Closed You are a mouse not a man [Weylin and Wrenmae]

[Valo]

91st Winter 512AV Sunset The docs Had he not ventured past his door way that night, perhaps no ill would touch him. No deathly clad figure would reach it's ghastly fingers in his direction. For the diminishing of luck, is what this whole ordeal had become. The luck which periodically abandoned him from the very moment he stepped his foot on the Zeltivian soil. The red haired artist's very purpose at the docs was utmost innocent and terribly simple, for there is not a better place in the whole of Zeltiva, where a winter sunset can be viewed in all of it's bloody majesty. And such violence across the sky was precisely was captivated him, inspired him. Valo was not a violent soul, not in the least; but there was something about the hacked wound of red, weaved with deep purples and smudged with black. The way that the few clouds had their underbellies lit with fiery hues, drifting purposelessly like lambs, suspended in nothingness. There was truly something enchanting about this scenery. The open ocean and the sky, sliced in half by the horizon. He had few possessions on his that evening. A small sketchbook, a paintbox and about five gold mizas, no more. Of course it had not been in his plans to poke around placed where he may give them away. For a while now kelp beer was not suppose to touch the pale lips of the red haired artist. Though as recent events had shown, Valo was a weaker man that he thought him self to be. Art in fact was the only reason he had ventured out at such a late hour. In a manner of genuine tranquillity he positioned him self somewhere where no soul needed to pay attention to him and producing his materials, began working on, what was nothing more than, colour studies. Simple yet essential if he was to keep improving his technique. When it came to art, textbook knowledge was just as important as skill and skill could only be taught though meticulous repetition. His mind, though previously cluttered, had been wiped clean by the cloth of concentration. The beauty of water based mediums such as water colours was that it dried fast and blended of it's own accord. Perhaps the most comfortable and yet the hardest of mediums to master. But Valo had a perfect technique for representing the colours of the dying sky. Holding the paper vertically, he placed one line of water suspended pigment under another, causing it all to flow together into a perfect gradient. Dark colours towards the top, flowing into red and yellow hues. Consequently, imperfect rectangles of magnificent colours began appearing on the paper, perhaps not as jagged and raw as the sky, but these were just colour studies merely to describe, not portrait the scenery. Delicate patched of purples and reds and yellows interwoven. And as the paper dried, the sun had set and darkness fell on Zeltiva, and within that darkness there was silence, and within that silence there was perhaps a sudden thirst for cheep alcohol, a thirst for a little enjoyment towards the end of a long day. Besides, he had not been down to East street since the night of that murder - the memory of which still haunted him in his dreams - and perhaps it was time to once again walk the familiar cobble stones. Keeping an elegant posture, as always, Valo strolled past the alleys having expected this part of town to be perhaps a little livelier than it was at this time of day. But then again, he liked it a little better without all this constant racket and yelling of drunken men, with little better to do than drink until their bodies surrender completely. Perhaps the nearing end of the season was at fault, though Valo could not quite fathom why this would be the case. "Valo you are a mouse not a man." he thought to him self for he had halted at the entrance of the alley which resurrected his deeply buried ghosts. His deep set eyes now stared at the familiar tree, a haunting expression within their green surface, as if the owner him self had been but a ghost. He felt his self standing in precisely the same place, rooted into the cobbles as he looked upon the bear silhouette of his friend Ricky crouched over a mutilated corpse of that wave guard, Kip. The screams of his brown haired companion echoed still in the breeze. The residual haunting of that very spot had plaid over and over again from that very day. The ghostly memory still very alive. Valo exhaled loudly, forcing his thoughts back to reality. "You are a mouse not a man." he repeated, yet this time aloud, trembling within the otherwise smooth substance of his voice. He was of an idealistic mind and an easy upbringing, a shielded childhood from the horrors of reality. And murder to him was truly such a horror. This self criticism was of a self preserving nature. A realisation that it was time for him to grow up. Time to become a man. He hadn't been standing there for long when something struck him against the back of the head, not hard enough to knock him out, yet hard to make it somewhat painful. Startled, Valo fell to his knees as his bag of belongings was ripped from him with a quiet, poisonous snigger. A sharp tug on his long red hair. His head had been pulled up at a right angle so that now his eyes were fixed on the sky -fixed on the gods which will not save him - and something cold and sharp was pressed against his throat. A blade of some sort, but Valo could only feel it. "Give me three good reasons why I should not kill you right here, right now." proclaimed a rusty voice, hissing against his ear. His attacker as a man much older than him self, dressed in a black cape with a hood obscuring his features. An unpleasant stench of poverty came from him. But if he was just after Valo's money, why not leave him be? Why must it end in murder? The red haired artist swallowed hard in his paralysis.If he had only remained within the safety of his four walls that day. If he had only not been swayed by the lovely prospect of alcohol. If he had only had enough strength to merely walk straight pass the residual haunting, forgetting it ever took place.

[Weylin Quickshot]

The Docks, or more over the ocean, to this day still remained a fascination to Weylin. When ever she saw it she would pause to take in a long hard look, to allow herself for a moment be consumed by the motion of the waves, before tearing her eyes away. It had after all become one of her more favourite places to visit, followed closely by The Cerulean Pier, both after all allowed her imagination to be freed for only an instant, to forget about the world and her history for a moment before returning to the cruel reality. She kept her eyes focused on the sky for a moment, watching the colours bleed out across it, before her eyes caught sight of the distant shape of Valo. She paused, her pulse momentarily quickening before she composed herself. He seemed to distracted by his study of the sky, and so she chose to keep her distance allowing him to maintain his focus. But she in turn studied him, his small subtle movements would no doubt produce something to admire when finished. She smiled to herself, twirling her knife between her fingers, her mind remembering the few times they had shared together, and perhaps after he finished the could share some more.

Weylin shuddered for a moment, regretting she had left her cloak back where she slept, and so hugged into her jerkin. On the front it was always cooler than inland, and once Valo made his move she would perhaps allow herself to bump into him. The sky darkened more, and she watched him pack away his things. It was time to make her move. She tucked the knife away as she made her way after him, her eyes hunting him down as he disappeared behind objects. She had to close the gap faster. Her pace quickened, her eyes searching him in the glowing gloom, catching sight of his shape as he walked on ahead. Something seemed to be bothering him, she could see it in his stride, and the manner in which, although his elegant walk, his shoulders seemed to slump slightly. She stepped to one side when he stopped at the entrance of an alley, a quiet, tremble coming from his lips, a fear almost grasping him. Weylin watched, a moment of hesitation holding her back. He would move soon she hoped, soon he will move.

Weylin pulled her eyes away from him, scanning her own surroundings, checking the gloom, her eyes pricking for noise. She had to be careful in these parts of Zeltiva, she remembered the previous times she had travelled about here in the dark and the fun she had to deal with. Her eyes slid to back to were Valo once stood, only to see he no longer stood there. She quickly pushed herself away from the side, taking large strides before turning in to face the alley.

Rage begun to grow as she looked into the scene before her, her fists clenching, a deep bubbling fury growing inside of her. Her back straightened, her eyes becoming narrowed, keen, a determination being covered by a more basic level of emotion.
"Give me three good reasons why I should not kill you right here, right now."
She advanced, strong steps, no fear, no worry, only anger and rage. She could feel control slipping from her, a deep hatred growing inside her, the same bubbling adrenil that pumped through her all that time ago, the same instinct that consumed her, the rule of fight or flight. This fiend had threaten Valo, this fiend demanded reasons to let him live, this fiend was little more than dirt.

Cold, hard, logic ruled the hunt of this fiend. Her hand stretched out, no words escaping from her lips as her fingers grabbed onto the back of his coat, as no feeling of resentment rung out in her head. She hurled him off, throwing him against the wall, all element of warmth having escaped. Weylin stood over the fiend, her face for a moment masked in shadow, her hand clenched into a solid fist.
"Three reasons to live?" she breathed as she grasped his front letting her eyes lock with this fiend "I'll give you three reasons."
"I'll knife you! I will! I will!"
Coward.
Her arm recoiled back, before coming hurling forward.
"For I will break you."
The sound of flesh meeting flesh sounded out, the crunch of bone as her hand made contact with the man. She released him and kicked the fiend in the gut, no longer having any thought on what Valo was thinking. She grasped the man and raised her fist again, a wild mad flurry as she struggled with him. She drew her knife twirling the handle in her hands as she encroached upon the fiend, her jaw becoming stiff and solid.
"For I will make you bleed."
Her heart was pumping loudly, the pulse ringing in her ears as she slashed wildly at the man, her free hand reaching out to grab him. Instinct ruled, moral goodness was lost, it was so simple to her, to be able to lash out and react, to no longer care of consequences. She felt the cold metal of his knife plunge into her arm, the pain searing through her. And so she reacted in kind. She pushed him away, and grasped the knife handle tightly. Her mind swum, thoughts and memories flooding in.
It is happening again.
Weylin pulled the knife out without a second thought, blood blooming out and staining her shirt sleeve. She let out a howl as she did, but it was that howl that caused her blood to bubble. She felt a punch hit her head, a second blow hit her in the gut. She gasped, her jaw clenching as she took the pain, sucking in the damage. She stilled, her stance broken, hunched over, her head facing the ground as droplets of blood escaped her face. Her breathing was heavy, laboured, her blooded face rising to meet his, a wild look in her eye. She took a step forward, weak at first, followed by the second, more sturdy step. A low growl hung in the back of her throat as she locked eyes with the fiend. These were no longer Weylin's eyes, these were the eyes of a killer.
"For I am Weylin, Son of the Wolf," she let out a roar "And I will kill you first!"

[Wrenmae]

Nolan was floundering.

Tucked against the shadow of the alley Valo had looked into, Wrenmae scowled as he watched the thug beaten down by the young woman. It had been a simple request, test the young painter to see if he was worthy of life. Too many times the murderer had crossed paths with the Inarta and let him live by good faith. But the noose was closing around his neck, he could feel the Waveguards searching for him.

Hound...was a known name in the Zeltivan streets now.

All a part of the plan, of course. Zeltiva had been devastated by sickness the entire season. Despite research and coordinated doctor efforts, nearly a fourth of the city had perished. The corpsefires burned even now.

He would return to Sahova, find the meaning of the key he'd discovered on his way out. That refuge of the dead...and perhaps return.

Zeltiva could use an ease of disease, time to heal and reassess. Vayt would be proud of his efforts so far, and certainly he had utilized the full extent of the Plague God's gift.

But this...this was embarrassing.

Nolan was decimated beneath the smaller woman. She fought with all the ferocity of a wild beast. None of the form, none of the finesse, but enough intensity to turn Nolan into a disappointing afterthought in his entourage of thugs.

The woman approached Nolan, beaten, stabbed, and still snarling her hate-filled litany of promises. To her credit, Wrenmae applauded her faculty of accurate banter to compliment Nolan's original threat. Such savage displays were rarely partnered with coherent speech, but she performed marvelously to say words Nolan probably wouldn't register until after the confrontation.

So much was lost in combat...especially language.

As Valo looked on in horror, Wrenmae took the five strides necessary to bring him from his passive position in the alley to right behind the painter. Even if Valo heard his approach over the grunts and shouts, he would not turn quick enough to avoid the suggestive prick of cold steel against the flesh of his back.

Rapier drawn and pressed against the center of his back, Wrenmae pushed a little harder to drive in the importance of his hesitation to turn.

"Wait a bit, my friend," The familiar voice rolled out to Valo's ears, just loud enough for their own private discourse as Weylin dealt with Nolan, "Let us see if your fair lady can save you from the brute."

Leaning in around the blade, Wrenmae, in the shape of Hound, lay a gentle hand on his head, pulling it back till his ear nearly touched the murder's lips.

"See that tree, Valo?" he whispered, "Will you be my new ornament? Will you be my new example for the people? I assure you, make so much as a single sound when not addressed to, and I will make sure you swing by dawnlight."

And so they two of them waited, painter and murderer, watching Weylin deal with the initial threat to Valo...a threat which, in honesty, was hardly as dangerous as the man who had been forced to intervene.

[Valo]

By the time Valo came to terms with the fact he was no longer going to die, Weylin had already come to his rescue. but there was something alien within her. Something cruel and relentless he had not seen before. He turned to see his lover, bruised and bleeding with a knife in her hand, a savage glare within her eyes. No longer the eyes of Weylin but those of a killer. And somehow strangely this did not surprise him. She wasn't some delicate butterfly that morphed into a blood thirsty beast, she was a strong woman who could protect her self. A wolf. "For I will break you." she roared. He was about to get up to his feet, about to help her somehow. If this was murder then they would join their hands in it, for he'd not let her carry the magnitude of such a deed on her own back alone. A though much out of character. If it was any other situation, he'd beg her to stop. But this was simply an act of self preservation. A moment which caused completely new emotions to surface within Valo. One's he'd never thought him self capable to feel. However this moment of bravery on his behalf was cut short and in fact could have never existed at all. Out of the five steps that Wrenmae took that night, to impose him self on the red haired artist, Valo had heard one, just the one closest to him. But by that time it was too late. Cold steel pressed into his back, slicing though the clothing and pricking against his skin to accent the importance of the situation. The importance of his behaviour from now on. "Let us see if your fair lady can save you from the brute." spoke a voice much too familiar. But yet not quite familiar enough. And perhaps because of this familiarity that it had been until the voice finished his last sentence, that Valo's mind pieced it to a face. The very man whom he came across the very first day he met his vanished cat. "Hound." Valo's mind screamed at him. It was that very man whom he'd been warned not tu trust. And his lips subtly traced the shape of the name, trembling with fear. Valo was the kind of man to think the best of people until they prove him otherwise. And truly he had not thought ill of hound, but attempted to grasp his mindset instead. To understand why he had been the man he was? What was the reason behind all this violence? Yet this was proof enough. For when the victim becomes not a name, but a woman close to Valo - a woman he cares for more than him self - that is when Hound looses his humanity in those green eyes of him. That is when Hound is deemed nothing more than a monster. "See that tree, Valo?" he whispered as he lowered the artist's head tot he level of his lips. And awkwardly it put him at a very similar position than before; on his knees with his head tilted to the sky somewhat. "Will you be my new ornament? Will you be my new example for the people?" The magnitude of the situation imposed it self on the Inarta's mind so, that the slate of his usually cluttered mind, was wiped clean. His heart grew cold, a stone within his chest. That was when in one short moment, he had though more thoughts than though the entirety of his lifetime. Cold, detached calculations of how to escape this situation so that she would survive. And if he was to die, to become an 'ornament', it no longer mattered. For he would gladly die if it meant she would go free. If he was to remain quiet than Weylin would go about killing the attacker, without even realising that the true fiend lurked by his side, watching it all with his monstrous eyes. It was painfully obvious from the very moment Hound spoke that she was in fact the real target of this pursuit. Valo was indeed just a pawn which just so happened to get in the way of the master plan. But if he was to yell, to scream at her to escape, would that do any good? He had to choose the right moment. The moment in which she'd be out of the brute's range and free to merely turn on her heel and run. Otherwise if he was to break her concentration, she'd no doubt fall prey. A punch to the gut created a little distance between them. Her stance, hunched over as she took two steps towards the attacker. "For I am Weylin, Son of the Wolf," she let out a roar "And I will kill you first! "Weylin." he cried, his voice echoing though the streets. No one would ever imagine that Valo's voice could be quite this loud, for his usual tone was calm and void of such importance. But this was no time for remaining calm, no time for eloquence or elegance or anything else he had ever prided him self on. "Run! Get out of here!" Valo was going to die. He was sure of it. Yet his life didn't pass before his eyes, like some might say it should. In fact his entire life had been erased up until this very moment. And a low chuckle became present within the base of this throat, like a lion's purr. "You're a disgrace of a man Hound." he added quietly so that only the villain could hear him. It somehow became terribly important to him that Hound would know that. So terribly important that those, he wished, were going to be his very last words.

[Weylin Quickshot]

Weylin advanced, her pulse ringing out in her ears. Instinct, controlled her, the lust for spilling blood, it ruled havoc on her mind. So effortless it would be to plunge the knife into the fiend, so easy. Her eyes had grown wide, her breathing laboured. She held the weapon tightly in her hand, her life blood flowing down her arm. A low growl came from the back of her throat.
Die. Die. Die.
Hate, raw hate. How dare he go for Valo, how dare he threaten him. She stood over the fiend; the scream to cause pain was strong now, to break his bones, to make him bleed, to make him suffer. Her teeth were bared as she lurched forward, poised and ready to kill. She grasped the collar of the fiend, her hot breath breathing on his face, an animalistic look in her eye. She stroked the blade against his cheek.

“How does it feel? The pain? The sensation?” she breathed. She brought the knife high above her head, eyes wide. She was ready to commit her sins. The knife came racing down.
NO!
Weylin froze. The knife tip barely touched the flesh of the trembling fiend, but her grip was strong on it still. Her eyes were locked with the fiend, opened wide, a moment of pause filling her mind.
No?
It was a simple word that rung out trues in her mind, which screamed out over the anger, the rage, the pure hatred and animalistic nature that controlled her. She could hear all clearly now, her breathing, his breathing, the quiet tremble in the back of his throat. She could see the fear, the horror, the contorted pain upon his face, the mixture of both his and her blood, her own dull aching pain.
This is not you. Enough.
She felt the knife in her hand tremble, her blooded grip loosen. She felt the realisation that for an instant she had lost herself, that any forms of honour had left, that she had become little more than a mad beast. No control, no thoughts, just unwavering instinct. Had that voice not rung out, this man before her would be dead, and she would be little more than the fiend he was. She swallowed, her body shaking, feelings of giddiness taking hold.
Stop it Weylin. Enough blood has been shed. Look for the real villain.
Yes… you are right. Enough...

She released the fiend and gave him a firm push away.
“Get… Get out... get out of my sight,” she spat between her deep heavy breaths. She needed air, she needed to gain her thoughts and her mind. She staggered back, her mind crumbling as reality took hold, shaking wildly, as she felt herself slump into the wall. She needed to find focus, something to return her thoughts to.
“Weylin,” she heard Valo cry out “Run! Get out of here!”
She was drawn to his voice in an instant, her eyes growing sharp, searching for the reason of Valo’s panic. Pale, drawn, covered in blood, an image that would instil fear into many, Weylin still had the look of a monster about her, but this time there was intelligence behind it. She saw the stranger standing behind Valo, the look of evil at work behind it, the true villian, the signs of a rapier being pressed against her lover. There was no time to think of regret, of the foolishness of leaving Valo open, of worries and threats, it was only a simple choice. To act or not to act and Weylin chose to act.

She did not think, she simply did. The knife tightened in her hand, the adrenal returned to her, wild instinctual, but this time it was focused, and unbroken. It was at first a single step, but with that single step came a mighty push that sent her charging forwards. The animal side slipped away, but still the wolf remained, no hate, no rage, just pure determination. She ignore Valo’s cries to run, for it was something she had already done enough of, and for running would only cause pain. Just like it did to her all that time ago. She could not let herself be a coward anymore.
“Valo! Brace!” It was an instruction as her feet pounded against the ground, a close distance between her and the eyes of the stranger.

It was now all or nothing and she hoped her execution would pay off. She leapt up, her right foot landing on the shoulder of the artist, before she used it push herself off. It was the speed and swiftness that would surprise both, the force of her push off would no doubt put Valo onto the ground, but at the same time it propelled her forward into the stranger with a howling battle cry escaping her lips. Her arms stretched out wide, as she threw herself into him, the sheer force sending him backwards with her through the air. She could hear the scraping of metal against stone, the dull thud as the pair were hurtled to the ground. Weylin did not waste any time. Already her fist was recoiled back, before it came swooping down to land a blow.
“What you waiting for Valo!” she let out a shout not turning round to face him “Go get help you idiot!”
Her attention now was fixed only on the stranger, all her strength and adrenal now forced into taking him down, and keeping him away from Valo. For Valo was now her only priority, even with her blood pumping, her head screaming in pain, a rage that rose up like wild fire, consuming and burning through her mind, a single goal in which all her thoughts and emotions were poured into. She just wanted Valo, to ensure his safety, to protect Valo, no matter the cost.

[Wrenmae]

ooc :

Stabbed with permission of the author

"I forgive you, Valo," the voice of Hound hissed in his ear as the rapier blade thrust through his back and erupted from his chest in a smooth thrust, "For you only see the act, and not the greater purpose." He twisted the blade, a reminder of the fragile mortality the Inartan stood upon. Had he ruptured his stomach? A Lung? His heart? All of these were possible, but few would be explained or understood by anyone but Valo, bleeding black in the darkness as Weylin leaped to use his shoulder as a brace.

The night curled protectively around them all, revealing little of the macabre undertone to their little drama. Weylin was unlikely to see the slim edge of blade that momentarily protruded from Valo's chest, especially in the slanted gloom of the alley. As Valo was pushed forward, likely to bleed on the cobblestone where he fell, Wrenmae dropped his rapier to receive the wrathful form of Weylin, like a monster atop him. Her eyes were furious points of light in the gloom, vengeful stars of their own skies with wrath only for him. Her fist fell first, smashing into Hound's nose and skewing it sideways in a crack of twisted cartilage. Her other hand held a blade, and that was the hand Wrenmae was keen to intercept should it descend for any part of him. He had raised no hand to stop the blow, instead drawing one of the long daggers from his waist and flicking it up at her throat, quivering dangerously mere inches before its end would taste her flesh.

"Not to interrupt your momentum, dear," the fiend hissed up at her, "But you may have more pressing concerns to deal with if you value the painter's life."

[Valo]

"Forgive me? How dare you forgive me? What purpose in this world could ever give you the moral high ground over me? You are the killer. The cold blooded scum of a man. The man who would be better off dead, than walking the streets of Zeltiva. What greater purpose is there? What by the love of gods is that purpose and why does it entail dead bodies to pave it's way? Who are you hound and what is your purpose?" Of course these words never left the lips of the artist, for nothing again would. And the hate which filled him now was the very last feeling. He would die in that hate, an inhibitor to fear which would have otherwise overtaken him. Men live for nothing, it seemed, for Valo's greatest wish had yet again slipped though his fingers, this time eternally. The very last thing he saw was the end of the rapier protruding from his chest. Funny it seemed, for it wasn't quite the way he pictured him self dying, impaled on a cold piece of steel. Then again he hadn't ever pictured him self dying at all. The voice of his killer, now echoing within his ears like some kind of divine force. The rapier twisted abruptly and the wave of pain that fallowed was insatiable. A foot in his shoulder, sending the poor artist into the cobbles, motionless like a doll not a man. And so he had lay there in a crimson lake of his own blood, now completely oblivious to the fight around him. Oblivious to everything in fact. His mind was consumed by the immortal hate which would linger in the air for years after he'd rot in the ground. Yet another residual haunting of East Street. Behind him the sounds of battle between the two echoed. A crunch of twisted cartilage, a roar of fury. But he didn't hear it any more, for Valo's auditory seances have been drowned out by a loud ring. A sound of bells being perpetually struck underwater. Loud yet muffled. Yes, that was the sound that guided him to his death. Death that is far from blissful will breed monsters in the afterlife. "I will haunt you." he'd have thought, if he was even capable of thought by that point. The pain however lingered. It grasped hold of the artist's body with it's greedy, ghastly fingers and tormented him like no other sense ever could. A paralysed body is all he was now. Planted into the concrete. The man by the name of 'light' had descended head first into darkness. The darkness of no return. "Not to interrupt your momentum, dear," sounded the words of the fiend, but were not registered by the dying artist. "But you may have more pressing concerns to deal with if you value the painter's life."

[Weylin Quickshot]

“Not to interrupt your momentum, dear,” she felt the cold steel hover away from her neck “But you may have more pressing concerns to deal with if you value the painter’s life.”
It was those words that made Weylin stop. Her eyes were locked with this new fiend, originally flaring with anger and rage, to simply crumble down to nothing. She shook, the knife in which she held the hand quivering, her lips trembling as she tried to understand his words.
Idiot. You failed again.
She felt the world spin, the anger fade, to be reduced down to a deep hollow regret. Everything had been ripped from her, no fury of combat, no lust for blood; it left her feeling raw and broken. The knife slipped from between her fingers, her head sinking, the world becoming nothing more than a cold numb blur. She pulled herself away, eyes panicked, arms shaking as she tried to comprehend her thoughts. Valo, where is Valo? They screamed at her. In the growing dark she stumbled and searched, her hands reaching out. Her blood stained hands. She could not think clearly as she found Valo, crouching over him, her fingers trembling as she saw his life force spill out across the ground. She touched his face, his name a simple whisper upon her lips as she looked down upon the cold stone floor. Was he dying? She threw the thought to one side as she touched his face, feeling the faint warmth that was quickly fading, much like a light that was to be swallowed whole.

“Valo, Valo…” she kept saying his name again and again, a beg for some acknowledgement, a reassurance that he would survive.
She had to do something, anything, even if it was to simply stop the bleeding, to keep him barely alive, it was better than nothing. She shook as she fought to get to the wound, her blood mixing in with his as she tried to find the source. She tried her best to be gentle, to speak to him although he no doubt could hear her, to tell herself that everything would work out just fine. She ripped into the fabric, tearing it into strips her mind swimming with thoughts. She had to get him conscious, she had to deal with the wound, and she had too little time. She placed some of the ripped fabric at his back, patching the entrance into the wound, holding it there as she used her remaining strength to prop Valo up against the wall.

“Valo… Valo!” she cried “Wake up! Please!”
It was no doubt a weak beg in the eyes of others, the pathetic cry as a lover tried to do her feeble attempts. She had no care for her pains any more, she had her focus, but he was slipping away. She placed the second patch of folded fabric to his front, her mind racing thinking. She had to stop the blood, if she stopped the blood she gave him time, and with the time someone could heal him, they could help. They could save him.
“Shyke! Stop bleeding! Please…” she could hear herself crying, her mind screaming out for a miracle “Please. I need you…”
What little fabric she managed to rip from his coat now formed as a simple patch, an attempt to stop the bleeding, to save him, or so she prayed in her mind. As she worked, her mind begged, her lips moving as they cycled between the gods, and as she cupped Valo’s face between her hands, and rested her forehead against his, no longer sure on what to do her mind still begged.

“Please… please,” her voice was little more than a whisper “Please, I need to save him. Please. Anything… please… I… I love him.”
Perhaps it was indeed a useless cry for help, a begging howl that a broken wolf could only make, that piercing scream in the night that would no doubt attract the many. She could not let herself fail again; she had to save him somehow, even if it did indeed mean sacrificing herself. She cared no more for war or strife, she cared no more for violence, she cared no more for hate or anger, and she cared only for him and him alone. She needed to move him, to wake him up, for her to help him, she needed him conscious. She gently shook him trying to desperately think of a way to keep him alert. She had to make him conscious.
“Valo! Valo!” She was near shouting “Valo! Listen to me!”
She was still crying; she knew she was but she had to try and get through to him “Valo! I need you to just wake up!”

[Wrenmae]

For a moment he lay on the cobblestone. Ahead of him, in the darkness, someone sobbed Valo's name. There was no answer, no reassurance, silence followed by screams, by sobs, by placation. Rolling to his feet, Wrenmae retrieved his blade and sheathed it, the metal clacking with an audible snap in the darkness.

Already her screams were attracting attention. People moved through the streets, ghosts too frightened to get involved. Someone...somewhere, called out for a Waveguard, for help. His position here was tenuous and he only had time to deliver his warning.

"He's dead, Weylin." the gravity of her name fell upon the girl with a different sort of weight, one of frightening consequences...but whether she was too beside herself to understand the implications or not wasn't his concern.

"You can sob over his wretched corpse or you can take up your blade and stop me. Stay with him and another will die tonight, follow and face me and I will spare this evening another soul to join Dira's side."

A distant shout, the sound of clanging bells, a whistle.

"The east of Zeltiva, where water meets shore, outside the city. Meet me there or stay and mourn the dead. I will give you till a chime past the third bell of morning." Turning from her huddled form, the hideous tableau of their sorrow painting the alley with poisoned intention, the murderer dashed from their side and slipped between wall and alley. His feet clattered on the cobblestone for a distant moment before fading.

And then the only sound was the rabble of those who had heard.

The sobbing of Weylin

and the last, rattling breaths...of a painter.

[Paragon]

As Valo descended into oblivion, it was hate that consumed him, crystallising his final moments. But as his death became inexorable to those around him, Valo would find his eyes fluttering open to sense a presence beside him. Those other than Valo would see nothing except for the sudden stoppage of blood flow. "Hatred can be channelled," the voice uttered. Valo would feel something. Life returning? Life ebbing? The feelings merged until he was unsure what it was that now graced him. The voice was thick and vile and so many things that it was indescribable. He simply blinked into darkness, forced to listen. "as you can be spared. What say you? Will you use your hate against the beating hearts of this world?" The question demanded an answer. Valo was aware he was now precariously balanced at the crossroads of life and death. He could fade away or he could take a chance. Either would change him forever.