ice and tracked blood over the cobblestones, and it was with great effort that Rhys heard anything above his pulse that thundered above the dull ringing in his ears. Breathing, though. There was movement

He dropped his damn package for the third time, waxed paper hardly strong enough to hold its own against dirty puddles,

"I wasn't coming this way on purpose."

As inappropriate a phrase as ever was spoken between siblings, Rhys considered it an appropriate enough way of explaining his timely appearance in ordinary clothes with bruised knuckles and a decent bruise marring the sharp angle of his brow. He didn't bother to admit he had no clue what was going on, the Soot District rife with an untamable violence that he wasn't about to question at this moment because he'd found himself a part of it too often already with the young blonde he found himself standing over. Too clocking often. Who was bleeding? Gale or the other body in the dark, "I don't care what happened just yet."

He added those words almost with a deadpan tone, the Sergeant shifting into a more recognizable role as if the sight of what was at his feet had flipped a switch, unable to completely balance who he was and what he'd allowed himself in this moment to become—which was true? Which was better? Which was really him? He hadn't been handed some blanket excuse to do as he pleased when Theodore had confirmed his heritage.

He'd sworn to be better.

And here he was: not.

"Come on. We need to go. I'll take you somewhere safe enough—not your home. A friend's. Who's hurt?" Ignoring the blood on the ground, Rhys was moving closer in the dark to assess the situation, gathering his field not to heal wounds but to create light, beginning to whisper a wavering, strained request for the glow of candlelight to fill the tight space he'd made between himself and Gale and the other body on the ground,

"Oh—"

He wasn't mage enough for that, not at all—the light that slowly appeared from nowhere around them revealing with a cold, blue-toned indifference Lance's bleeding mess.
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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Thu Nov 22, 2018 9:59 am

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Saunders Forge | Evening
26 Vortas 2718
“Lance. We need to...”

A cough escaped the lungs, a warm spit escaping. The cold was tempting, a luring mistress against the roaring pain of their skull. They attempted to flex the digits of their right hand, an attempt to summon the strength they needed to pull themselves up. The pain throbbed, tendons refusing as fingers stiffened. The left side was worse, body tensing and tightening, the cold rushing in through the joint. Teeth grinded together, the lacking light greeting her vision. The arm gave way when they put even the slightest piece of weight on it, the heat dribbling down the limb while shoulder crashed back to the frozen stone. A gasp, the lungs laboured as they strived to find some normality –attempting to pick up once more.

Her mouth had gone dry, the horrid acidic taste mingling with copper. The arm twitched, attempting to shift once more – not to him this time but to the side. A pressure against the wound lay. A wheeze escaped, the heat growing more intense as they laid there. Feet tried to move now, grip lost and slipping on ice.

“Lance. Come on. Lance.”

It was barely a whisper. The vision rolled, and winced as the pain began to set in. Adrenal was falling away, quickly escaping and being replaced. Piercing to the point of numbing. She was grateful the dark hid the true gore of it all, only the fading heat and slick sound of blood being the only immediate thing to register upon her senses. There was a distinct moment where Gale was no longer sure where Lance’s blood ended and their own began – she was no longer even sure if she was truly there either.

When the voice came, it came as a slur. Their immediate instinct, being unable to recognise it or the meaning, cause what little they had left to rise as adrenal. The back tried to arc up, hunching as they tried to move once more. The words spat, a mouthful of something coming with it, “Haven’t you… haven’t you-”

A dribble escaped her mouth, base need pushing them harder. They had to move, there was still danger – they had to protect Lance. Had to get him somewhere safe, somehow. The shape danced somewhere, a single black swirling mass that looked to advance. Too close now, they hacked at the words in some poor attempt to stand their ground against the approach, “Fuck you, your fucking face… you’re… fucking… fuck”

The mass was above her now, and it took a single mind of focus to swing themselves up – one final roar against that which looked to do harm. In reality it was no roar, no mighty blow that struck down the danger that approached. A crunch and a grunt, the body managed to throw itself up its knees, arm swung out weakly and broadly, “Leave… us alone!”

Gale slammed down against the ground once more, back first, the over swing dragging them fully over. A cough escaped, lungs winded as they fought to breathe. Knuckles slapped against the hard surface, head rolling. Useless, all of it. The being was upon them now; no doubt it would finish them off now. Voice cracked, the pain growing more intense, face screwing up. Somehow there was still enough left for tears; jaw going slack while the body shook – the cold of the night had begun to consume now, “I won’t… not without.”

Without what? You are weak.

The light caused her lids to flutter.

Rhys? Why?

Notably bright against the backdrop of the dark, the green eyes – glassy in comparison to their usual colouration – barely managed to focus on the features of one Rhys Valentin. The orbs managed to slide to Lance, lip trembling as they saw the ruined and torn form. There was no rise and fall of the chest, the vacant eyes staring upwards with his throat torn open. A lump became stuck in her throat, a soundless cry as she weakly shook her head.

We were supposed to go and get a drink.

As friends.

Though if any other context was meant it did not matter now. None of it did.

This was all Gale’s fault. If only they had been obedient, if only they had not involved others, Lance would still be alive. Her mind flickered briefly to liberator, the cold panic setting in that urged her to move. Her body refused, shaking as her own blood continued to flow. The bastards had their gun. The whispered six shooter that blown away so many enemies. She spluttered, becoming more acutely aware of the mess they too looked. Blood smeared, hair usually blonde stained with blood, and the clothing was much the same – torn and ripped in places, skin exposed.

Her voice croaked; one final lift of the shoulders to move. It did not work and her vision was forcibly turned up to the night sky. They could feel their breathing slowing once more, the time between blinks becoming less. Yet here was Rhys standing above them all, bruised features – it made him look almost daring in the light. Yet there she could see the eyes, the something-

A firm blink, a trickle of sensibility coming back in. Do not move. Stay very still. Had he asked something? Was he alone? What was he doing here? Was he with the Gentleman? Sent to manipulate and drag her off down some path? Of course not. He could not be. Impossible. Yet where they safe? Did it matter?

They needed to keep conscious.

“Rhys?” The name was barely a whisper, some breathed noise. Moisture stung her face, tears running along the fresh grazes. The eyes sharpened, attempting to focus on him and only him, “Rhys, I fucked up. I don’t… I can’t feel…” They could not feel a lot of things, most of it was being consumed by everything else, “It hurts. Fuck,” A swallow, breathing turning into panting, “Please? Rhys. Rhys… Why?”

Their form started shaking again, voice failing while the lips continued moving.

“I’m scared.”
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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Wed Nov 28, 2018 2:43 pm

26th of Vortas, 2718
SOOT DISTRICT | AFTER HOURS
It was to be expected, of course, that the bloodied figure of the blonde human would recoil from a stranger's approach in the thick black chill of a Vortas evening, and Rhys would have instinctually steeled himself for retaliation had he not been busy casting instead, shedding meager light into the dark alleyway and illuminating the now-familiar face of the young smith he'd somehow decided he was comfortable calling his sister, her body crumpled on the dirty cobblestones.

They clearly had to stop meeting this way.

His chest tightened, memories of the riot just a season ago writhing in the back of his thoughts and snaking their way into his already adrenaline-awakened senses. He shuddered at his name on Gale's lips, forced to blink himself back into the chill of Vortas with a slow exhale of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The cloud of it wafted back over his face,

"I was delivering a package."

Was the question of why asking what he was doing here so close to her forge? If it wasn't, if it was, instead, a philosophical question regarding the clearly lifeless body of a young man crumpled next to the other blonde in a pool of his own congealing blood, well, the tall Sergeant had no answers. He didn't have a clue what happened and he'd made himself a part of it regardless. He was complicit and he didn't even know why.

He wasn't in uniform.

He'd been beating up strangers instead. Again.

In her defense. Again.

Fuck. They really had to find better ways to spend family time together.

He knelt next to the first prone form, blue eyes refusing to look at Gale in her suffering. Not yet. He wasn't ready. His hands instead moved with the well-trained precision of an officer of Anaxi law, checking for a pulse and finding it absent, fingers trailing over entry points of his wounds. Had he been a Living mage, had he been a Healer in the Services Division instead of an Inspector, then he could possibly have done something. Barely. The body was still warm, his death probably moments ago, and he could have carried the young man's corpse somewhere within half a house. But none of his peers in uniform would have bothered and the not-galdor was so painfully aware of his personal limitations in this moment, if not more than ever. There was little he could do had he still been alive, let alone now in his obviously recent death,

"Did you do this? Or did the thugs on the street I just ran into—ah, damn it all." He shifted on his knees, his quiet tone an accusatory whisper, far too aware of what the human was capable of but quite sure the wounds on the body were from a knife and not the gun Gale carried. His hands reached for the smith without any of the expected roughness that his voice implied should have come, not to restrain her, but to examine her as well, unsure if the blood on her person was hers or her companion's.

Rhys lifted her hands first, though, for a brief moment, he let his fingers curl with an unexpected sort of compassion around the human's, feeling her trembling in fear, noting there was no weapon anywhere in the limited clarity his magical illumination provided. He sought to steady her, to tug her focus in his direction, and he released one of her hands with a gentle squeeze, setting the other one on his thigh before he set about realizing the state of the smith's injuries.

It didn't matter where the blood of her companion ended and hers began at this point and had the Sergeant been a typical galdor, he would surely have already been turned ill by the sight of everything.

Clock the Circle, he'd never been one anyway. Why start trying now?

"Gale." He said firmly but barely above a whisper. He met her green eyes and swallowed hard, admitting the obvious, "I can't carry both of you. Your friend—I—I can't help him. I'm not able. I'm sorry. You, however, I still can."

This was not a moment for shyness or propriety, and the Seventen let his hands and gaze wander over the human's body in the faint glow of his own light without any room for shame in the investigation. She'd been slashed, hacked at, and stabbed, too, though her companion had been fatally so. Her wounds were more than he could deal with in the alley and blood loss would become mortal if he didn't do something quickly. He needed at least the hint of safety, and they didn't have that here, not if the men he'd left bleeding in the street weren't still unconscious. They'd admitted they weren't alone.

"You'll have to tell me why." He grunted, reaching to roll her delicately toward him, gentle hands not yet ready to encourage her to sit up even as he felt the press of each passing moment tick away in the back of his mind, "But not here. I can't help you here."

There was more blood, warm and new, and his palm brushed over her shoulder in searching, frowning. He didn't feel it safe enough to even take the time to pack the wounds here. His blue eyes strayed to his wax paper-wrapped package that he'd dropped so carelessly, which he stretched for and set in Gale's hands in order to keep her busy, in order to keep her from objecting to the gathering of his weak field (no, his impressive glamour had he been able to see his life in the light of truth in this of all moments), distracting her with the motion of the object while he quietly spoke to the mona that still listened to him, that cared not for what he was, that moved sluggishly as if aware of his Living ignorance.

He didn't take the time to weave in the phrases for anesthetic relief, nor did he even really want to take the time to knit veins and muscle and flesh back together. He simply sought to stay the bleeding, and his spell would bring a fiery heat clawing against every open wound, Rhys' body tensing as if he anticipated retaliation, as if he was aware he'd probably have to hold Gale back just to keep himself from brailing.

He was quick. It was meager, his magical packing of wounds, but it would allow them to travel without her bleeding out in his arms somewhere in the dark. Barely.

The blond Sergeant groaned at the end of his spell words, the taste of mint overwhelming his nostrils and curling his lips in distaste even as he ignored the almost immediate exhaustion such a small endeavor threatened him with,

"I'm so not a fucking galdor. And tonight, that's okay. Just once. Come on. Up. Don't argue. I'm scared, too. I'm quite sure I'm going about this in every wrong way possible. Oh well. Doesn't matter now, does it? Family is always such a clocking pain in the erse—or so I hear." Rhys made to not simply help the younger human to her feet, but to carry her like a child. It wasn't as easy as it looked, Charity D'Arthe being a much lighter form of exercise, "You're going to be a little heavier than I'm used to. Fucking humans."

The wick had the nerve to grin at her in the dark, the nervous sound of an inappropriate chuckle rumbling through the grime-stained wool of his coat, tongue between his bloodied teeth for the briefest of moments.

"I've got somewhere for us to go. Maybe. If I don't get us lost or arrested."
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Agatha Maplethorne
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Wed Nov 28, 2018 4:33 pm

26 Vortas 2718
Evening
Aggie wandered down the road, just drunk enough for the world to be a bit fuzzy. She had decided that, on her way home, she would check in on her old friend's child, Gale. She hadn't seen Gale in a while, but their visits had decreased in frequency since Gale had begun working in earnest with the Resistance. They had tried to keep their work under the radar, but Aggie was old, not senile. She was still friends with many of the Resistance members and when rumors about "Gunner" started, she quickly put two and two together.

Sure, Saunders' Forge was out of her way, but she could always use the exercise. Anyone stupid enough to try to attack her would see the business end of her gun, Betsy. Even the stupidest mugger knew that, if you were in touching distance of someone with a gun, they were within killing distance of you.

Even the worst shot could make a shot at point-blank range.

And, anyways, young Mister Gale needed a chewing out. The child knew that he was to visit at least once a month and it had been a good while since she had seen him. She knew that things were a bit crazy and all, with the riots, but she had even made gollyknockers for him! And, of course, she couldn't resist giving out gollyknockers when the neighborhood kids stopped by.

"His loss, I suppose," Aggie chuckled to herself as she turned onto the road that the forge was on.

She stopped short. She saw a vaguely human form on the ground in front of the forge. "Oh, no, no, no. Gale, what have you gotten yourself into, m'boy?" she muttered, hurrying over to the person on the ground. She was slightly relieved to see that it was clearly not Gale on the ground, but her relief quickly disappeared when she realized that the person, whoever he was, was clearly deceased.

That meant someone would call the Seventen eventually. The fact that it was late at night probably meant they hadn't been called yet. But Aggie had to find Gale. She looked around for signs of the young man, her eyes narrowing as she saw what was written on the wall. Her eyes narrowed. "What has Gale gotten himself into?" she wondered to herself before moving on.

It took her for a few moments, but she eventually found a blood trail leading away from the scene. Really, it was more like a blood trickle, but she had scrubbed away enough blood trails to know one when she saw one. She started following it, hurrying along as fast as her old body would carry her.

After a few minutes, she heard footsteps ahead of her. She rounded a corner and saw a strange man. He looked like he was holding something. She sped up a little more, closing the gap between them. She tried to catch her breath as she put a hand on the mysterious man's arm. "Excuse me, sonny." She just had to see what he was holding.

Her stomach dropped as she saw Gale unconscious in the man's arms. She reached into her purse and pulled out her gun, planting her gun in the man's back. "Sonny, I believe you have something of mine."
Last edited by Agatha Maplethorne on Mon Dec 03, 2018 3:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Fri Nov 30, 2018 7:25 am

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Soot District | Evening
26 Vortas 2718
Stay still. Stay silent. It was a strange memory that trickled back into the skull of Gale then, a momentary detachment as reality drifted in and out of focus. They tried to lift themselves again, bones grinding, flesh tightening and growing taunt. A monotonous drone filled their ears, the words bouncing off it as an echo as the mind tried to find some way to cope with the events. Who said those words? Did it matter? They could not quite remember; someone important. Someone from a long time ago. Rhys had said something, he answered the question. Did the context actually matter?

“But why?” the smith managed to ask. The orbs blinked at him, the shapes and shadows twisting forming shapes that did not exist, of things that should not be. The pain became a drug, a consumer of the senses that numbed most other things. Had this happened before? Somewhere? No. It could not have. Shoulders rose, a few inches from the ground this time, before the smith fell back.

“Promise me Gale. Promise me. No matter what you hear. No matter what you see. Stay still. Stay silent. Else they will find you,” the voice rumbled, before pulling on the iron mask.
“But Pa-”
“Promise me,” A tight squeeze of the tiny form, he released her and closed the door of the closet behind him.

The smith heard the accusation, breath held as the hands came closer. What was he going to do? What he going to hurt her? Arrest her? Regardless of what he was, he was still a Seventen. And that cold fear sunk its claws deeply into Gale. Yet it was not the harshness that greeted them, an odd feeling of knowing hands moved – but as if they were touching from behind a thick film. The smith attempted to rise again; mind lurching into the instincts of fight or flight. A cough erupted, “I didn’t. It wasn’t… They…” The orbs were stuck on the corpse of Lance, eyes wide, jaw growing slack as words juddered forth, “We were supposed to… just goin’… we were… he asked me just for a drink? I don’t… I don’t…”

Gale flinched to the hands, body growing still as it tried to suck in all the nervous energy that escaped. The orbs moved to his, unable to properly focus as they felt the hands. Teeth gritted, a gasping noise erupting as digits found injuries. He would feel the tight bindings beneath, the layer that hid a multitude of sins and the truth of Gale Saunders. It was fortunate in some regards that they existed; it held things in place for a few moments longer. They burned, white hot as nerves sparked to life under the touch. The tears were still there, eyes hurting as they continued to run. The sides of her skull pinched in, tensing and slowly crushing in. A choking noise escaped, eyes screwing shut, the feeling of heat escaping in steams.

Blooded locks came forward, head rolling and curling inwards as the smith sat there. The arms hung limply in their lap, the rough, crinkled surface of paper on their fingertips. The right hand twitched about it, eyes opening in slits as they left a smear of red across the brown packaging. The left was less responsible, the sharp burn hissing through the shoulder as they attempted to make it move.

Why?

“Yeh need… you need to go,” Gale murmured, barely coherent enough to register what was going on. The heat was slipping away now, a cold chasing in through the extremities now, “S’not safe. You need to. Please. Run. They’ll ‘urt you if you... Don’t look back-”

The once light breathing became a deep sharp inhale. It writhed through; words cut short and replaced with a howl. Fingers clenched and tenses, innards twisting as a dry sickening crack escaped. They wanted to be sick, a cold sweat rolling down her neck. The smith resisted; every muscle tensing as it waited for the continuation of the onslaught. Rhys had said something, but that fell behind muted tones.

Darkness was the vision Gale was greeted with. Eyes vacant, a far off lingering warmth keeping their mind from dipping into true unconsciousness as they tried to clamber up. Instead they found themselves nestled against something – him, probably. The breathing slowed once more, muscles relaxing as the cold ground fled them. Only the fingers held some animation, clinging tightly onto the package as if it was the only thing that mattered. The nails sunk in and refused to let go even as it was cradled tightly against their chest.

“Where?” Gale breathed. Was it safe? Was it secure? The few sparks of thought fired off in their mind before falling into the abyss of nothingness. Did it even matter? There was the clacking of stone, some hard sole shoes upon ice and cobbles. The piercing noise that cut through it all. They registered, barely, that there was no further advancement on the cold – but neither mind nor body were cooperating with each other.

He picked her up, bundling her close to his arms. He was shaking, his fingers knotting into the hair as he inhaled, “S’okay. S’okay. Pa is here now. Pa is here.” The child cried in his arms, the knotting turning into gentle calming strokes. He continued, voice a low hum, “Pa is here and the bad men are gone.”

“Need ta go,” the smith continued, unable to pick out the distinct sounds of the world, “Not safe.” There was a small snort of some amusement, the thought trickling into the back of their mind, “Arrested? May be safest.” It hurt to breathe, chest feeling tight as the man continued to carry them onwards. What was that taste? That dry bile that rested in the back of their throat? “Can’t stop here. You know that. Got to hide.” Time sped and slowed, losing sense of what was going on, “Need to hide. We need to Pa… fuck. No. Rhys. Sorry… I… sorry. We need to run and hide. Before they find us. They won’t stop t'night. Won’t. This is my fault... what's 'appenin'? Are we in danger?”

The smith could feel themselves growing faint again, disconnected from the immediate reality as they struggled to keep consciousness. They needed to focus, needed to get ready to stagger into the nearest wall of the - alleyway? The smith was no longer certain. The eyes saw the outlined of the parcel, a small, wan frown appearing, “Sorry… I didn’t mean ta get it dirty.”
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 Nov 30, 2018 11:53 am

26th of Vortas, 2718
SOOT DISTRICT | AFTER HOURS
Every noise felt amplified in the dark, Rhys letting the glow of his magical enchantment fade once he settled Gale in his grip, curled against his chest and supported by both arms. He felt the breeze. He heard a dog bark somewhere down another alley. He swore he heard voices, but the tinnitus in his ears and the pulse rumbling through his temples blurred everything into a miasma of sound. His senses were elevated and oversaturated all at once, frayed field full of the confused emotions that he lacked the willpower to control. The casting and the motion made him dizzy, a whisper of the vertigo he'd just recently recovered from taunting him with a return. Resting a shoulder against the wall of the alley in the thick, frigid darkness until it passed, he shoved away regret and ignored the sudden guilty self-doubt that flooded his chest like he'd inhaled fire. This was all a mistake. He'd just unraveled years of training with his own bare hands.

For what?

For the bleeding human who rambled brokenly against his shoulder?

For his own tarnished heritage?

For a court case he feared would fail?

"Clock the Circle." He grunted as if the phrase would solve everything, gritting his teeth and crunching ice beneath his boots as he trudged their bodies up an alley, doggedly determined to get them safely to his informant's little apartment without getting seen by any patrols or more of whoever Gale's attackers may have been, "I'm not stopping, alright? We're going somewhere safe. I'm in no condition to run, carrying your lanky, bleeding erse and—Hey. Stay with me, now. It's a little bit more of a walk—just a little—"

There were definitely footsteps and the tall Sergeant began to pick up his pace, a wave of panic sharpening his senses and causing him to hiss a shushing noise through his teeth. The dirty package wet with melted ice and blood was the least of their worries. Rhys didn't look over his shoulder to see who was now definitely pursuing them, his long-legged strides slowed by the half-conscious weight of his sister. But he gathered his field again, summoning the mona that lived their lives as his constant companions closer and tighter around them both as if they were at all capable of being a barrier without him first speaking Monite.

The hand on his arm was unexpected, the young Valentin chagrined that he wasn't fast enough when burdened with another body, but it was the press of something against his spine that elicited a sharp inhale of surprise, the cold air clinging to his lungs and clawing through his veins,

"I'm quite sure I don't, ma'am." He growled, tall form tensing, the well-trained officer willing himself to remain still despite his urge to immediately engage the woman behind him, a wave of nausea gripping him at the thought that she was apparently armed with something dangerous. Memories of gunfire filled him with a dread he couldn't properly express except for the sudden fear on his face that she couldn't see, the tightening of his entire digestive system and the sudden pounding of his heart against his narrow chest. Godsbedamned things were supposed to be illegal, not simple playthings every fucking stranger waved in the Soot District.

The old woman behind him would feel the thick tightening of his field, not unlike buttoning a coat against the cold over several layers of clothing. The Monite for push was a single phrase, quick and easy. It had been the spell he'd cast almost two decades ago when at his Initiation. It had been the first lie in his life as a wick in galdor's finery.

Agatha would feel a sudden rush of force as if Rhys had grown hands from his back and shoved her hard, the spell focused on the pressure digging into his spine with an extra two words, seeking to knock her away and at least angle her hand toward the wall.

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
SidekickBOT | Today at 11:24 AM
@Muse: 1d6 = (3) = 3

Minor success: Not a strong push, but perhaps enough of a surprise to put space between them and prevent Agatha from firing the weapon. Ha.


It was enough, the well-trained Seventen stepping to one side and turning on his heel as he breathed his spell, dodging and purposefully shifting to face the stranger—

Who was a little old woman.

A little old woman with a fucking gun.

What in Alioe's name was wrong with people?

"Oh, gods. Listen. Mister Saunders and I are famil—friends. I found he—him in the alley. I'm sorry, I couldn't help his friend. I—look—it's not safe here. I've already fought off two of his attackers back up on Gravelton Street. You're either with those ersehats or you're with us here, but I'm going to keep walking now, okay? Just going to back away—" Rhys began to do as he said, slowly, careful over the ice and slick cobblestones, running his shoulder along the dirty edge of the building to keep his balance, to keep himself steady with the young smith in his arms and the fear racing through every particle of his existence,

"—I've got a friend down Verrigan Way with a spare room. I need to keep moving. I'm not here to hurt anyone. For fuck's sake, put that thing away or else we'll all be damned for sure. Gale is hurt. I need to help him." It was strange, the confusion of pronouns, but the blond Sergeant seemed to think far more quickly on his feet in the heat of the moment than most would assume. He wasn't a four-snap officer for nothing, and here he was desperatel to prove himself yet again. Adjusting his grip on his sister's body, curling her tighter with an obvious protectiveness despite the very unfiltered fear on his bruised face, he exhaled a cloud of panicked breath.

The similarities in their faces couldn't be denied, though Rhys' eyes were blue and his features perhaps more delicate, the galdor in his blood impossible to deny, "You can clocking shoot me if you like, but you'll regret it. Can you carry him anywhere?"
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Agatha Maplethorne
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Fri Nov 30, 2018 12:31 pm

26 Vortas 2718
Evening
Aggie was tense, the gun steady at Rhys' spine. But, unbeknownst to Rhys, Aggie hadn't actually cocked it. She was smart enough to know that she couldn't shoot the mysterious man without shooting Gale. She just wanted to scare the person she assumed had hurt Gale, to let him know that she wasn't going to give up the boy without a fight.

Nausea rose at Gale's ramblings. She had seen this before and it was never a good sign.

Her voice was tight when she replied to Rhys' claim that he didn't have anything of hers. "Well, sonny, you're quite wrong there. You have my nephew and I'll be damned if I let the ersehole who hurt him wander off to do who knows what...."

Next thing Aggie knew, she felt the mysterious man's field tighten and she stumbled back, her gun falling to the ground. She reached out to grab it as the man turned to face her.

"Family? Well, sonny, you ain't any family that I know of and I knew Gale's father," Aggie muttered, examining Rhys' face for a few moments, dragging out the image of Gale's mother from the depths of her memory. "Though... perhaps on Yelenn's..." she murmured, before making a decision.

Aggie stood up, stuffing the gun in her purse. "Listen here, sonny. My boy is hurt and I know I'm taking a chance here. I'm going to trust that you're not one of the erseholes who attacked Gale. But I'm fucking warning you. The moment you try to clocking hurt my nephew is the moment I shoot you right in the forehead," she said. "I've been training with Betsy since before you were born and don't think for a moment that I'll clocking miss."

She walked over and stood next to Rhys. She looked at Gale and, in an instant, she went from a tough woman who would kill to protect her adopted nephew to a little old lady who was terrified that she'd lose another one of the people she loved. She reached out and touched him gently, her hand trembling.

She looked up at Rhys. When she spoke, her voice was calm, despite her teary eyes. "I'm Agatha, but everyone calls me Aggie. I got some first aid training. Let's get him to someplace safe so we can save him."

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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Sat Dec 01, 2018 11:55 am

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Somewhere | Evening
26 Vortas 2718
Rhys had said something again. Something that dipped into a muted noise a was past the attention of Gale. The lids gave a flutter, head curling inwards as if to protect themselves from the elements that lingered. A grunt escaped, a feeble attempt to laugh at his comment of them bleeding. There had been blood. A lot of it. The smith was not sure how much however, and the mind struggled to comprehend how much had actually been lost. Shuddering, the eyes screwed up tightly as they tried to find focus on something – anything – less a damned state of unconsciousness take them.

Nostrils twitched, instinct forcing a closing in. A slither of white poked out from behind her lips, shoulders lifting as they tried to comprehend what was going on. Danger. Get up. Get up. A cough escaped as his hold became tighter, a lingering warmth against the cold night air. The better hand shifted, brow creasing into a frown as a single digit managed to hook into a crease of his coat. A shiver, the voice quietly whispered, “...ys… We need to...”

The last of the strength fell away, hand sliding out of the weak hold and coming to a rest on their torso. The frown eased, muscles going limp in the close held position. If the smith had been more coherent it would have been a different story, the last of the conscious sparks being snuffed out despite the attempts to hold onto something.

Gale drifted off, the faint breathing confirmed that. The voices fell away to silent, mind absent for the journey. The occasional hiss or groan of discomfort sounded, short noises made more on the subconscious level. Jostled, the expression of pain surfaced and dipped. In time they reached their destination wherever that was. The body still shivered, eyes narrow slits as the alien ceiling passed above. Something stirred within to struggle, the thought of danger having returned to them pushing the smith. Fear controlled them, an attempt to turn the head for a better view.

Where was Rhys?

The hands that were holding onto the package realised they were empty. Had they dropped it somewhere? Left on the ground and forgotten?

Shapes were blurred, indistinct and formless. The voices were much the same, distorted and sonorous. The package was not important, the hands shaking once more as the pain returned loud and angry. Throat croaked, a wheezing sound escaping as reality tried to force its way in. There was a surface, beneath them? On top? It did not matter.

Where was their brother? Was he in danger? Did the Gentleman get him too?

The back complained as they tried to drag themselves upright, struggling to make half an inch and then clonking back down. Head throbbing, eyes dry and aching – the tears had dried up, the smith merely lost in a state of confusion as it weakly tried to call out. A rasping noise was all they managed to make.
ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
Small skip ahead. Pretty much giving permission here for you to do with Gale as you see fit (they can’t really resist much currently) on the basis you can come to an agreement among yourselves. If necessary will skip a turn or two depending on what occurs and if some conclusion is met.
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 Dec 03, 2018 10:35 am

26th of Vortas, 2718
SOOT DISTRICT | AFTER HOURS
Arms full of a fading from consciousness young human who wasn't getting any lighter, Rhys ignored the official voice in the back of his whirling mind that reminded him just what offenses he was ignoring. His thoughts riffled through imaginary paperwork, filling out arrest reports for the elderly woman who looked at him in shock and scrambled for the pistol that was most likely a fatal item to have in her possession, considering the length of what her prison sentence could be for assaulting an officer of the Seventen with an illegal firearm. If the judge didn't push for execution, that is. Gale's list of offenses were so long that the taller blond simply groaned out loud as if to shut off his own mind, but his training was silenced when the woman in front of him spoke his mother's name out loud.

Something inside of him coiled tightly, his field writhing like a fistful of angry snakes, and the young Valentin's bruised, bloodied brows came together in an obvious scowl. Yelenn's name on his father's lips had almost been more than he'd ever wanted to hear, but out of the mouth of a stranger?

Rhys growled his words, not able to meet the woman's face as his blue eyes watched her gun instead, "We share the same mother, but I didn't know of Gale's relation to myself until recently." That was all he was comfortable saying to someone who knew Mister Saunders so well, aware that he wouldn't be telling this armed older woman his full name, his rank, or the race he was raised to be.

"I don't really think it's clocking fabulous idea to threaten me with your gun while I'm holding someone you claim to care so dearly about." The Sergeant's official voice of authority leaked out, burning against his tongue and causing his chest to ache. It was pure survival now, and the heat of fear crawled through his veins because he'd stood still long enough, "I'm not the one responsible for Gale's injuries, but I'm also not going to clocking stand around and wait for anyone to return looking for survivors, considering I left a few of the ersehats who did this bleeding a few streets back."

His lips twisted in a sneer and he chose to ignore her tears, not because he was incapable of that level of compassion, but because he was obviously already far too involved in the situation, "Rhys. And I have—" Seventen training. Emergency response training. Medical training. Magical training, "—a varied set of skills. I also have somewhere to go ... it's safe enough."

Clearing his throat to avoid saying more, he turned warily and made his way back up the street. The byways and thoroughfares of the Soot District were mostly poorly lit—those streets that had oil lanterns were lit when folks felt like it, and if it wasn't foggy so close to the Arova, it was smoggy and dirty. The not-galdor wasn't interested in making conversation while they walked, wasn't interested in giving himself opportunities to say too much to Aggie who most likely wouldn't appreciate who or what he really was. He wanted to keep an alert ear open for signs of pursuit, anyway, straining his senses to hear past the dull tinnitus that still haunted him, that may have been more permanent than promised after the riot.

Rhys was careful to take the quickest route possible, despite it being the most obvious and direct. The old woman would be able to memorize the route if she was familiar with the Soot District, and here he was leading her to one of his informants, to one of the D'Arthe estate's passive witnesses, and to a shitload of trouble for himself. As long as he kept moving, he could ignore the voices that vied for attention in the back of his mind, the roars and whines of just how many laws and rules he was breaking, just how much of who he was he was betraying with every choice this evening.

For what?

For who?

To what godsbedamned end?

Somewhere along the way, Gale got heavier, her body slumping in his arms and the weight of unconsciousness threatening to trip him, the Seventen catching his shoulder against a corner and adjusting his grip on the lanky human, curling them closer as if making sure he could still feel breath.

Allen's apartment was part of a block of buildings run-down by disrepair, though it was perhaps one of the better living arrangements available considering it was so close to a handful of factories that the hum and whirr of machinery could be heard from the street. Rhys knocked with his boot, curling to press his forehead against the peeling paint of the wooden door, the pattern he knocked a particular one that was met with another pattern. A few more complicated sounds later and a series of locks opened, the door parting to let out a wave of warmth and reveal a middle-aged wick with dark hair and a pipe in his teeth.

His eyes widened, clearly not expecting the site before him, and he tensed, body flexing as if he was about to slam the door shut in Rhys' face,

"Ne, I can't—"

"Al, this wasn't what I was expecting, either. I'm sorry. I need your help. I'll owe you so big—" The blond Sergeant whined, letting his facial expression do the talking so that he didn't need to say more than was necessary in Aggie's presence. Allen took the package from Gale's hands with an unamused smirk, his dark eyes meeting Rhys' pale gaze with an expression of impotent frustration,

"—this isn't in our agreement, Rhys. This off the books, then?" The wick's eyes darted to the older woman, to the unconscious smith, and back to the Seventen, helplessness laced with concern given that the tall man before him wasn't unscathed, "Fuck. Was this that godsbedamned Cap—"

"No. Not him. And yes, we're so far off the clocking books tonight." Rhys cut him off with a hiss, following the other man inside as he waved them in. The flat was small, only two rooms and a tiny kitchen with a hearth taking most of the space between. The living area was a makeshift spare bedroom, but Rhys simply shoved a small table out of the way with his hip and laid Gale down without even asking. From the bedroom, a young red-headed woman with freckles and amber eyes peered out, immediately terrified.

"—epaemo. Alright, let's jus' get to work then. Oddie! Get some water on th' fire. I'll fetch a blanket 'r two." Allen wasn't a stranger to the dangers of where he lived, and he had learned over the course of his unlikely professional relationship with the Sergeant to not ask questions. Instead, he looked to the old woman with Rhys as if already aware of what the blond not-galdor was capable of, "I'm gonna hand you some things from the kitchen, ye chen."

Rhys had already felt for the human's wounds in the dark, but in the dull glow of oil lanterns, he could finally see things clearly. He shrugged off his own bloodied coat and tossed it aside, not interested in undressing Gale further both because the smith had an identity he was loath to disturb in current company and because he had no need to do so. Still, he was too well-trained to let personal feelings get in the way, and regardless of anyone present, he parted tears in clothing with ginger touches and squinted at where his spell had at least stopped bleeding for the moment. He judged the depths of wounds and made mental calculations of his own magical success rate.

If anyone was listening, he rattled off what he could see: the young smith had been stabbed four times in total. The two in Gale's shoulder, front and back, caused him the most concern because the Sergeant knew range of motion and lack of scar tissue would be important for his sister to continue her line of work. The lower wounds were just painful and bloody, life threatening had he not stopped the bleeding for their walk, but reparable with time and care.

Odette was hardly more than a teenager and terrified, the passive keeping herself busy fetching what was necessary. Allen would hand Agatha hot water and towels, clearly protective of the tall blond as he gathered his field and wary of the strangers who'd brought blood into his supposed safe house.

He would give Odette and Agatha time to clean wounds if they wanted to, willing to look away while explaining that he would be doing what he could first, rolling up his sleeves and loosening a button or two of the thick, pale green shirt he wore against the Dentis chill. The color was a few shades lighter than the uniform he'd left at home. His dark grey vest was bloodied and his darker trousers dirty and wet,

"Let's be clear right now. I'm going to use magic. I can work on disinfecting and also the deep tissue injuries here in the shoulder," He pointed, "at least making sure that everything will heal well. So that our friend here can stay functional at their job, yes? When I'm done, stitches here and here will most likely still be necessary."

His blue eyes fell on Agatha with a seriousness, gathering his field, "—time is obviously of the essence, so save your questions and judgements until the end. Don't interrupt me. Whatever I end up not being able to fix will be up to your first aid. I'm not a healer, but I can stretch my limits for family. Hold him."

He barked like the Sergeant he was with an air of command that hid the depths of his nervousness and fear, settling on his knees and huffing stray strands of strawberry blond hair from his face. His wick friend returned with a blanket, clever enough to wrap it around the younger blonde as if she was an infant needing swaddling, a way of keeping the smith still because he knew exactly how magical healing could feel,

"This is going to hurt." He warned to anyone who was listening, looking down to the human he could have simply left to die so that she would take their relation with her to the grave, but didn't. It was an odd feeling, not unlike falling, with his heart hot against his ribs and his thoughts screaming in terror over all the wrong decisions he was so obviously making, about all the laws he'd broken, about all the deep shit he'd waded into, "A lot. I'm sorry, but my training is basic."

Rhys didn't place his hands directly on injuries, but still set his palms firmly on Gale's abdomen under the blanket, his eyes slipping shut as he began to cast. His wick informant didn't question that the Seventen was galdor, and only the unconscious smith knew the truth. Had the older woman been around wicks when they cast spells before, she would be vaguely aware that the stranger's magic was different. Stronger. It almost felt more organized, if that was possible, but it was of course still utterly alien to the humans, the motion of mona and the syllables of Monite.

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
SidekickBOT | Today at 9:41 AM
Muse: 2d6 = (5+5) = 10
Antiseptic, success. Healing, success. Flesh is knit back together and infection won't be happening, but due to Rhys' very limited Living conversation abilities, the healing process is excruciatingly painful and will leave very obvious, ugly scars even if tended carefully.

SidekickBOT | Today at 9:42 AM
Muse: 1d6 = (2) = 2
Rhys stays conscious after casting, but barely. He is visibly and physically exhausted, drained, and in no condition to defend himself against anyone or anything. He is nauseated and achy with intermittent numbness in his extremities from the extent of his use of Living conversation.


His eyes slipped shut and he disappeared into his pleas to the mona, letting go of his own very critical self-awareness to instead allow his sense of urgency flood his tumultuous emotions, washing away distraction. Self-doubt would have brailed him. It didn't matter if he was wick or galdor, his request to knit veins and muscle back together again would have been the same. He felt for bone fragments with a few extra phrases, making sure that Gale's shoulder wasn't permanently damaged. Stab wounds were injuries hardly felt when received, stinging later, but as Rhys wove the spells that grew tissue and accelerated the smith's body's use of white blood cells to fight infection, every microscopic motion was felt in as if it was in painful slow motion. He focused his sincere and hasty requests of the mona on the deeper wounds, the unreachable tissues that stitches couldn't fix, the places that would affect mobility if left untreated.

It was so far out of his normal abilities that he was forced to concentrate on his phrasing, that his Monite was almost pure intention and very limited medical understanding. His Seventen training was enough, sentient particles moving and changing realities without concern for his heritage. Nerves were overstimulated, and even those present in the small, dirty apartment would feel their fingertips, their toes, and even the tip of their nose tingle and sting with the intensity of his casting, the congregation of so much Living mona leaving no one untouched.

In the longest ten minutes ever, the blond Seventen tested the limitations of his Brunnhold education, of his Numbrey training, and of his halfbreed heritage. He would grit his teeth by the end, spell-casting barely a whisper, sweating and pale. The last syllables were a sigh, Rhys' eyes slow to open, every joint in his body aching as if he'd been physically exerting himself for days. His hands slid away from Gale and he slumped backward against the cot Odette had been using as a bed, ignoring that he was shaking, lungs simply working with extra difficulty to force him to breathe. Panting while he wiped his brow, he'd certainly done better than any of his peers would have ever expected.

And so clocking spectacularly for a mere wick.

He groaned and willed himself to stay awake, his field a frayed mess and his mouth dry, his spells not quite enough to entirely close tears in the first few layers of flesh so much as make sure everything beneath the surface was well on its way to healing. There was fresh blood, oozing from the stab wounds as if squeezed from the inside, knit together flesh tenuous without further support from stitches and bandages,

"Gods. If my professors could see my sorry erse now." He murmured under his breath, to himself, curling his knees to his chest just so he could bury his face somewhere and hide from the urge to vomit that swam within. This was a mistake. He could hear it in the back of his mind. All of this was a mistake and he was helpless against the consequences. But was this worth the danger? Was this continued foolishness over a mere human going to make any difference in his life that had already been turned so recklessly upside-down?
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