A bard in time saves...

[Metarie]

With his slit-eyed and fluffed-feathers, Metarie could tell the little bird was annoyed. Metarie waited out the screeching and twittering, choosing instead to move back a little to give the bird ample space to exit the room and the house. Magic was like a taint on the bird, following after it in streaks and around it. The little bird’s erractic flying was curious. In any case, Metarie was sure the bird would find Lanya. One problem at a time…

"Thank you for your hospitality Metarie."

Metarie took notice of Camulous. He still looked horrible, but she could tell by the look in his eye and the tone of his voice there would be no second chances.

“You are welcome, Captain.” Metarie watched Camulous leave and then turned to look at Everett.

“Put the table to rights and I will see what I can do. Then, you can leave.” Metarie, too, was exhausted.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

Everett also took note of the bird's erratic flight (more meticulously than Metarie, in all likelihood; the expression on his face was intense and scrutinizing, almost comically so), cocking an eyebrow. It wobbled around a bit in the air with each flap of its strong wings, looking like one of those coats hung lopsided on a coat rack and just dangling there. Little guy must have either gotten into a scrap with another bird for some seed beforehand; or maybe he smacked his head into a pane of glass that it mistook as a clear opening. Whatever the case may be, though, its defunct flight was not impeding its progress whatsoever as it zipped down the straightaway low to the sidewalk. Animals are, sometimes, surprisingly resilient creatures. Some of them would much rather grin and bear it than just lay down and die, an ironic behavior that is practically mirrored in the much more advanced human lot. They didn't need intelligence thrusted on them through magic; gods, they're as individual as they come---just like the next Joe Blow. This is common knowledge, of course, but sometimes reading the fine print is good. Everett is definitely fond of the finer details of life; he's made it a point, after all, to make a career surrounding it.

Everett saw the Captain take his leave. The bastard didn't even recognize him! To think he was standing, right there, when Everett had to sign the Judges' formal contract that bound him to the Guard's jurisdiction years ago! You'd think a guy with a metal arm, who liasoned with the Guard on occasion, would be immediately recognizable! But, no---it became quite clear to Everett that now, more than ever, that Camulous can't recognize his ass from a hole in the ground. He was REALLY tempted to give the bastard his due for that (and other things, but that's for another time)---like a punch to the back of his head with his prosthetic arm---but he settled for a more modest reaction (considering that the option of whacking him with his prosthetic arm is moot and he also didn't want to hurt his hand on the good Captain's helm). While Camulous had his back turned, Everett flipped the bird at him with his real hand and started mouthing insults.

"Ass," Everett muttered once Cam was (kind of) out of earshot, lowering his hand. "Pull a gun on me, will you? Don't even recognize me? Shit. That gun is probably the closest thing you've whipped out that resembles your small, shriveled di---"

Metarie's voice ended his tirade abruptly. The gumshoe looked back at her, almost annoyed that she interrupted his talking to himself. Everett sighed heavily and remembered the more immediate problem at hand. He bent down on his haunches and scooped the table up, placing it back down on its legs.

"Damn Metarie," Everett said, as he pulled up a chair. "I knew you had a lot of pent up sexual tension, but this is absolutely ludicrous. I guess this is what happens when you go ninety-something-odd years without getting laid." He made a sweeping gesture towards the mess with his right hand, indicating it. Everett paused for a moment and looked thoughtful, resting the elbow of his prosthetic arm on the table (which was easy enough to do, considering its position). "Gods, and Camulous didn't even bother to take his armor off either. You'd think a guy like him would at least like to air out his body for a while."

[Metarie]

Metarie had moved back into the kitchen thinking about things. She stepped around Everett as he turned the table upright and put the chairs back in place. Preoccupied, Everett’s comments did not sink in until he spoke her name.

“…Metarie I knew you had a lot of pent up sexual tension, but this is absolutely ludicrous. I guess this is what happens when you go ninety-something-odd years without getting laid.”

Metarie looked at Everett. At first, she was expressionless. Her brows drew together once or twice as she tried to comprehend Everett’s train of thought. Her features registered complete bafflement. Did he not see the broken door? Did he not notice the bandages wrapped around her frame? Metarie looked around her house. Her armor lay upon the floor as did her bow and an arrow. A spent syringe, too, lay carelessly there. When had he ever known her to have a cluttered home?

Metarie continued to glance at Everett as he spoke. The boy was intelligent, but crass and ignorant all at the same time. She knew he was trying to get a rise out of her. He always did. But, for once, her humor had deserted her. Another drawer was opened and this time, Metarie produced a mid-sized, rolled leather package. She placed the leather packet on the table and unrolled it. Within where various metal instruments – some of her trade, some of gnomish design, but made of a size for her hands. One day, she hoped to fully understand the intricacies of gnomish technology. For now, though, she had sufficient knowledge to help Everett… maybe.

“Gods, and Camulous didn't even bother to take his armor off either. You'd think a guy like him would at least like to air out his body for a while.”

Metarie’s fingers brushed over the various instruments as she looked at the prosthetic arm. “A woman was going to be murdered, the woman to whom the bird belongs; the Captain brought her here for safety and healing.”

Metarie plucked an instrument and began to work on the device. In a worst case scenario, she could at least get it hanging normally versus sticking straight up in the air. A small, leather tube was pulled and the contents applied to various spots.

“A guard was also sent to help.” There was a strained, whirring noise as Metarie managed to unloosen one of the gears. The oily substance was applied to this gear quickly.

“He tried to rape me.” Metarie picked up another instrument and this time manipulated the link between man and machine. The freeze was similar to an atrophied muscle; in Everett’s case the lockup was a combination of both machine and man. Unfortunately for Everett, this would hurt a little. Metarie leaned back as she applied the instrument to the pressure point. As expected, she was nearly cold-cocked by the arm as it shot straight out. Catching the arm before it broke her table strained her already bruised and cracked body. The only sign, though, was an intense look of pain that tightened her expression and a pause in her activity. Thankfully, Everett would not require healing. Metarie felt as if another act of healing would leave her unconscious.

Releasing the arm, Metarie applied more of the oil over various parts of Everett’s arm. To Metarie’s eye, he had not taken care of the device well; no wonder it had frozen in one place. Finishing applying the oil, Metarie carefully returned each item to its place, excluding the one used to touch his skin. She would have to sterilize that before putting it away. Metarie then pushed away from the table and stood.

“The Captain has been awake for at least two days, working to save her life." Metarie’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table and her calm demeanor was slowly changing to one of anger. The cut on her cheek stood out lividly against her paled skin. Other marks would be noticeable now. Bruises around her wrist had flowered in the distinctive shape of fingerprints. Where her forearm had dragged across the hearth stone, a large scrape was pinkened. On her right side, where her ribs had been cracked, her whole shoulder and upper arm was also bruised. The center of her chest and right breast also appeared to be bruised. There would also be bruises beneath her clothes. Idonir was a big man, wearing armor, and he had tackled her to the ground. Voice tightly controlled, Metarie stared at Everett; giving him a flat, hard look.

"Until then, if you are quite done with your disgusting version of things, you may go.”

[Alibi of Tyrants]

"You didn't even let me get to the nasty erotic bits!" Everett exclaimed, blatantly sardonic. He even rolled his eyes for good measure. "Geez. You're such a killjoy, Grandma. And I here I thought that my take on things would at least SOUND better."

Everett then sighed a little bit and rolled the Gnomish arm around in its socket. There was minor resistance around the ball-socket joint that connected the arm to the shoulder, making circular movement with the limb tough but nothing unmanageable. He threw a quick jab at nothing in particular while sitting there. A dark steel blur whizzed out and back in with practiced grace. Though it appeared to be a fine punch, Everett knew that it sucked; the same resistance found in the shoulder joint was present in that of the elbow as well. In essence, Everett's prosthetic limb skimmed along somewhere underneath of one hundred percent. There was still that persistent burning sensation around what was flesh-and-bone near the prosthetic limb; it felt like a Gnomish soldering tool leisurely caressed his nerve endings and fused them together into one big morass of red-hot pain. The minor agony will stick around for a long while---only to be revisted when he gets the damn arm fully repaired. And since Rosalee will be the one doing the fix, he'll probably get a sound thrashing to go along with it. He sure as hell can't complain about the pain and the suffering (although he could bitch about Rosalee's palm strikes and kicks to the skull; he has every right to do that, as that should NOT come with the package). One of the most important Gnomish proverbs is that functionality comes before form---in other words if something works but it looks like shit, who cares? If there's anything Everett has learned from the little bastards and their gadgets, it was that.

Sometimes, though, he really wished that they would put a little more time into their stuff so it, y'know, WORKS.

Of course, Everett sat there and listened to Metarie's account of what had happened. She definitely wasn't a happy camper and she sure as hell wasn't too pleased with his idle banter. Tough shit. If Metarie were looking for sympathy from him, she'd only get a fraction of what she so earnestly deserves. The care is still there, obviously, but it manifests much differently. The way Everett looks at it she survived the encounter scathed, hurt, and a little scared--- but otherwise still breathing. Most women would have cowered in fear of the big bad Guardsman peeling every layer of clothing off and would have allowed something like that to happen. Metarie obviously didn't let that happen; if the syringe on the floor was any indicator, Everett would say that the bastard who did this got a one way ticket to Sleepyville or poisoned in some nonfatal way. He wasn't about to poo-poo pamper her. She's a tough person; it takes a strong mind and an even stronger heart to persevere at a hospital. A crisis like this one, while harrowing, would ease over in time.

The gumshoe looked around. One thing was for sure: This place was a fucking mess. Whoever tried to force their way into Metarie's virgin libido had the grace of a bull. The door was bowed, chunks of plaster were hanging from a wall nearby, endtables were knocked over...the list could go on, really. The collateral damage and messiness probably pissed her off more than what had actually happened (she is a reputed neat freak; one time Everett rearranged her desk at the office and she spiked his drink with a laxative as revenge). While he couldn't bring himself to dote on the elf with tender affections (all of which would be rebuffed in an instant), he wasn't above helping her straighten the place up a little. It was his job to help other people.

Besides, that's what friends do.

"The girl you mentioned," Everett said, standing up and dragging the chair back to the dining room table. Along the way, he scooped up the empty syringe and tossed it about in his palm. "Her name's Lanya, isn't it? Somebody tried to kill her?"

Everett looked around for a trash can. Finding one, he tosses the syringe---swish! Three points!

"Wow. I'm surprised the good ol' Captain did something good for a change."

[Lucian]

The feverish feeling in his body only worsened as he walked on, but somehow he knew it was not fever. Or not only fever. That the burning was not the hottest in his head, but in his gut and chest, flowing around within him. Or maybe it was not burning, but something else entirely that he did not have words to describe.

But it was living. Somehow, something flexed inside, and it was living. A part of him, but not him in the slightest.

Lucian shook his head and walked on, bracing himself against walls as he walked. The fever was making him delusional. Stop being distracted, find someplace to curl up and heal. Shelter, food- anything.

The hatred again came surging back as he passed the entrance to an alleyway and the stench of human waste hit him. Everything in this city was wretched. It produced vile things, was a vile thing. He had been tortured and turned out onto the streets, liberated from imprisonment- so he could die on the streets.

An instantaneous but rapid gust of air rushed around him as his thoughts crackled with violence and he made a low, animal sound in his throat.

Not killing him had been a mistake. He was no threat, they had said. Mayhap they had been correct, before they applied burning irons to his flesh.

Again, an angry but immediately ending exhale of wind flowed around him. His fever felt worse. Or stronger. It was stronger and it felt worse.

Lucian paused to lean up against a house and gather himself and get a sense for his bearings. The memories of being led to Justice Hall were vague and clouded at the moment, and in the dark all the houses looked the same.

But just there, some hundred yards up the road, he saw a figure. Taking a corner of the cloak that was already damp from the sweat pouring from his body and wiping his face with it, he dealt with two thoughts screaming for recognition in his head.

The first said that it was a thief, a robber, a liar, a murderer- all of the things that this city smelled of, and Lucian loathed the very thought of any interaction.

The second said it was just a man, and Lucian required aid. He loathed that thought even more, but knew that it was true. His pride in his own hardiness was not misplaced, but he knew that his body was vulnerable and sick. A night on these streets could kill him. He needed information, directions- somewhere he could go.

He did not trust this man. But he could approach close enough to ask for directions to a medicine woman or a healer.

There were no other options to pursue. Wary and careful, exerting all of his focus to not stumble or stagger, he approached.

[Lanya Caliope]

It didn't take her more than a minute to realize the discussion was useless. Flame would not be convinced, one way or another, regardless of what the bard stated. It wasn't that he was stubborn; it was that he was convinced. The moment she'd formulated her argument in favor of her own actions, she'd begun to open her mouth and speak - and he had only trilled. This happened twice more before the bard gave in. If he refused to listen now, there was no chance of convincing him that staying behind was the safest course of action for him.

She reached over to take up Greenfyre with an exasperated sigh, imagining trapping the robin inside of a pillowcase to complete her agenda. But she could never do such a thing to him. Locking him inside of a large room wasn't nearly so dangerous as imprisoning him inside of a small sack.

There was nothing for it; she would have to return, and wait for another moment to slip away. The likelihood of being able to slip under Flame's radar twice was very low, but it never hurt to hope she could manage.

She pushed herself up, dragging the guitar along the ground as she straightened herself. Her knees both complained at this move - she was not as young as she'd once been, and a lifetime of walking while carrying her life on her back had given them both considerable work. Although one complained slightly louder than the other, it wasn't enough that she had no choice but to focus on it, and for this she was grateful.

"Come."

Her voice was soft and gentle, as she held forth one arm, extending her index finger. Flame flapped up to perch upon the digit, then began preening himself, a subtle reminder that she had to stand this way until he was good and ready to move from her hand.

She smiled, starting to feel glad for his intervention on her behalf. She would've missed his antics in her final hours.

Flame abruptly stopped preening and tilted his head, staring beyond her. His focus was so sudden and thorough that Lanya creased her brow and turned to follow his gaze, to see what might have so thoroughly attracted his attentions.

There was no amount of preparedness or emotional dampening that could have stopped the tears that sprang to her eyes, or the sob which leaped from her throat. She could only stare in shock, horror, and a considerable amount of anguish as a man who'd once been whole moved in blatant pain towards her. She found herself frozen, so stone-still that even the immediate wrenching desire to help in any way possible could not pull her feet forward.

The moment passed, and she found her footing. She flicked her hand lightly, enough to make Flame flap away, and dropped Greenfyre from her hands into the road. It clanked against the ground with nary a crunch; the guitar would be in pristine condition, as always. She ignored it to step forward, holding her arms out. In truth, she wanted to hug him, to pull him hard against her and sob into his shoulder at her relief that he was as least alive. But she was instead offering her arms as a brace, moving slowly so that he could choose if this was help he would welcome, after the style of treatment he had clearly received.

She did not realize that tears ran steadily down her face as she moved. There were no sobs accompanying them to alert her to their presence, which was just as well. She would have only ignored them.

[Lucian]

As Lucian had approached the man, he had realized it was not a man. Which did not bring him any ease at all- the creature Ryxa wore a woman's skin with a daemon living under the surface.

The woman, he then noted, held a small bird-

In a surge of awareness, he saw the little bird and saw something about it, something not physical but he was none the less abruptly and acutely aware of- texture flowing around it and through it, as though it was here and part of its surroundings, but also somewhere else and part of the fabric of that place.

He didn't understand what it meant, nor could he focus enough to attain such understanding.

And the the woman turned to him, as he approached. Something about her struck him then, as though very familiar. But no... her hair, it was brown and... out on the street? They were trying to kill her...

He saw tears before he felt the rush of emotion from her, sensitive to it in a way that made him gasp and sob, and he had no method of filtration or management. He empathized with her in a raw and open way that nearly broke him down even further.

What was this? What was happening to him? Who was she?

And she stepped toward him, her arms out. She wept and wept, and he wept because he could not stop feeling the depth of her feeling, and then she was close enough and he could see in her eyes where he saw...

"Lanya?" The question was a hushed and rasped, unbelievingly voiced, as though a man addressing a vision or hallucination.

But no. He knew the eyes. Always the eyes. Even in the midst of fever, he trusted his eyes, and also his soul. He did not understand how it was feeling what it was, but it was pure and guileless.

Emotion stuck in his throat and he swallowed dryly, taking steps toward her, unwilling to break eye contact as though doing so would cause her to vanish. His lips moved but no words came. He reached out his right hand, slowly, like one in a dream, and touched the side of her face with his fingertips and felt the warmth of her skin and the moisture from her crying. It was real.

"How...?" his voice and breath failed, relief and exhaustion and fear and joy and disbelief and hope all colliding in one impossible swell of feeling that came out his eyes in a flow of tears and from his chest in a single sob.

The pain of the act ignored as though it did not exist for that moment, Lucian took one stumble closer and he threw his arms around Lanya in a crushing embrace that spoke, without any words at all,

You're alive. It's impossible, but you're alive, and you're here. And because of it, some part of me can live again too.

[Metarie]

As usual, Everett did not heed her. She glared at him. A chair scraped across the floor. The syringe, reusable except for the needle, was thrown in the bin. Metarie almost verbally cut in to Everett then, but instead the need to assert some control over her environment took over. Almost manically, she began to move; putting things to right with pauses and starts instead of her usual quick and efficient way.

The tools she had used to help Everett were placed back in the proper place. She surveyed the various herbs she had retrieved. Instead of putting those back in the cabinet, she chose to arrange them neatly on the counter. She would need them for herself at some point in time. The bandages and other items were also placed and arranged neatly. The kettle was refilled with water and placed upon the stove.

By the time the pair finished, her home was restored to its former neatness excluding, of course, the warped and broken door and various scrapes and gouges. Her body ached and she was weary, but anger was diffused.

“Thank you, Everett.”

[Lanya Caliope]

She shifted her stance and arms for the embrace, wrapping her grip around him and pulling him close. Where he held her fiercely, she used only enough pressure to pull him against her. He had such a slight frame, covered in bandages and scars and assorted injuries. She did not want to cause him more pain.

As her hands rested against both bandages and the bare skin of his back, she felt a surge of longing nearly overcome her. If she could only call upon the power of healing! She could have tended to his wounds, removed the pain that she could feel shuddering through him. The most she could actually do was comfort him, and take him somewhere safer than out in the streets.

She pulled back, moving with gentleness and care, and placed a kiss on his brow before drawing fully away. She would help him to walk, but first she would at least help him feel warmer. She reached up to untie the cloak from her throat, sliding it from her figure and draping it over his instead. There was no point where she asked if he wanted or appreciated the gesture. Frankly, his opinion wouldn't have mattered to her.

As she tied it off around his own throat, making sure it was loose and therefore the weight less painful, she glanced to make sure he was looking at her face. She suspected that he would be watching her closely for any words spoken, but it never hurt to be sure.

"I know a healer who may help you. She has been nothing but kind to me. We'll go now."

A moment's amusement pierced her thoughts, and she graced him with a gentle smile, unwilling to hold back a kind look. It seemed that she would return with yet another male to Metarie's home, and the second man who was in need of the healer's skills. She knew that the elf surely couldn't heal him as she'd done the bard; she'd been taxed and attacked, and her energies likely spent. But she would at least know a good starting point, and her home could offer warmth, food, and rest.

She moved to take one of his arms over her shoulders. He was nearly her own height, and she spared a moment's gratefulness for this fortune; neither of them would have to change their posture significantly for her to help him, which would make the entire process less taxing. Her other arm slipped around his middle, bracing his weight against her hip. She could not support his full weight, but she would take as much as she could manage.

"Flame, go back to the house - try to tell Metarie that I am on my way."

She would move at whatever pace he designated. Greenfyre lay forgotten in the road; it would return on its own.

* * *

Flame sped through the air to carry through Lanya's request. He knew that any plans to leave would be put on perpetual hold now that there was someone she knew so clearly in need of her aid. The bard could no more turn her back on the man than she could wish death on a stranger.

He flapped through the still-broken front door and landed on the table, hopping a few steps before bouncing to stare at the human and elf. He raised his wings wide, fluttering them at the two standing there and looking agitated once more. The elf had come for help once before, and would likely recognize his frantic cries, but the elf was also very hurt and he didn't want to make her come. Instead, he focused his attentions on the human, fussing and fluffing and hopping towards the end of the table, waiting for the human to indicate he would follow.

[Lucian]

Lucian had gone decades without physical contact with another human, and he did not know the time where he had been embraced with any true feeling aside from care for a swaddling child. No one or thing had cared about this gypsy or what happened to him for quite some time. Perhaps ever.

And it hadn't matter to him. He could have sworn, it hadn't mattered.

But a few more sobs came, escaping from somewhere deep. It was the fever, he told himself. He was delusional. But he did not let go until he sensed her releasing him as well.

She pulled back and then pressed her lips against his forehead, and he realized she had thought him dead as well, and that reality had hit her deeply. Then she put her cloak on him and helped him stand, and made sure he was looking at her before she spoke. She knew of a safe place. A healer.

And she was connected to him, in a way like no other human in his entire life.

How long ago had it been since he had helped her to stand and given her covering?

"Virtue is always just." He spoke it quietly, feverishly, but with conviction- almost to himself as they walked down the street, letting her share some of the burden of his weight but still maintain the bulk of it himself. Life provided justice for virtue. He was now saved by one whom he had saved.

"What are you doing here?" The question asked even more than the words entailed, and the emotion behind his rasping voice conveyed such. 'Why' and 'how' were in the same breath.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

Everett set his jaw into a strict, rigid line. Metarie artfully dodged his question by expressing thanks. She knew damn well that Everett liked having his questions answered, especially if it pertained to something as dire as this Lanya person's situation. He wanted to open his yap and get snippy, cut her down a couple of pegs for being an ingrate and pushing him away (especially after he helped her clean house, a commodity that he himself doesn't even indulge in during his personal time). Seeing the wounds on Metarie's lithe body and the weariness in her eyes, however, prompted a measure of latitude from him. She'd been through hell and she was tired; she needed to not only recuperate her body, but also recuperate in every other facet as well. If she were just some schmuck he had to drill information out of, he'd push it; however, this was Metarie and he couldn't possibly relegate her to "suspect" status.

Even if she did piss him off sometimes.

"You're welcome," he sighed. "I'm gonna go ahead and have Watson get a hold of Ziff when I get back to the office, Metarie. He can get you a new door and patch up that wall." As an afterthought, he added: "And I'll make sure the job is free. The little bastard owes me a favor and I'm gonna call 'im on it."

A part of him wanted to also say, "Take it easy, okay?" but he knew that brevity is paramount when it came to an annoyed and tired Metarie. Besides, he also didn't feel like it. He reached up and adjusted the collar of his trenchcoat (needlessly) with both hands and turned around to walk out the door. Just then, the same bird that had flown out the door moments ago zipped back in and landed on the table. It hopped around in place, little birdie talons clicking on the table. Like a parrot, it fluffed up its feathers and fixed its beady little eyes on him.

The gumshoe blinked a couple of times. Now, he may not be able to talk with animals or make them do fancy tricks but he could tell that the bird was looking straight at him. Not at some shiny thing in the room, off into nowhere, or at Metarie---but him. Everett already knew that the bird had some measure of magic in it due to the unnatural call it made earlier on. It didn't take much to piece together that, also, the bird was highly intelligent as well. He didn't exactly know why (call it a hunch, maybe) but Everett got the feeling that the little guy wanted his attention for something.

"Yeah? What's up, little guy?"

[Metarie]

As Everett turned to leave, Metarie said, "Yes, Lanya." She was then interrupted by the return of the small, red robin. Metarie tilted her head as the little bird hopped and jumped across her kitchen table. The look on Metarie's face softened. She liked the little bird immensely.

"It would appear Lanya has been found." Metarie watched as the bird continued on, almost in a litle birdy-pantomime - hopping away, hopping forward, turning his toward the door, hopping toward the door. By the third time Flame had completed his performance, Metarie said, "Ahhh. He wants you to go with him, Everett. Lanya must need help."

Metarie did not think Lanya was injured or in serious trouble. She imagined the little bird would have been screeching that loud noise again if injury or worse were the case. Metarie turned to the stove and lit the burner once more. Adjusting the kettle so that it sat properly upon the grill, Metarie then returned to the kitchen table to take a seat. Her watch was not complete yet.

[Lanya Caliope]

As they moved, she couldn't help but throw several prayers of thanks to the skies, to whatever deity might be listening. He couldn't be called well, but he was alive, delivered to her care by sheer chance. She remembered she'd once told him he was her lucky charm; perhaps there was something there. Although he was in a sorry state, she at least knew someone who could help. Perhaps there was something to this fate nonsense after all.

She banished that thought as quickly as it came. She couldn't stand the idea that what had happened to the little girl, to Wolfhound, to Lucian - that these things were meant to happen. It was simply too horrible a thought.

His question sparked the part of her that wanted to tell the story. If nothing else, it would pass the time as she moved. She clipped and cut the details to the bare minimum, avoiding her own burning question of what they had done to him. She looked at him as they moved, turning her head enough that he could see her lips.

"In the trial, after you lost consciousness, the captain of the guard returned with another of their judges just after I was sentenced to execution. That guard from the forest - that was the captain. The very same man who took me to that building brought me back out. I suppose he took pity on me, and took me to the healer we're going to now. She's proven trust-worthy, though I admit I'm still not sure about him. Her name is Metarie; she's an elf."

They were about half-way to the house at this point, and already her knee was starting to complain. She sighed but forged on, unwilling to stop and rest out in the open if at all possible. It would be another several minutes before they were in sight of the building.

* * *

Flame trilled when Metarie guessed correctly, fluttering his wings and hopping to the edge of the table to take off and then circle around the man twice before diving towards the open door, to flap outside and lead the way. If the man didn't immediately follow, Flame would only return to repeat the process until he did.

[Lucian]

Lucian struggled to follow what she said, the drought was wearing off as they walked and pain was coming through in harsh spikes. But still, he got was she was saying, and shook his head, bothered.

"No. No. Not then. What are you doing here?"

The more he thought of it, the more it was wrong. She was in the street, in the night- what was she doing?

He stared at her hard, his eyes somewhat clouded and face set in hard lines as he held back the pain that began to manifest in his burnt and charred skin stretching across his back with every inhale.

Part of him knew he needed to focus on road, on journeying, not on a question. But he could not drop it, because it was wrong. It was off. Something was not right with her being here.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

As Everett opened his mouth to reply, the little red robin launched itself off of the table and flew around him in an erratic circle. It then whizzed out the door like a shot, doing that "rebounding off of nothing" thing that birds can do when they're in mid-flight and have a lot of momentum. The little guy was becoming a red mote in the distance; it wouldn't be long before he lost track of him. There was little room for impetus on the bird's part, the gumshoe surmised. He looked at Metarie one last time before he moved to the door, moving at a gait that could be described as somewhere between a jog and a run (with plenty of jiggle; Everett was in great shape, but he couldn't get rid of that persistent gelatinous mass forming around his gut. Too much liquor).

It really didn't take much for him to catch up; as it turned out, the bird was moving a lot slower than what he had originally thought (either that, or he was going a lot faster; a couple of weeks have gone by since he last got a good workout on foot). As he got closer, he recognized the distinct shape of Lanya and her cloak. What he didn't recognize, however, was the guy slouched and slightly limping along. Everett scoffed inwardly. Probably a boyfriend. He swore lightly to himself. Personally, he was hoping for a somewhat more private rendezvous. If this chick was some kind of kink that liked man-on-man action, Everett swore that he would run away right there and leave them both high and dry.

The reality of the situation became quite clearer when he got closer. The man held close to Lanya's side looked like he had seen better days. Cuts, bruises, burns---you name it, this guy had it. Now, Everett had seen bad while growing up on the streets of the Shantytown but even this elicited a sharp, all-too human pang from his chest. He gradually slowed to a stop on the unoccupied side of Lucian and immediately propped him up as well, slipping his real arm around the man's arm and holding him up.

"Gods-damn," Everett muttered, shaking his head slightly. "We keep this shit up, we're probably gonna have to haul the ICU unit from the hospital over to Metarie's."