Breaking Point (open)

[Wrenmae]

Summer 23, 512 AV Dawn had long since come to Zeltiva’s shore, lapping off the gentle waves of water and onto the bay. Wrenmae was on the docks, had chosen one with only two ships floating quietly like sleeping beasts. It was a calm day, breeze came down from the hills and across the water. Zulrav breathed life into the ocean and it shimmered in response. The gradual sound of sailors cursing and calling traveled dock to dock and beyond. Everywhere seemed busy but here, a small piece of serenity carved into Zeltiva’s busy port. It was perfect. Wren reached into his pocket, pulling out a small piece of fabric, tied around the disk shapes of mizas. He picked at the knot, taking only a few moments to tear it away and open the small repository of gold rimmed coins. Running the pads of his thumbs against them, he let himself become entranced with the sun’s affinity for the rims, glancing off the edge and setting the little white circles aflame. The first among the chosen mizas dangled between two fingers before he tossed it out into the surf. End over end it spun, a brief flickering trail before vanishing in the shadow of short-lived waves. “Passage to the beyond,” Wrenmae whispered, tossing another, “I’m not sure if Dira or Lhex accepts coin, but it’s the least I can do.” A small smile touched the corners of his mouth and a third followed the second into the surf. “Hey, Dad,” He began with a breath and a sigh, “Here I am again, tossing coins somewhere pointless.” Wrenmae chuckled, it was short lived, “You’d throttle me, I think.” It was true. The elder Murdock man was a hard-nosed trader. No miza was expendable without every other possibility exhausted. Old fellow could have built himself a throne of the things with his frugal habits. Instead he built himself an unmarked tomb among the white-capped peaks of Kalea. He’d never gotten to say goodbye. “I wonder if you’re still out there,” the storyteller muttered, tossing a fourth coin out into a cresting wave, “Looking for Alvadas. Well, if you find it, let me know huh? I’d still…” A hitch caught his throat and he swallowed it down, “I’d still like to see if what you said was true, talking gate and all that.” Grinning, Wrenmae wiped the beginning of moisture from his eyes. “You always knew how to tell a story. Maybe that’s where I get it.” There was no answer from the water or air, no whispered message, no sign. There never was. Even so, this pointless ritual had become something of a consistent reminder to the young man. His sins weren’t known, not really anyways. He and Zan carried those secrets and so coin by coin…he bought his innocence. His father was a merchant, certainly there was a price. “Things are…harder than last we spoke,” The mage shifted uncomfortably, “I overdid it, Dad, bad this time. Not sure how I’m still alive, but somehow I crawled out of that dungeon.” The torturer…no memory on how he’d escaped. What happened? Where had he shattered? “I think…I think I’m mad. I think I’m another one of those crazy mages people warned their kids about. I can’t remember anything. Not entire seasons. Bits and pieces.” He slid down and pushed his feet off the end of the dock, dropping another coin into the sea. “Maybe that’s justice, right? Punishment for my crimes? But I…” he shook his head, “Not really your style, Dad. You were more heavy handed than that. Kick my petching arse from here all the way back to Syliras.” He tucked his chin down on his knees, “I wonder if mom’s still there. You never told me much about her…I wonder if you would have when I was ready. Maybe you still will.” Another coin, the sixth, and it slipped out of sight, bobbing for a moment before slipping away into shadow. “Tell Markus and Elana I’m sorry, huh? I mean, I don’t think they’ll listen to me.” A lie. His sister always listened to him. Her gentle soul was the understanding he missed. Zan could never be her. There would be no one like her. “I just…please make sure they’re alight. I don’t know how much control you have, Dad, but if you can, have her come back happy. I miss her.” He breathed, “I miss all of you. Eleven years now. You think memories would fade after a while, right?” Wrenmae shook his head and swallowed another hitch, “Funny, mine never seem to.” “Need a hug?” Zan, always a bubbly interruption, buzzed from his belt, "Cause I don't so much hug as immerse, but hey, why not show you army-fleshy-humans things that even a shapeless familiar can hug". The flask of water exploded briefly and the ever shifting shape of the familiar spun around in front of the mage, settling over the mizas. Through his body they warped and bent, always bright, always beckoning. “Hey buddy boy, this isn’t exactly helping things. Come on, we could go somewhere, do something. I dunno, beats throwing money at the ocean and talking to someone who isn’t around, right?” “Anyone you care about ever die, Zan?” Wrenmae asked, looking out at the horizon, quiet, distant. “My home plane isn’t exactly Zeltiva-safe, buddy,” Zan muttered, “Sure, couple of friends aren’t around anymore. It happens. Don’t let it hold ya back.” “I don’t,” he answered with certainty, “I’m still here, aren’t I?” “Then why are we here?” A moment of silence “I like to think they can hear me, wherever they are.” He kicked his feet out over the water, bringing them out and back, out and back. “I was a kid a long time ago, kinda still am. I have so much to still learn and my mind is already in tatters.” Wrenmae bounced another miza in his hand, flipping it around while watching the water ripple beneath his swinging feet. “You know, I would have done this in the winter…but I don’t remember most of it.” “Ah, yeah, that.” The familiar seemed uncomfortable, “Well, don’t let me interrupt then.” It slipped away from him, slipping back down into a pocket and returning to its sealed shape. Wrenmae let him go. Zan wasn’t suited for that kind of thought, that kind of reflection. “Anyway, Dad, thanks. I know I don’t say this enough, but I don’t know what might have become of me if you hadn’t kept me with you. I know I was a piece of shyke for money and trading, but you still always made sure I knew you loved me. I just wanted to let you know…that I miss you.” The ocean breeze smelled like tar and fish, salty and stinging his nose. Wrenmae looked down at the miza in his hand, flipped it between his fingers, “Fairer paths and better sales next time around, huh?” He tossed the seventh and final coin into the water, slipping the other coins into his pocket and standing. For a moment he just looked out at the water, the way it moved up and down, like a swarm of tiny pointed chests rising and falling with miniscule breath. Summer again, and it had been a hard year. Next year might be harder. But for now, he was himself, he was alive. And he had made peace with his family…at least for the year he missed. Wrenmae raised a hand, waving at the sea reluctantly before turning down the dock. The breeze caught his neck and shoulders like heavy arms and Wrenmae smiled. It may have been nothing, but he chose to believe his father had put his hewn hands on his son’s shoulder…if only for a moment. That he had heard. And that...That was enough to make the storyteller feel lighter.

[Wrenmae]

Three men waited for him at the end of the dock. They blocked his path, arms crossed, waiting for him to approach. Wrenmae wasn’t thinking about trouble, not today, especially not in Zeltiva. So the thought nothing of the reception. He did, however, note how big they were. Each was well over six feet tall with wide swimmer shoulders and skin hardened by the rain and sun. One had tattoos coiling around his exposed bicep, an anchor and a fish with a strange sword-like nose. They wore a sailor’s garb, thick rope knotted as their belts and shirts cut of old canvas thick with the smell of seafoam. Wrenmae moved to walk between them but found himself rebuffed, blinking as he held onto his balance and frowned. “Don’think we should be doin this, Crem,” the one on the left muttered, the curve of his frown giving way his trepidation, “I seen this man afore, honorin him they was. He’s a Trident champion or sommat, has the eye o’ the city he does.” “Bite yer tongue, Doug,” Crem, the middle man, spoke gruffly, “City aint here.” “Cap’ll have our hide,” Doug sullenly added, looking Wrenmae up and down, “He don’ want no trouble wif Zeltiva.” “Cap can suck his own petchin rudder,” Crem hissed, almost turning on Doug, “What happened to ya, huh? Soft port bleedin the Sunberth outta ya?” “No, Crem,” Doug retorted, “Aint fer makin stupid calls.” “Talk when ya have more coins in yer pocket. Betcha feel yer old self after. Aint that right Grissle?” The last man only nodded, his eyes never leaving the storyteller. He had a grim scar along his face that reached down across his throat. Wrenmae searched his eyes, but found nothing but collected and dangerous intent. Backing away from them, the storyteller looked for options. Only the open sea and two small casinors offered any sense of escape. He hadn’t time to untie a casino, and even if he did, he had only rudimentary experience sailing one. The sea was a poor option. The sailors were likely better swimmers than he, and might be more inclined to just let him drowned rather than simply rob him. Less of a witness. He needed to get off of the dock, absolutely away from the open sea. As they approached and Wrenmae scuttled backward, he drew res into his hands, collecting the semi-solid Djed for a blast of wind to clear the way. But the moment he was bringing his hands forward, he remembered Tock, the Forum, the loss of his mind in those brief moments. Magic had gotten him into the mess, it only hastened his descent into insanity. There was another way. Skipping backward, Wrenmae went for the long dagger at his waist, only to find it was absent. He’d grown so accustomed to the lack of violence on the streets that he’d left his weapon in the dorm. Hissing under his breath, he found himself pushed toward the edge of the dock, grim eyed sailors hemming in his escape route. The back of his foot scraped the end of the dock. And Zan made his move. Creeping up from Wren’s pocket like a snake, the Sarawanki reared up just as Wrenmae pushed forward and charged Crem. The big man was taken aback, but not entirely unprepared for desperation. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was Zan spitting a short salvo of boiling water into his eyes as he set himself to receive the storyteller. Roaring, the sailor fell back, letting Wrenmae lower his shoulder and smash into his unguarded side. Crem was knocked sprawling into Doug, sending him careening over the dock and into the sea. Wrenmae pushed past them, narrowly avoiding Grissle’s grasping hand. He could feel the calloused fingers pass through his hair, slide momentarily at the nape of his neck, and then he was free, tearing across the dock and toward the open road. Honestly, he thought he’d get farther. Leaping off the dock, his feet hit the cobblestone with a clatter-thud, pitching him forward. He was off balance only a moment, sprinting along the docks toward the more populated area when something swung into him from the back and sent the young man careening through the air and crashing against the ground. He rolled without direction, colliding against a wall before being roughly dragged into the alley nearby. His vision swam, his head spun, his bones creaked beneath the aftermath of his clattering travel. But it was only for a moment till Grissle began hitting him. His fists were like small battering rams, thick and calloused, descending down on Wrenmae’s wiry body like stones hurled from afar. Each impact shuddered him, rocked his entire body. He swung back out of fear and panic, his hands gripping and scratching at his opponent only to find the beating harder. And then a foot connected to his side. Apparently Crem had found his way into the alley and had brought his foot into the Storyteller’s side with such force that it nearly knocked him into darkness. Another came, and another, Wrenmae reflexively curling around each blow, trying to protect what was too much area, too much skin, too much vulnerability. Blood traced its irony taste along his tongue, his breathing ragged and unfocused, momentary hitches of life beneath this merciless assault. It could have lasted an eternity, likely only a few moments. The blows began to descend irregularly, and finally stopped, pausing only after another tremendous kick to the chest which sent Wren rolling against the wall, coughing and sobbing, unable to move from his curled position. He couldn’t risk it, felt shattered. He needed to hold himself together or he’d fall apart entirely. Rough hands rifled through his clothes, closing on the small coin pouch and hauling the 43 gold mizas out. There was a chuckle, it sounded distant, everything did. Feeling was fading, agony replacing his vital functions until he breathed pain, bled suffering. And suddenly. He was not himself. There was only darkness to swallow up Wrenmae, a blissful release from his agony. There was no warning, no tick or quirk for him to identify. He simply wasn’t, any longer, and was what had been left in Sunberth. The survivor, the Protector, the manipulative murderer. Shroud breathed, coughed blood, breathed again. And even agony felt better than nothing. He was awake.

[Fiera]

Too tired to do anything but move, Fiera plodded down a stone path to the docks, yawning every so often. It was the easiest way to the tree line, and the fastest. The path, almost an alley, was deserted and made stark contrast with the seaside which, even at this (what seemed to her) ungodly hour, bustled with activity. It was a pleasant day, perfect for hunting, with a slight wind and little clouds. Fiera traced the shore with her steps, moving to a quieter part of the city. Two unused piers stuck forward toward the watery horizon, and to them, were tied a few boats. The buildings to the left of her cast long shadows in the early morning. As soon as these details registered in her mind, Fiera promptly forgot them and returned to her daydreams of sleep. A scuffle, a grunt and a few dull thuds caught her attention. She was about to disregard the sounds, when three men emerged from a side street in front of her. The men hadn’t noticed her and she was prepared to disregard them too, but caught a snippet of their conversation that made her pause. “See what I told yeh, Doug?” one said, seeming pleased with himself, “didn’ even put up much o’ a fight” Doug grunted in response, obviously not happy about his level of saturation. She didn’t move until they had passed out of sight. What had she just heard? Crime in Zeltiva had been a rare occurrence, but the storm had turned many men desperate. Determined, Fiera made for the street the men had just left, wishing she wouldn’t find anything, anyone. They wouldn’t have needed to beat anybody up, just threaten them. If she did find someone, what would she do? Who would she call? All signs of fatigue had left Fiera and now all she felt was the steady pulse of adrenaline. At first, she saw no one. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the light, Fiera noted what looked like a pile of clothes more than anything else, shoved against a garden wall. A scowl twisted her face as she caught the reek of fresh blood. Beside the body, she dropped onto her knees. She didn’t recognise the man, dark hair, a defined jaw, thin build. Had he not been covered in wounds and scratches, Fiera might have called him handsome. He seemed awake, although his injuries were plentiful. Fiera stood to leave. There was hardly anything she could do and anyway, he wasn’t her problem.

[Leigo]

oocHello, hope you don't mind me dropping by. Leigo was starting to feel a distinctly familiar emotion. Not quite easily described as sadness, it tugged at what was left of his hope for the day. It would quite likely ruin his mood for more than just a day, but yet he needed to push on. The man he was supposed to meet on the docks hadn’t showed up. Other than the skittering of mist in the morning breeze, he couldn’t find anything worthwhile to stare at while his march of shame furthered him from the docks. Normally he wouldn’t allow himself to speak openly with Onuo. Fear of appearing crazy wasn’t stopping him usually – instead it was fear of being spotted and incriminated. Surely there must have been some other practitioners of familiary scattered around the world. The morning was a creeping protector. No one would consider him anything but crazy for simply walking around at this hour, let alone talking to himself or thin air… or whatever it actually seemed like. “That marks the second missed appointment since yesterday. Do you think they’re purposefully avoiding me?” it was actually one man, but the situation itself made the boy feel like the whole world plotted against him. “He’s probably just careful. People are careful creatures…usually…” the creature’s tone denoted its irritation, but Leigo would’ve appreciated the thought alone were it not for the added, passive-aggressive ‘usually’. A friend might have kept talking to make the blond feel better, but Onuo wasn’t one, not yet anyway. Pretending they were both content with the silence, the pair made their way for that petching inn. No use in paying the room if he wasn’t going to sleep in it. He shuddered at the thought of losing an entire day to sleep, but with his fatigue and a couple more already promised all nighters – did he really have a choice in the matter? Too late to ever see the sailors leave, another person got Leigo’s attention. The girl he had almost drowned beside and hadn’t seen since. She was there one chime and gone the next, heading into the accursed alley. Normally, were it a stranger, the boy would simply walk on by paying little to no heed as to what their business was. But like this, too many threads felt loose and hanging apart his will. Remembering the whole thing faintly, his throat suddenly became sore and dry at the very thought of seawater. Onuo had no doubt noticed the stranger, and before Leigo could blame him for denying him foresight, he remembered the familiar wasn’t in fact there when it all happened. It was probably for the better, the Irylid would’ve killed him itself had it happened under its watch. Heading up into the reclusive path, the blond took a couple of breaths before he could see her, standing over a mess of garments that shifted. With a puzzling expression, the boy kept his distance, he might have almost died beside her, but they were by no means friendly… not for what he knew anyway. Slowly the mess started resembling a person and the expression mutated from curiosity into doubt. Did she do that? No, there was no time! But then how did she…? Taking a few steps back, he wondered if she would hurt him like that too as he indeed blocked off the entrance to the alley.

[Wrenmae]

Twenty three days. Twenty three days. Unlike Wrenmae, fool to his own blind sense of individuality, Shroud was not limited by being shoved out of the limelight. He had seen Wrenmae's antics in the past several days, watched that arrogant smile curl on Rayage's face when he recognized him. Saw the sickening lack of security his other had allowed. Punched in the face? No retort? And now he laid beaten and bloody in an alley, missing money and all because the little petch was too frightened to use his power. Shroud's power. Breathing hurt, but he gasped anyways, turning over to his side in the shadows and spitting the old blood creeping down his throat, heavy-thick and vile. It was like Sunberth, this was just like Sunberth. The weak were left to die and the strong made away with their possessions. Wrenmae was weak. He needed Shroud here, why else would he exist? Spineless, worthless, wasting time moaning over overgiving and the ruined state of his mind. All that time wasted, all those stupid beginning alchemy classes. Rayage. He'd need to have a talk with that backstabbing corpse. "You alright there?" Zan asked from his side, bubbling concerned, "Ya know, I told you we could be doing something else. Let this be a lesson not to talk to the dead, boyo. Now pick yourself up and let's get a strollin to Erudite. She can probably fix you up, right quick." "Shut up," Shroud growled at his familiar, hardly aware he was speaking to himself, [color=#ac8166]"I'm not so weak that I need some white haired bitch to dote on me." "Oh, Shroud. Right. When did you get here? Just now? Right, right, the beating. Well...shyke." "Not happy to see me?" "Not NOT happy to see you." the familiar skirted, "I just figured all that stuff was left in Sunberth, s'all." "Weakness is a universal plague," Shroud hissed, and rolled onto his stomach, forcing his arms beneath his body and leveraging himself up, "But I will not fall prey to its symptoms." "Here we go again..." The familiar muttered, falling silent. Shroud didn't bother to engage it in conversation again. The Sarawanki craved excitement and movement. Like it or not, Shroud brought the water to a boil. It would warm up in time. The trick was staying in control long enough. The Sarawanki was right. This place was not like Sunberth, not at all. Two strangers in the alley with him, a woman and a male. He glared at them, blood clouding over his gaze. They weren't killing him or looking for other items on his person. Not Sunberth at all. "Now, now," he gasped out as Fiera stood to go, "Is that it? Certainly you can at least help me to my feet or offer a word of condolence." He grinned at her, blood framing his smile like a cannibal grimace, "After all, it could have just as easily been you bleeding here. Would you hope another treats you as callously as you afforded me?" His words were layered with the flickering of magic, familiar pathways of Djed igniting to soak his words with Hypnotic force. Nothing terribly complicated, only the feeling of reluctance, compassion, a small hint of guilt, and the sudden thought, echoed in her mind, in her voice, that she should at least help the fellow to his feet. Shroud would have liked to stand on his own, he would have, but his arms and legs screamed in exhausted agony. His whole body was an ache. Nothing appeared to be drastically wrong with him, but a few cracked ribs, maybe even a broken one was a likely diagnosis. Shroud hissed, glancing down the alley at the other who stood, cautious and unnerved. No one here was right. He preferred the murderous air of Sunberth. Well. Count the blessings, not the curses. At least that made them easier to manipulate.

[Fiera]

A moment later, she was still standing over him. Fiera couldn’t move. Leaving would be wrong, not that she cared. She didn’t care, right? There was nothing stopping her from leaving, so why was she standing motionless like some idiot? So she would leave, and he’d lie here for a few hours more, at most, until someone else found him. Someone who knew what they were doing. Then again, in helping him, Fiera could earn his trust, which might prove somehow useful in the future. To hell! A man lies bleeding at my feet and I ponder how best to use his trust. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never trusted me again! A completely foreign thought for one such hard hearted as Fiera. All she wanted now was to untangle herself from this mess; last time she tried to help someone in need, Fiera had ended up fighting tooth and nail for her freedom. A rustle alerted her to another’s presence behind her, but she didn’t turn, because the man had just started speaking. The least she could do was to give him her full attention. “What purpose would a word of condolence serve you? Would it soothe any hurt feelings?” she hissed down at him, annoyed at his berating tone; he would do well to remember who he was at the mercy of. Really, her annoyance was more directly aimed at herself, and her indecisiveness. At least now she felt a little more like her own spiteful self. Fiera looked at his bloody grin. He looked mad. Delirious. What man smiles like that? It scared her, to say the least. He was trying to coax some feeling out of Fiera, sidestepping his pride entirely as he did so. His words did echo truth; all it took was a little imagination of Fiera’s part. If she left, she would be just as bad as his attackers. Only now did she cast her gaze behind her. It was Leigo, his sand-coloured hair just as unruly as when they last met. She hadn’t seen him for more than a season, but now, in a moment of confusion, it felt nice to see a familiar face. His appearance triggered a chain of unpleasant memories. Seawater, pain and then unpaid debt. Yes, she owed him her life and somehow, sometime she would repay it. She had to. Now all she thought of his sympathy, willingness to risk his own life to save hers. Perhaps it was simply his attempt to preserve his manhood but she still felt inexplicably grateful towards him. Fiera couldn’t fathom why he had such a frightened expression on his face. Turning back, she roughly stuck her hand out to the man lying at her feet, hoping he didn’t expect any more of her.

[Leigo]

Not sure as to what he should say to the girl when she gazed back at him, Leigo simply nodded after reassuring himself. She might’ve been crazy, but she posed no immediate danger to him – not while Onuo was around after all. Once he finally became completely aware of her surprise by the fallen one, the blond sighed in relief as he slowly walked towards her. If she wasn’t nuts there was no reason for him to evade her any longer, and besides, the beaten guy looked heavier than her. As the fallen one mumbled to himself, Leigo simply extended his arm as if to offer assistance to the man. No reason not to be kind or something along those lines. Besides, he was fairly curious to learn if Fiera actually lived in Zeltiva as well as what she was up to. Giving the foreigner another look, he smirked a bit. Tourists… he hated tourists. And as evident they really couldn’t hold their ground as well as on would hope.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

OOCFirst, sorry for the delay. I wanted to get this up yesterday but I was helping my Dad install a tile floor, and barely squeezed out a post or two in between. Second, Wren, even though we haven't gotten far in them, since we are in those two class threads earlier in the season I am going to play off the assumption that we had some rude and irritable interactions in them. Since I'm expecting Tock to tell you off at least once during one of those threads. Thus I think its safe to assume that as of this date, the general animosity is still there. Tock was on the job. The docks were a frequent place for Jacques' crew to find work, what with their importance to Zeltiva and their constant need of maintenance and repair. Even if there were no new damages, the constant use, the foot traffic, the many ships coming to and fro, all added to the wear and tear of the docks. It kept them a steady source of work. The woodcarver was recently recovered from her own string of injuries. Her foot was mostly better now, though she got a twinge of pain here and there when she walked. Her hand was still sore, but no longer aching so much that she couldn't work with it. Her black eye had faded, and her other sores were all but gone. There was nothing left but the aches and pains of daily life, working in construction. Nothing she couldn't handle. Though occasionally, she still had to deal with a petching pain in the arse. She was working on carving the simple shapes of wooden posts that ships would tie off to when they docked. The larger ships used large, thick posts that simply needed to be carved in a concave shape to give a good spot for the ropes to tie around. The smaller ships used thinner ropes that could be tied and looped around a simple hitch. She paused in her carving when she saw some men running past her. She watched, and saw... him. Curiosity alone drew her to step a bit closer and watch. It was like a scene right off the streets of Sunberth. One of the men even had a tattoo she recognized from a Sunberth sailor's guild. Even their clothing looked to be Sunberthan cut; Tock didn't really know clothes, but she had noticed Zeltivans wore different styles and lighter colors, more whites, blues, and sea greens. Back home she was more used to reds, browns, and blacks. She could have sworn the three attackers looked like they belonged on the streets of Sunberth. The men dragged the helpless guy into an alley and started beating him. From a safe distance away, she just watched. She felt like she was back home, and that's what people did there; they just watched a fight, or else cheered it on and took bets on the outcome. As the scene continued, she started to feel sick to her stomach. She had to turn her eyes away. It wasn't her business. It wasn't her place to get involved, especially on behalf of the man who had publicly molested her. She shouldn't care... So why was she feeling so guilty for not doing anything? Finally, as the men were walking away with Wren's money pouch, she couldn't stand it any longer. She saw two strangers rushing over to help the injured man. Good. They could take care of him, so that she wouldn't have to feel guilty about leaving him lying there, beat up on the street. And she would take care of the bullies. "Oy!" she cried out, prompting the three men to look her way. Before they could react, Grippy was off her hip and aimed forward. The metal arm extended, gears spinning to uncoil the long connecting chain between the claw and the handle. The claw lashed forward, snapping down around the pouch and snatching it from the thief's grip. She retracted it and Grippy's arm folded back in, bringing the purse to her. She dropped it on the ground in front of her, tauntingly. It was an old Sunberth sign of challenge. Winner take all. She looked over the three huge men, each more than twice her size, and asked, "'Owza 'bout ya pick on someone yer own size?" She held Grippy up, snapping his claw a few times. The men stared at the device with the mistrust all Sunberthans had of magic. Distrust, and hate. As they strode forward, one of them called out to her, "Ain't no magic tricks gonna save ya, little girl..." In response, Tock snapped her fingers over her shoulder, summoning Choppy to her side. The walking axe saddled over on its long metal legs, crossing from Tock's work site to stand by her side, raising his gleaming axe blade in the air.

[Wrenmae]

A mute smile answered Fiera’s question and he took hold of both Leigo and her hands to pull himself to his feet. This was nothing compared to the torture he’d endured in Sunberth. The man named Breaker, gods rest his soul, perhaps still lay in that squalid dungeon. Food for rats most likely, his wide chest a home for their vermin children to wriggle and writhe. On his feet, he almost stumbled to the ground again, sharp pain assaulting his thin figure to the point of near collapse. Grinding his teeth together, Wrenmae released himself from their hands and held out his arms, a wordless instruction not to assist. He balanced there for a moment, assessing the pounding grind in his bones, the taste of blood on his lips. “Thank you,” he said to them both, “Your generosity is an unexpected blessing to an otherwise dismal situation.” A chuckle wracked his body and he stumbled past them down the alley, stiffening an arm to keep his balance along the alley. At the mouth he turned to face them, Djed clouding his eyes as he pulled upon Auristics to analyze his saviors. His skill with the art was minor, at best, prompting a headache to try and see them both. Instead he focused on the girl first, taken aback by the sheer primal ferocity she was keeping welled up inside her. Such a vibrant soul. The other, Leigo, his soul spun with the calmer hues of a scholar, learned and controlled. There was a certain pomp to him, but perhaps most alarming was the sphere of a second soul attached to his own aura. Shroud had never seen it before, but the answer to the question was a frighteningly obvious one. A familiar. “Oh ho! Strange worlds and lands beyond these now!” Zan cackled, “What denizen has he plucked from my dear cataclysm of a homeworld? Not easily seen, I’d say that rules a kirk out, bloody stone munchers. Wonder if the guy has one of my kin?” Shroud paid the familiar no heed, but that didn’t seem to dissuade it from talking, “No, no, probably not. Guy’s way too much of a wet blanket. I mean….if you had been you when we first met, I’d have probably taken my chances duking it out with an Irylid. No offense of course, great guy, great guy, but you have these bouts of selective hearing I feel…which can’t be very conducive to the familiar-master bonding.” “Right? Right?” “And here we go AGAIN with selective deafness!” “Such brazen assault is not a singular occurrence,” Shroud began, taking an unsteady breath, “I’m sure you feel you have done your part and want no more of this, but this is Zeltiva, not Sunberth.” Another breath, “Next time it could be you at their mercy, and now we are at least given the opportunity to visit justice upon them.” A lance of Hypnotism, struck out to them both. Much as they likely wanted as little to do with the violence as possible, he suggested an irritable itching at the base of their emotions, an unexpected desire to violence. It was small the briefest hint of an emotive response. He toyed with it, swelled it a little, continued speaking, “I’ll reward you for the return of my coins, a choice of favor or mizas for your trouble. As you can see, I’m hardly in a condition to fight, but if you two have any ability to help me. I can promise you my services are worth more than you might think.” Intrigue now, a hint of drawing curiosity. Beyond the alley he heard a growl, the familiar voice of his attacker. Curious, the hypnotist gazed around the corner and witnessed his coins drop to the ground at the feet of Tock, her strange device in one hand and the three brutes only paces away. Sunberth challenge. Well now, that beautiful, hot tempered, little wench. Just like her to meddle in the affairs of a man she didn’t even like, much less cared for. No, no. It wasn’t on his behalf...couldn't be. The girl liked violence. Sunberthian to the end. It hung around her in tantalizing clouds. Bloodmist that clung to her bright red hair like a city fire, the way she held herself, the lack of give in her stance. Three men taller and stronger than her and she had the gall to stand against them. Stupid girl, but such an admirable passion for violence. He turned back to the other two, “Seems someone has stepped up to the challenge,” he stumbled away from the support of the alley walls, a bloody grin emblazoned on his pale face “The reward still stands if you can teach these men the hard truth of their location.” With stumbling steps, he came abreast of the crafter and spit blood in the path of the approaching sailors. “This is Zeltiva,” he whispered, straightening, “Not Sunberth.” The intoxicating caress of power rose along his mouth and eyes, untapped hypnotic Djed prepared and ready to use at a moment’s provocation. Instead, he held up both hands, forcing shaking digits into fists. “Fight for a man you hate, hmm?” A sidelong grin at Tock, “Not very Sunberthian of you.”

[Fiera]

Fiera wiped her hand against her trousers after helping the man to his feet. She ignored his expression of gratitude, knowing it was far from genuine, and let the strange man stagger past her. She started to leave but, noticed that the man had once again started to talk, paused and turned to face him. His suggestion was oddly tempting, though, logically, Fiera knew she would not be threatened by the men; first of all because she had so little money, and secondly because she could outrun them. She looked sideways at Leigo to see his reaction to the man’s proposal. Curious to see what this man had to offer in the way of a reward, she almost agreed, which would have been so very stupid. Lucky for Fiera, some red-headed girl chose that moment to cause a scene at the mouth of the street. Coincidentally – or perhaps not coincidentally at all, she had challenged the same three Sunberthian sailors that had beaten up the strange man. Fiera narrowed her eyes at the axe-on-legs that strode to the girl’s side. She couldn’t make any sense of the man’s next proposal. What did he want her to do, beat them up? It seemed the red head was about to do just that. Fiera watched the scene unfold in front of her, hardly surprised that the strange man seemed to recognise the girl.