Family Ties - A Walk In The Woods

[Alexandros]

Alexandros' left hand hung back protectively, palm backward, his steel-plated arm sheltering Kitan as the shifter scurried behind his bare and bloodied torso. A thin sheen of scarlet clung to the tips of his silvery fingers, erased in rivulets where rainwater had run its course down his hand to clean the blood away. Through those branching twists and turns bare steel showed through again. It hung still in the beating rain, a bulwark between Kitan and the bandits, unwavering as stone.

Just above his elbow hung a wet and tired strip of yellow cloth, tied round his arm in a simple knot.

The other hand kept its place along his belt, fingers wrapped testingly along the head of his handaxe. It felt small to his touch, useless, arrayed against this attacker's impressively large claymore. He felt fear gnaw at his stomach, cold and biting like a beast of ice dancing in his guts. His side burned in agony with every breath he took. Alexandros couldn't win. Not against this hulking brigand and his two compatriots. Maybe if he were uninjured. Maybe if there were only two of them.

Maybe if he had a pair of guards at his back, if the rivers flowed with honey, and good men never died.

"Get back, Kitan. Things go bad you run, you find your father," Alexandros ordered as the thugs closed in "You understand?" He barely heard what the leading bandit had to say. Those words came through water, distant, though some part of him heard and internalized them. He only had ears for the child's words. Or rather... his silence. Alexandros' gauntlet, now all but silver, grabbed hold of the foxboy's shoulder. He gripped firmly, to shake Kitan out of his fear-induced shock. Patiently he asked again. "Do you understand?" Alexandros heard his own voice and was surprised, he realized, that he did not sound afraid. He gently pushed Kitan backwards - out of the fray, and a short step closer to safety.

Then Alexandros took a step himself. Forward. Closer to the brute and his fellows. The other man did the same as if to to mirror Alex's actions. The size of his opponent threatened to dwarf the guard - and Alexandros himself was no small man. Dragesus stood tall though, back straight and shoulders back; proud, unbent, and committed. Even if the fate promised to him now seemed to spell nothing but doom.

Alexandros' short dark hair clung tightly to his head, beaten down by the rain. At his neck hung a coin: old, but not valuable. Pierced through its top by a loop of simple leather cord. It was iron maybe, polished to shine like silver. Or even silver itself? Foreign, definitely, by the unfamiliar woman's bust on its face.

He squinted against the rain. "Three against one?" Dragesus said. His lips worked their way into an ironic half-smile... temporarily enamored by his own stupid bravado. Perhaps he could fool the brigand into giving something up? Were there more of them in the woods?

"Not good odds." The mercenary fired back - he gave nothing up, face stern and unyielding. He seemed satisfied by Alexandros' answer though. The guard, by his words, seemed to see reason. Dying here did little good for anyone, besides planting another corpse in the woods for the coyotes to dig up.

Boldly, Alexandros replied. "You should've brought four." The lead mercenary scowled but said nothing now. What did that mean? Alexandros had to admit he didn't know. If only he were better at reading people.

"You're wrong," Alexandros asserted with venom in his voice "If you think the law of Marn can be threatened, bargained with, or dissuaded... These two are going to Marn." He pulled the axe from his belt slowly, letting its haft hang heavily in his right hand - well-sharpened head angled down and out. The other hand found his mace. "Even if I have to cut their way through you." The guard's amber eyes narrowed in feverish determination. His hands, gripped white-knuckled to axe and mace, shook with nervous anticipation. He felt the rush of anxiety through his arms. Even his knees threatened to buckle under the pressure of the moment.

But they did not. Alexandros had felt this before. He often did, before a brawl: it was that moment you felt alive with energy in face of oblivion. His hair stood up on end. The pain in his side... It was there, but dimmer, less important.

"Stupid waste," the mercenary reluctantly suggested "Even for a guard. Dying for a pretty face? You fancy she'll think you're brave when you're facedown in the muck? Maybe when I'm peeling your innards off my blade? Sorry boy, but you made your choice... and you've wasted enough time." The warrior brought his gargantuan blade down infront of him, holding it diagonally infront of his chest. It was an unexpected gesture from a bandit - a signal that he was ready, Alexandros thought. Someone should have said something poignant. Something purposeful.... But no one did, so he answered by bursting forward and into action. Boots beating a steady path through the muck. He kept his steps to the higher, and much firmer, midway of the road. By some miracle his greaved leather boots did not lose their grip and send him spilling into the mud - and into an early and ignominious grave.

The brigand brought his great claymore back for a swing, but there was little time... Alexandros was nearly upon him. He brought his heavy weapon curving back early, striking horizontally as the guard came six feet to his fore. It struck true, bringing its weight and edge crashing into Alexandros' raised plate-covered shoulder. Dragesus felt his armor bend and pinch flesh under the strength of the blow. Feeling in his arm disappeared nearly instantaneously as he recoiled from the strike, saving him from all but a few seconds of terrible pain. His mace, once firmly in his grip, was gone. He couldn't see it in the mud. Alexandros didn't look. He regained his gait and closed the last few feet between himself and the hulking warrior before the bandit could raise his claymore to land a finishing blow.

Deadened shoulder first, steel forward, he crashed into the brigand. The ogre of a man refused to bend under Alexandros' armored bulk - he slammed a foot back into the mud to steady himself and pushed back. They stood there for a the span of a heartbeat. Caught in a struggle of pure physical strength and will. Too close for the bandit's claymore. But not it so happened for a much smaller, much less significant, axe. Dragesus brought his handaxe skyward and ripped it from the heavens towards the earth, planting it in his opponent's thigh like a spade in the dirt. There was blood. Bright jets of it. It had struck to the core of the warrior's trunk - nearly its entire head was buried. He tore his axe, stubborn as it was to remain, from the screaming warrior's leg and raised it again.

Then - a searing pain on his face, and Alexandros was stumbling back with a growl of indignation and agony. He felt heat running down his face and knew that he'd been cut there. Deeply. In stepped one of the smaller mercenaries, bright daggers flashing like fangs, intent upon protecting his leader while the much larger man recovered.

[Morveya Aris]

However, there was another intent upon protection, as it happened. That being the subject of this attempt at abduction.

Initially, shock, fear, and concern had commingled and constrained her from any action whatever. She was not without courage. Residence in Shim wasn't for the over-meek; more exposed to dangers both natural and preternatural, as it was. Nonetheless, the prospect of being taken by these criminals was an entirely daunting one. Someone had paid them-? For herself, specifically? Or simply to round up a few women-folk for purposes of entertainment.

Whichever, it went very far from her mind once Alexandros engaged in dialog with the bald goliath who was apparently leader. He, just treated for his injury, still bare-chested. He couldn't – couldn't be thinking of engaging them. He would be slaughtered!

Morveya felt as if the rain-drenched world were caving in upon her once the fighting commenced. "No! No!" she cried uselessly. She gasped and winced as the altercation progressed. It was quickly plain that Alexandros was an adept fighter, and a real threat, even to a killer-by-calling such as this one. The armor he still wore saved him from losing his arm, surely – even if that blow cost him his mace.

Where was Lurus – ? Morveya would have felt completely and totally ill. Had it been any luxury she or her companions could afford.

It was at that point that sheer will, coupled with deepest desperation, freed her to act. Her initial impulse was to break for Alstris and try to get her staff. But the roan was shying from the violence, and might well bolt if she ran at her. Of course, there was the matter of the other two, who surely were not going to stand there during the time it would need.

Suddenly Morveya saw what Alex had not. It was hardly a weapon she was proficient in. She wasn't even sure if her slender arms could heft and swing it effectively. But, as Alex valiantly and bloodily obtained the upperhand against his foe, she perceived that another was about to intervene. She had to do something!

As the dagger-brandishing man went for Alex, Moveya too moved. She dove in near the melee, and went for Alex's mace. Her hands grasped desperately at its haft, the mud making that act alone a challenge. But the knowing it might only be herself between him and being stabbed to death, spurred her. It was heavy, but not so much she could not lift it with both hands.

"Get AWAY from HIM!" she screamed at the knife-wielder. "Get AWAY. Or I'll – "

Through her own rage and bravado, she realized she was probably about to be stabbed. With her staff, she would stand some chance of defending herself. With this heavy weapon, so awkward for her, she could not hope to adequately parry those daggers.

But the man did not attack. She wasted no time, whatever, questioning that; but lunged at him with the mace, forcing him back from Alexandros some, in order not be struck by her ungraceful blow.

Instantly, the third man was advancing on herself. A broadsword was unsheathed with a dire-sounding ring:

"White haired witch! Drop the fucking mace – if you know what's good for you!" that one snarled. It was not lost on her, though, that he had the blade turned so as to use its flat. Which meant his intent was subdue, rather than slay. They did want her. Alive.

Perhaps she could parley, before they attacked Alex again –

"It's me you want! Leave the others ALONE! No one needs to die! I'll go with you willingly –– just let them all GO." The mace trembled in her hands, with her effort to keep it upraised.

The brigand who stood before her stood still a moment, glancing toward his leader and other associate, and seemed to be considering.

What he considered specifically – was whether their forth associate, some yards back beyond Morveya, was now in position to end her pitiful attempt at resistance, and then leave them free and clear to gang-butcher the guard. And not to mention skewer that quaking fox-ears, if he didn't stop pissing himself, and make a run for it.

[Clarisse]

"Boss better hurry up with this charade soon, I'm soaking and starting to feel a chill in me bones." The hidden associate said to himself waiting for the signal to spring his end of the trap. As he rubbed him arms to try and soothe some warmth into his chilly body he was completely oblivious to the figure stalking him hidden in the fog ridden woods behind him.

Clarisse was nearly silent as she crept toward her unsuspecting prey, the sound of fighting and rain drowning out nearly any sound that would reveal her location. As she drew closer her hand went instinctively to her belt and slowly drew one of her knives, its angled blade hungering for its next victim. This is almost to easy Clarisse thought to herself as she closed in on her prey, Then again they are just highway men.

She was almost on top of him when she raised her knife to burry it in his neck, hands anticipating the warm flow of his life fluid spilling onto her hands, when a noise broke the silence.

*SNAP*

The thug quickly turned around staring to meet the gaze of his would be assassin, catching Clarisse off guard momentarily stunned by her rookie mistake. Thinking quickly the thug lashed at Clarisse's face with his drawn dagger making her jump back to avoid the blow. The knife made contact with the edge of her face as she moved back, slicing threw the cloth and part of her face leaving a cut that quickly started to bleed.

Seeing that the element of surprise was gone, the thug made a break for Morveya in an attempt to grab her and salvage the mission, after all he still thought that his three friends could help fend off this new grey clad warrior.

Clarisse calmly wiped the blood off the side of her exposed face with the back of her hand watching the thug run out of the woods towards Morveya. Drawing one of her tomahawks she started after him, a grin spreading across her face "Why do they always try to run."


The thug exploded from the foliage next to the road, a look of determination in his eyes and he ran toward his intended target. As his colleagues turned to yell at him about messing up the plan they were surprised when he toppled forward, his weight and momentum causing him to slide forward a short distance on the slick mud. When he finally came to a stop they noticed the throwing axe burred in their friends spine and the grey figure approaching them.

"Didn't realize you had a friend in the woods lady." One of the thugs said to Morveya as he prepared himself for the unexpected visitor.

[Kitan]

Kitan prepared to bolt through the trees the instant Alexandros engaged in combat. His bandaged feet finding just enough traction in the mud, he stumbled away. Instinct again took hold of the young shifter; the fight or flight code hardwired into all living beings hit Kitan full force. His fight response being somewhat lacking, he chose the only other option available.

As the first clang of steel sounded behind him, his pace increased as he flew to the edge of the forest. He must have appeared as little more than a blur of red and green, so swift was his attempt to flee. As his hand brushed aside the first leaf, he jerked back, his body going so rigid he may as well have been frozen.

The fourth thug burst from the undergrowth right in front of the startled shifter. The thug’s eyes were a froth of madness and pain. Even as Kitan tumbled to the ground, he could see the fear every bit as real as his own etched into the thug’s contorted face.

The pair of frightened figures screamed in unison as they fell. The fox’s howl and the man’s scream became one terrible noise which filled the rain and blood soaked clearing. The opportunity was not lost on the combatants; the big thug took advantage of the distress opposite his side of the clearing to wrap one of his tree trunk arms around Alexandros, counting on their fist fighting proximity to prevent Alex from swinging his axe with any success.

“Now!” he hollered over the wind and rain, over even his own pain from the axe wedged in his side, while keeping his voice deep, demanding and brutal. “Gut him while I hold him, get over here!” He ineffectively bashed his forearm against Alex’s head, only trying to stun him long enough to let his ally skewer the tenacious guardsman.

Kitan burst up from the ground as an undead wraith of mud, fur, and howling screams. His arms wrapped around the bandit’s from behind, desperately screaming in a futile attempt to muster enough strength to hold back his opponent. He received nothing but an elbow to his face for his attempt, sent sprawling to the earth once more. He covered his head with his hands and cringed, curling up as though to make himself too small a target to find.

The cruel eyed bandit would have finished him there, in a violent symphony of knife thrusts, were it not for the leader’s sudden roar, “I SAID get your ass over here!” which brought the bandit’s attention back to the struggle across from him. Never once did Kitan stop screaming, even as the mud filled his mouth as he cried helpless upon the dirt.

Knives flashed, and the clouds must have darkened as the bladed edge caught the fleeting light menacingly. Hunched over in his haste, with feral power the thug ran across the earth. His feet thumped across the ground, closing the distance with alarming speed; or perhaps it only seemed that way amid the chaos fate had sewn about the combatants.

[Alexandros]

Kitan's scream wrenched Alexandros' attentions from the battle at hand. It was just a short break in his focus, only the time it took him to turn his head, but it was enough. Within that window the thugs' leader had righted himself - he'd come to his feet, shook off the pain, and bullrushed Alexandros. It was to a vision of Morveya assailed, Kitan in the mud, and blades flashing in the greying evening that the guard felt his breath leave him in a sudden torrent. A bulky arm wrapped itself around his chest, compressing his pierced side and sending shards of agony shooting through his flesh. Alexandros struggled, bringing his axe up to slam its haft against the brigand's jaw. He heard a crunch, saw blood, and knew that he'd shattered teeth. It hadn't been enough to disable his foe though: the distance was too short, too close, even his axe was limited now.

Then Alexandros felt a forearm bash against the side of his head. His grip involuntarily loosened on his axe as stars roared before his eyes, joined in sudden intensity by a ringing that drowned out all else. He couldn't hear the rain, nor Morveya's pleas, not even Kitan's sobbing... But he could feel pain. Alexandros felt every ripple of pain as the bandit redoubled his grip and crushed his broken torso. The guard screamed out in agony. To him, it was wordless, but to the others: it sounded tortured, half-animalistic rage and half tortured shout.

The bandit sucked up the blood and bits of enamel in his mouth and spit the globule of saliva off to his side. Emboldened by Alexandros' apparent helplessness he squeezed harder. With every second of yelling Dragesus felt more air leave his lungs... And he felt the python-like noose around his chest tightening. Every breath came harder than the one before.

He grabbed for the nearest affector: the brute who was currently crushing the life from him. Alexandros' gauntleted left hand took hold of the bald left side of his opponent's head, palm over the other man's ear as he squeezed. Then, in desperation, the guard's metal thumb found the other man's bright brown eye. He saw shock in that eye for the span of a heartbeat. Alexandros pressed down, suddenly and ruthlessly, crushing the surprised orb as if it had been nothing more than a grape. There was a spray of blood and then it was the thug's turn to scream. He didn't release Alexandros though, keeping his grip tight as he shouted, "Fucking bastard! I'm going to kill you!" garbled with his own wailing. The pain distorted his voice, he sounded smaller. More vulnerable, perhaps even pitiable. Not as terrifying as he had been a moment before. Ofcourse the threat meant nothing anyway: all Alexandros could hear was the cacaphonous ringing that filled his ears. All he knew was the furious need to live.

So Alexandros kept his grip tight with one hand, holding the bandit's head by his newly-excavated thumb hole. Then his other fist, clad in cruel steel plating, came slamming down on the other side of the thug's anchored skull. Then again, again, and again his clenched fist fell like a hammer on an anvil. Each time his fist raised itself again it was redder than before. A battering ram coated in gore, crashing and cracking against bone... Til all of a sudden he realized the bandit's grip had gone limp, his body had slumped against Alexandros' heaving chest, face cut by the edges of his gauntlet and crushed into an unrecognizable and bloody mess. There wasn't anymore struggle in his muscles. Nor any light left in his eyes, once so bright but now gone dim as if someone had blown out the torch within them. The guard put one hand against the brigand's shoulder and shoved the broken bandit aside, letting him fall by means of his own impressive bulk as Alexandros caught his breath.

He realized suddenly that he could hear again. Alexandros knew this because he heard them behind him: footfalls in the mud, coming towards him at a rapid staccato. His body ached, but Alexandros crouched low to the Earth, finding his axe amidst the muck and spinning himself round to stand at the ready in one fluid movement. His other arm, still numb to all feeling, held itself aloft to the side ready to deflect an assault by means of its armored vambrace.

This newest thug rushed towards him, daggers aloft, ready to carve up his wounded quarry. He stumbled though, at the last moment, then lurched slowly forward til he tumbled into a bank of mud at Alexandros' feet. From his back sprouted one proud feathered arrow. In his shadow, some distance off, Lurus stood with bow in hand - his hard grey eyes focused on the flattened bandit.

Alexandros wanted to ask: where have you been? What took you so long? But none of that seemed important in the moment, so instead he laughed until a fit of coughing brought that to an early end. He laughed because he was still alive.

...And that was well, as their bout was not truly over yet. His companions remained in peril. Alex stepped past their downed assailants, over puddles where his blood mingled with their own, and atop a furrow of mud cut deep by centuries of travel. There was one more bandit yet. He seemed to have forgotten Morveya though, for the moment, instead focusing on something in the woods. Alexandros knew not what. But, he did know one thing: the tide had turned in their favor suddenly and viciously. The guard's pallid face smiled, relieved despite his own sad state.

He stepped lightly, torturous pain forgotten amidst the swelling certainty of victory. He did feel light, now that he thought about it. Light-headed. How much blood had he lost? "I'd drop your blades. Let 'em rust in that mud. You surrender, I'm duty-bound to honor that. If ya don't though - I won't feel any remorse cutting you down." He winced, silvered hand laying itself over his bandaged side. It couldn't cover the saturated swell of scarlet that covered most of his wrappings though. "None. Not 'cause I like to kill, mind you. It's because some people just aren't worth saving." Alexandros' amber eyes promised the brigand that he was one of those people. They promised something else too: judgment, as cold and unbending as the red-edged axe Alexandros held in his hand.

[Morveya Aris]

Clutching and brandishing Alex's muddied mace, straining to keep some semblance of a hold upon it – the abrupt and surprising entrance of this new pair caused her to lose it. The weapon returned swiftly and summarily to the mud – very nearly taking her booted toes with it. As well as smashing them en route. But some Spirit or other providence apparently decided she might need them. The weapon's head landed slightly before her foot.

Not that Morveya had any attention whatever on that.

What immediately appeared to be a threat became fast apparent as a negated one. The wound to the fallen man's spine didn't look to be one that would lend him to arising very soon. His screams of agony only further supported that.

And…the apparent inflictor of it was drawing up from behind. Was this help they so badly needed-? Or was it now the psychopathic killer, come to butcher any who happened to be within reach? Morveya trembled in uncertainty; dropped a hand toward the mace, calculating frenetically and frantically what she must do, Alex's situation still demanding her attention. And Kitan –

That thug was not the only one screaming…

…or howling.

The gruff, grating command of their leader broke even over that, and she knew she might have only seconds to do something to aid Alexandros –

And then Kitan acted. Whether from assessing the same, or from primal, danger-driven instinct was very impossible to say. But the man quickly dispensed with him, Kitan's youthful, agile physique no match for the mature brawn of a brute.

Morveya gasped, as she momentarily saw the screaming shifter an all too easy target. But that was averted by the leader's redoubled command.

And Alexandros' peril immediately renewed. His tortured yell pierced Morveya; itself like sharp, cold steel. She knew what that meant. Her hands were immediately groping after the mace once more. She prayed the one who had wielded the small axe was indeed a friend. If not, she was leaving herself wide open to a flank attack from the newcomer.

But there is no choice!

She hefted the mace again -- then to realize Alex had put his eye out. Of course, a soldier such as he was trained to survive by pressing such an advantage. Which Alexandros did.

The sound and sight of his silver gauntleted fist crushing his foe's skull was at once horrifying –– and a full and total relief. He's defeated him!!

As the guardsman righted himself, the knife wielder went straight for him – attempting to press existing advantage, just as had Alex. Morveya surged forward with the mace at the same moment. She left herself open to the other man who'd threatened her. That turned broadsword came up – only now it was not turned. Apparently revenge was all that motivated him now; his face contorted in a snarl. If only she could help Alex overcome the other, at least that would be something...

But then that one joined the leader.

Lurus. Praise the Great River!

And, the one who had thought to deal with her was no longer paying attention to her at all. But rather to the grey figure of the swiftly encroaching newcomer. The man's eyes made it plain he well acknowledged this was all over. Alexandros, a bloodied and battered specter, seemingly equal parts metal and flesh, issued his level and grim proclamation. Not to mention generous. More than such a marauding murderer deserved. Morveya was certain he'd agree to it. Triple teamed as he now was. Assuming the stranger was on their side. Which he surely assumed.

The man hesitated; his mouth worked briefly, his hand upon his weapon jerked ––

And abruptly the same sort of throwing axe which had felled his concealed ally, buried into him as well. He screamed, staggered forth a pair of paces, then toppled to the mud.

It was over.

Morveya trembled. The mace plummeted from her nerveless fingers. She dropped to her knees. Arms clutched about herself. Her teeth chattered, but not because she felt cold. She couldn't feel anything. At all. Save a very deep and abiding sense of revulsion.

The herbaler wanted to vomit. But somehow managed not to. Her eyes strayed from the now even more wounded Alexandros...seeking Kitan, alive, and then rested just a second on Lurus. And then looked for their unexpected benefactor. She could not immediately look at Alexandros again.

Tears broke down her face. Lost and invisible in the rain. "M – my fault," she murmured. "M– my fault…w– were after me…" she sobbed. She knew a weeping woman wasn't what the rest needed, in the aftermath.

Get UP!! Morveya raged at herself. There are injuries to tend! She attempted her feet, only barely made it, and staggered toward her satchel.

[Clarisse]

Silence
The sound of rain pattering off her hood was the only sound Clarisse could hear as she sloshed through the mud to where her first axe had landed. She was always amazed at how quiet it got after a fight, either side exhausted or dead and incapable of making noise.

Clarisse placed her boot on the back of man’s head, pushing it into the wet earth, as she withdrew her tomahawk from his back. After giving it a sharp tug it came free with wet tear as it came loose of the flesh and bone it was buried in. Wiping its blade on the back of his shirt and returning it to her belt, she grabbed his coin purse off of his person before moving toward the group and her other axe.

Approching the group she became aware of the new sounds filling her ears, sounds that she thought shouldn’t be coming from living people. As she passed Morveya she could hear her sobbing as well as Kitan making a scene of his own half buried in the mud. What worried her though were the two guards, both were capable fighters and if they figured out what she was her true purpose was she would have a rough time on her hands.

Clarisse paused as she stared at the body of the second thug, feeling that something wasn’t sitting right about the body in front of her. Drawing her knife she poked at the motionless thug in the mud with her foot. Even though the bandit seemed dead Clarisse didn’t trust it, she had seen supposedly dead bodies spring up and kill a comrade or two of hers, so she did what she had to do to clarify things.

In the blink of an eye Clarisse stabbed her knife through the thug’s neck, causing him to gurgle as blood filled his throat. ”Got to be wary of these bastards, they like to play dead then get you while you aren’t paying attention.” She said breaking the silence.

Taking a seat on the lifeless corpse she started to count the contents of the first bandits coin purse she picked up earlier. ”I’m Clarisse Dronne, by the way, you’re lucky I found you when I did or you may have ended up like this poor soul.” Clarisse didn’t look up when she talked, her eyes focused on counting the coins in her hand. As she counted a few droplets of blood from her face landed on the golden bishani in her hands, making her remember about the bleeding wound on her face.

Removing the torn cloth from her face reviled how much she had bled in the short amount of time. The cloth itself was soaked though where the cut was on her face, making a dark red stain on the grey fabric. Folding the cloth into a square she placed the remaining clean part over her wound before speaking again. ”You wouldn’t happen to have something that stops bleeding on you? Gods be damned with making me bleed like a river.”

[Kitan]

Kitan’s face hurt. And his toes were cold and wet. Today was a bad day.

His father would have told him to get up and do something about it. Of course, his father would have then gone and made him a new pair of boots anyways, but father wasn’t here so Kitan figured he had to listen to the letter of his words, not the spirit of them. The first step was probably getting out of the mud.

He cautiously flinched for a moment when he heard a sudden, heavy thunk, followed by the splatter of a large object hitting the mud. Was the fighting still going? No. The noises had stopped again. It was done.

Or rather, most of the noises. He heard voices nearby, but they did not align with his goal. He wanted warmth and would find it. It was time to stand up.

He rose, lifting his lightweight frame up easily off the slick earth. He blew out air softly through his lips to clear his mouth of grime and filth, with marginal success. The action made his face hurt even worse, the ache of a smashed face amplified by the sudden motion. He cringed as the feeling spread, debating briefly lying down again. A cursory examination of his miserable disarray caused him to think better of adding more filth to his garments and visage.

He lifted up a hand to wipe his face and ears. His ears especially—mud had become enamored of his fur, and he didn’t particularly care to let it dry. Unfortunately, the shifter soon discovered his hand was as filthy as the rest of him; he raised his other limb in hopes of a better result, but to no avail.

Kitan sighed in defeat before looking around the battlefield. There were corpses, but he already knew that. His blank and hollow stare was only sparing moments on each, dreading to linger over the thoughts which must come with a focused look at the dead.

The last of the three possessed what Kitan sought. Lovely gray boots adorned his feet, furred on the inside. They were built for travel, traction and wear, the soles rippling with thin lines. The insides were lightly furred. They were perfect for a curious courier with cold feet. Where one of his class might have gotten them, Kitan could not say, but he could say how he could keep his feet warm.

He trotted over to the remains, skipping over the mud as much as possible. It wouldn’t do to acquire new boots, just to have them fill with the very thing which he sought to avoid by wearing them. He knelt at the cadaver’s base. The rain danced through the feathers of the arrow in his back, which Kitan took a few moments to admire. A wet chill ran through him as he halted, pushing his attention back to the grim task at hand.

His hands went down to secure the first boot, which had propped up contently to make a triangle with the ground. He lifted the dead man’s leg and the boot slipped off with ease. His trophy thus acquired, Kitan realized he had nowhere to sit and put it on. So he sat atop the corpse, right next to the arrow, as he undid the bandages on his feet. He wriggled his toes merrily for a moment. Protected from the worst of the grime by a white wrapping, their smooth and untainted skin was a sight to behold. It looked almost as if the foot did not belong to the dirty shifter whose pant leg it came from. The shifter put the boot on his foot and smiled contentedly, staring off at nothing in particular. He sighed, his face drooping with a lazy look as though he might fall asleep at any moment.

A shadow fell over him, snapping him out of his odd reverie. It was Lurus, his slender hands gripping his bow firmly. The arrow was half knocked. Though his back was to the sun and his face was shadowed neatly, it seemed to Kitan his eyes were suns all their own, glimmering blue with a strange and alien fire.

He looked down at the fox shifter, but seemed not to notice the morbid nature of the boy’s seat. He only spoke, in a hollow, measured voice, these words.

“You are not a wizard. You are not magic.” The guardsman’s teeth gritted as he struggled to maintain his empty composure. His face tightened in an expression of pure contempt— but whether it was for himself or Kitan, no one could say. “Do you understand me, shifter?”

Kitan could only stammer a timid “Y-yes sir” for a reply. He glanced down at the arrow in the brigand’s back nervously. Speaking made his jaw hurt, but Kitan would not have dared declining to answer such a forceful question.

The guardsman waited a painfully drawn out second before turning his back on the child and marching gracelessly over to his designated ally. He threw an icy glower over all present, a silent dare to challenge him, and proceeded to sulk just off of Alexandros’s shoulder.

Kitan turned his head downwards, shaking frightfully. He saw puddles of blood and rainwater, and the back of the brigand he was using to escape the muck. He saw his own legs and feet. With an expression mixed between surprise, disgust, and horror, he realized there was still the matter of the other boot.

[Alexandros]

Alexandros' eyebrows climbed his ashen face suddenly in shock as the last bandit left standing cried out in pain, grasping for the tomahawk wedged in his back. The thug stumbled forward a few desperate steps, mouth wide in gasping screams, before he lost his balance and fell face-first into the muddy road. Bloodied fingers grasped in the guard's direction, begging for mercy, in the final moments before his body came to a raggedy shuddering halt. Those accusing fingers went still and laid silent in the mud. Still though, they pointed to Alexandros.

Drunk on his own lost blood Alexandros turned to Clarisse. Like her, his face had been slashed in the previous melee. The cut ran deep, but not so deep to have bit to the bone, from just below his right eye to end a half an inch away from his right ear. Rain came down behind him, blanketing the forest's life in dull oppressive grey. Stark against his bandages, dented steel, and bloodied chest: a ribbon, pale bright yellow, danced from his metallic arm. He watched her, grim-faced and humorless, saying nothing as she stepped over the dead bandit and assured herself of his demise. That was, not until she herself spoke.

"I never count myself lucky for the company of ghosts," he replied stonily "Especially not those with a taste for blood." Alexandros' hand axe rested at the ready in his palm, having never left it even after the thugs breathed their last. He held it like a man who was unsure whether or not he'd have need of it again soon. His amber eyes searched through Clarisse's macabre visage. The garish skeletal tattoo, once hidden behind her torn cloth mask. The blood. The callousness with which she robbed the dead. "There is a difference between defending oneself and butchery," Alexandros suggested "And it's not a fine one."

From behind Clarisse - Morveya sobbed, her voice mournful as she spoke her broken apologies and laid blame on herself. Alexandros' gaze wavered, unlocked by the crushing reality of their situation. The rain. The mud. The blood. A terrified woman. A shattered child. Reluctantly, he shook his pallid face slowly in disapproval... Eyes downcast and set on the last brute's rapidly-cooling corpse. Then he turned without a word more and cut his way through the muck towards his discarded breastplate and leather tunic. There was no point in standing atop his moral pedestal. No point in preaching. What was done was done, and the blood spilled here had not been innocent.

A Fieldfare Thrush sang its chattering song from the woodline, defiant of the storm and ignorant of the slaughter.

Keen-eyed Lurus stayed behind, leaving Alexandros' shadow as it left him. His deft elven hands sat the length of his bowstring ready to sing their own thrumming song should they have to. He said nothing. The way he watched Clarisse, like an observant predator communicated all that needed to be said: Lurus too did not trust this new arrival. Not yet. There had been too much death in this forest for trust to be given so lightly.

Alexandros set his axe in his leather belt loop as he bent down low to take hold of his leathers. The pain in his side intensified, aching with potency that burned through the fog of his own hazy state of mind. He grabbed hold with numb fingers and set it against his chest, wrapping the worn tunic round and securing it along his side. The guard paused here, then stooped to grab hold of his breastplate and repeated the exercise again. Lurus had brought the horses back earlier - tying them to the low boughs of a young maple across the road just before the havoc of their skirmish began. Alexandros stepped over to his own stallion and gave the beast a reassuring pat before he secured his bright and unmuddied sallet helmet, setting it over his bloodied face and bringing his visor down to give himself the cold anonymity of Marn's law-enforcers once again.

But blood still ran down his leg in a half-dried, half-washed away, trickle. His legs felt heavier than they ought to as he stepped beside the herbalist, hands buried in her satchel. Perhaps she searched for some mysterious cure-all that could set them all to rights? Alexandros did not know, the secrets of alchemy and medicine were as impenetrable as sorcery to his mind.

He did know one thing though. That they could not wait here while she worked. Not if these bandits had accomplices still out in the wood. Not if the beast that had torn a man's flesh from his bones only earlier that day still lurked. Alexandros laid his chilled metal gauntlets, the same that had beaten away a man's life a moment ago, as gently as he could atop Morveya's shoulders. He said nothing for a moment, searching for the appropriate words. Something deep and meaningful to convince her that this was not her fault. That they could not wait. That haste was the best medicine for them all, at the moment.

What came from his lips seemed so impotent and meaningless compared to what he had searched for. "We need to ride for the city. Before we join these highwaymen." A pause came next, accentuated by a well-meaning squeeze of the herbalist's shoulder. "Are you good to ride?" If she looked up she would see a helmet staring back down at her. Not Alexandros. Guardsman Dragesus now.

[Morveya Aris]

Morveya's knees had gone again to the mud, once she'd made it to her satchel. But, as her trembling and mud-streaked hands clutched upon it, her attention was yanked elsewhere.

Their benefactor strode into plain view. At least as plain as anyone could be cloaked by the unremitting downpour and gloom. And clad in a cloak to boot. The stride and stance were one Morveya might have termed warrior-like, though that would only be general impression; not any professional appraisal. Of course, the bandoleers and weapons-belts she glimpsed supported the impression. As did the accuracy of those throwing axes.

The newcomer, with no particular ado, went to administer insurance against tactic of feigned death. Morveya felt as if she might vomit all over again, as that dagger pierced the fallen thug's throat. Again, she managed to keep her gorge down, if barely. It was surely only a practical thing to do, but...

Morveya didn't even note the acquisition of the coin pouch. Which would have been quite irrelevant to her at the moment, even had she. She did, however, glimpse that the lower half of the stranger's face was swathed with cloth. Not really unusual given the weather. Though perhaps speaking of intent to go unrecognized.

And then this axe-wielding apparition spoke. And Morveya realized suddenly, almost abstractedly, that this was a woman. It was the first words any had spoken since this ugly event had initiated. Despite that the words were only more of the grave-chill touch of death, it somehow began to restore perspective. The one lost when reality had lurched and twisted into a desperate struggle to survive.

"I’m Clarisse Dronne, by the way, you’re lucky I found you when I did or you may have ended up like this poor soul."

Morveya acknowledged that was truth. In her own case, at least. This Clarisse Dronne had almost surely saved her life – or at least prevented her abduction – by the brigand who'd been lingering behind her.

"Th – thank you – " it was then she saw that Clarisse appeared to be counting coins. Mercenary her returning mind supplied. It was of no great moment to Morveya; if the woman wished to take the killers' wealth in compensation for her assistance, it was all fine in her reckoning. Alex, Kitan, and herself had all survived. It was more than enough for the moment.

Seeming to briefly contemplate the coins, the stranger afterward removed the cloth from her face, revealing it to be torn. It seemed she had received a wound there, when facing the first she had taken down. And so Morveya received her first glimpse of Clarisse's features. She gasped faintly at what lay revealed. Not the wound for, from what she could see, it was reasonably superficial. No; rather it was the macabre tattoo that won that reaction. Rendering the dichotomy of life and death upon a single countenance. Some portion of Morveya's mind registered that Clarisse, wherever she had come from, had a complexion that suggested time spent beneath the sun. Which only served to more emphatically contrast the bone-shade ink of the tattooing.

But Clarisse's appeal snapped Morveya from these observations. She had helped them…was now herself hurt…of course, Morveya would aid her.

"Aye," she replied. "Aye, I have supplies to treat cuts and wounds! But, first, I must make sure that he – that Alex is –– " Morveya did not complete the thought, but instead gestured and looked to the wounded guardsman. In no wise wishing to see that her previous work had been undone, with more wounding to compound it. But, it didn't matter what she wished –– she would do whatever she could, or had to do!

Alexandros had his own views to present their benefactor. And Morveya well understood them. It was true. The man had been about to surrender. Hadn't he-? She wasn't really certain, in all that had happened. She'd been primarily relieved that they all seemed to be dead at that point. After what they'd done to Alex...not to mention almost done to him…she wasn't going to waste sympathy nor pity on such killers. Yet she guessed at what could be running through Alex's mind. And how he might interpret that demi-death's head visage.

The thrush's song provided an almost surreal counterpoint to this grim tableau. Morveya had begun this road, this day, in song. Offhandedly she wondered how long it might be, before she would feel like singing again. Or anything else so innocent.

But, they had lived. It was this she must appertain her focus to.

She drew breath to address Alex. Then realized he was refitting himself with armor and arms. She began to protest – but realized what must be his thinking.

Who's to say we won't be further attacked sitting here-? We *must* move on...

With that thought, Alexandros had come up near her, and placed metal-gauntleted hands upon her shoulders. She could not but think of what those had so recently done...but, it was counterbalanced by the gesture itself. He was doing his best to console, to insure she was ready to go on. When he, by all rights, might have issued curt command and expected swift compliance. She was worried about him not receiving immediate attention for what further had been done. More than a little so. Yet she knew he was correct in his judgment:

"Aye," she answered. "Aye – shaken, but fine. I will stay the saddle without issue." Which made her think abruptly of Alstris. Fortunately, the faithful mare was only some six or seven yards off. Anxious, shook, just as herself. But well enough to return to the road, Morveya judged. She stood from where she had knelt. But not before she glanced up at Clarrise.

"I can give you bandages if you want them now. I also have poultices. A special preparation to staunch bleeding. Must be pressed and held to the cut. Either by your hand or bandaged there. Alex – the same of course goes for you, if you have immediate need. We cannot afford anyone pitching from the saddle for blood loss. No matter how great our haste. And, Kitan – "

Morveya looked to find the shifter again for the first time in some moment.

Saw the end of some interchange betwixt he and Lurus. Which ended with the latter striding back over to the rest of them. And, Kitan – Kitan was sitting ––

– atop a cadaver-?

Morveya's hand went briefly to her mouth, caught in the initial horror of it. To be swiftly replaced by concern:

"Kitan. Kitan! Ar– are you alright?" Now it was returning to her what happened at the beginning of this fiasco. And the fox-kin's deep shock related to his magic's particular kickback. Compounded now by this mayhem and carnage...

[Clarisse]

As Alex and Morevya spoke to Clarisse she appeared to be ignoring them, her focus more concentrated on the small pouch of shiny coins that were in her hand. She had always had an attraction to shiny things though she never understood why. Some of the elders in her formal tribe had told her that it was because of her heritage or a sign from the gods, though Clarisse never paid too much attention to them.

Clarisses felt over each coin as she counted them, her hands cleaning the mud, grime, and the the occasional blood droplet off of each one before putting it into her own coin purse. Her attention returned to the two here were talking to her as the last golden circle slid into the small leather satchel, giving a small tink as it landed amongst its brethren.

”You may not enjoy the company of ghost guardsman,” She said calmly to Alexandros, flashing her sharpened canines “but you’re lucky that this wraith isn’t after your blood.” Clarisse stood up slowly from her morbid chair casually stretching her arms over her head, seemingly oblivious to the carnage that lay around her, before removing her weapons from the corpse. ”Asides from that Guardsman” she said while tugging on the buried axe and knife, ” You’re a butcher as well, though your butchery is In the guise of protecting the ones deemed innocent. We really aren’t that different you and I, removing unwanted people for a bit of coin.”

As her words sunk in Clarisse sheathed her weapons and walked over to Morveya, her former visage broken by a small smile of gratitude. ”Thank you miss, I’m very grateful for this.” she said taking the offered bandages and poultice, and Appling it to her face. The concoction stung as it touched her exposed wound, causing Clarisse to grit her teeth but not making any audible noise of complaint. After her would was sufficiently covered she began to wrap her face with bandages, creating another mask of sorts to cover her skeletal jaw, before pulling out a leather mask from a pouch on her hip to further cover her face and wound.

After her wound was taken care of Clarisse starred at the small fox-shifter attempting to get himself a new pair of shoes, ”I’m guessing that that’s out of the norm for him.” she said crossing her arms observing the scene.

[Kitan]

Kitan’s other foot was still cold. That was still true, and it was a still a problem. So he again stood and wandered to the corpse’s lifeless feet. Morveya said something. He heard his name called. He ignored her.

The bandit’s legs lay in the mug like two thick logs, their cocoon of leather taking the place of a fallen tree’s bark. Where his first leg had been forming a triangle with the ground, this leg was placed sideways, sunk a full halfway in the muck. When Kitan’s hand moved to pull this one, the earth held its treasure fast, unwilling to part with the lovely grey boot. The slick mud made a slurping sound as it resisted, and Kitan’s grip slipped from the footwear. He let out a small yelp, and his hands continued the motion all the way above his head in frustration.

Hunkering down for a second attempt, his foot splashed in a puddle. It was his right foot, which he had covered with the first boot. His hands maneuvered with surprising deftness, even gentleness, to the top of the boot, where they grabbed the top; his finger’s sunk against the dead man’s still-warm skin as they worked inside for leverage. He pulled and pulled, straining, when the leg came free. It lifted in a grim spectacle; one last kick from the dead to the world of the living. Kitan’s smile radiated joy at the triumph. Now all that was left was to work his prize free of the limb it enclosed.

Still holding the boot, some part of his mind finally calculated what Morveya had asked him. Was he alright? Was that what he was? Being alright was important, after all, and it was Morveya’s job to make sure people were alright. If she was concerned, he should be too. He looked down.

There was a pair of arms holding desperately to the boot of a dead man. With a sudden jolt, the fox shifter realized they were his. He held on still, arms trembling. Greater and greater their quakes became, until the arms finally flailed wildly, trying desperately to rid his grasping hands of the feeling of skin and furred boot. He started screaming anew.

While he had once struggled to attain the boot, he now struggled to rid himself of it. The boot held his hands fast, wedged as they were between the thug’s meaty leg and the soft, furred interior. His voice rose in a howl as he and the dead man struggled together, Kitan’s awkward lunges and jumps causing the corpse to dance and writhe in the mud. His hand came free and the leg was gracelessly hurled over the man’s back, limp as only a corpse could be. For a brief moment, it almost seemed as if the phantom limb was trying to kick the arrow out of its owner’s back, but it soon slid back to stand nearly upright, accusing the heavens for his death.

This did not console Kitan, who backpedalled yet again in fear. He looked up. All eyes were on him. Morveya. Alexandros. Lurus. The scary lady. They all watched, and his head turned left, right, left, unsure of which eyes to meet. He was soon forced to pick none, for his eyes were blurring with water.

He wiped at them miserably, and a sob escaped his lips. Heroes weren’t supposed to cry. Not over something like this anyways. They could cry when someone close to them died, but these were people Kitan didn’t know. They were the bad guys. So why couldn’t he stop crying?

He grabbed his fox ears and pulled them down flat against the side of his head. The natural dip they took in misery, he must have felt, was not enough to convey his emotion. He couldn’t tell how many of the droplets of water on his face were rain and how many were tears. He only wanted to be away. He only wanted to not be here.

He wanted to be cheerful, and at home, and safe, and with Drifel. He wanted joy and peace and happiness and life for everyone. He wanted all of that, and more. He wanted warm feet.

He wanted warm feet to be attuned with his other goals.

So he cried in helplessness and misery, he cried because he didn’t know what else he could do. He couldn’t have warm feet. He couldn’t give these people their lives back, apologize, and go their separate ways. He could only do one thing for the man. He could give him back his boot.

Kitan looked down at his feet. It was difficult to see through his bleary eyes. He choked out another sob and shuffled around, fidgeting with his boot. He leaned over, put his hands to the rims once more and reeled back, associating the trauma. He looked around. Everyone was still watching him. He was sure of it, even though he could only see their hazy outlines. He had to try again.

His hands went down.

And back up. Kitan cried. He wasn’t even brave enough to give the man back his boot. That was okay, he lied to himself. He could settle for just wanting all those other things, and having one warm foot. It was the only goal the shifter could have that he could actually reach.

[Alexandros]

"Good," Alexandros replied through his cold metal mask "I should not have doubted as much." The guard's gauntlets, clean of the blood they'd spilt moments before, left her shoulders. He hung there for a moment - whether it was due to a sense of things left unsaid, or weakness of the body and lightness of the head, was difficult to tell. His helm disguised much. Even, it so happens, the cringe of pain that twisted his face as he turned to leave Morveya's side. That turn brought him face to face with the specter that was Clarisse. Behind him the yellow ribbon tied tight 'round his arm trailed sadly, its wet cloth clinging helplessly to the protection of his dented armor. The impact near his left shoulder pinched - providing a biting reminder with every swing of his arm and stride of his legs.

The guard intended to ignore her. To step aside and avoid more conflict, as much out of thanks for her timely arrival as his very real desire to be gone from here as swiftly as he could. Even if he didn't trust her. Even if she rubbed him wrong. Then those fangs of hers flashed in the evening's dim light. Two twin rows of pronged spikes poised behind a gossamer sheet of dancing raindrops. She spoke, but words came through the storm only reluctantly. Their passage made difficult by the roaring rain... But there were the fangs, their intent devious, and a few words...

... Your blood..., he heard. Feet stopped midstride. Something went taut within his broken chest, stretched from stomach to neck by a primal abiding fear. Alexandros' eyes widened for the span of a moment, the weight of an old worn coin heavy on his breast as scars deeper than flesh ached. Then: calm, like the safe outrushing of a tide that had threatened to drag him to sea. No, not her, Alexandros' mind whispered soothingly to its own awakening sense of dread. She's human. Just human. He stepped to Clarisse's side, steel boots slogging loudly through the wet muck, moving beyond and refusing to lock eyes with the woman again. He battered those weathered impulses to nothing, or as near as he could.

"You're not wrong, maybe." Alexandros said with only a slight hitch in his voice as he stepped by, "But you aren't right." There was a carelessness to his voice. One that was difficult to understand, given the passions he'd claimed not but a minute before. He explained little and less of it though as he made his way to where Kitan was seated. His approach was slow, gentle, and unalarming. Each step was taken measuringly slowly as if to give the kit fair warning.

"Kitan, there's no reason not to cry." Alexandros spoke quietly. "Changer's sake, the sky is crying. It's a sad thing that happened here." He came to a steady halt two feet to Kitan's fore, then took a knee to the music of clinking steel. His amber eyes, level and so near to Kitan's own, met the fox's. Even though he spoke through a shell of metal - there was a man within, a man who wanted to safeguard Kitan. Not just because he'd promised a drinking buddy. Not just because it was as natural as breathing, to help mend another soul... But because years ago someone had once held him as he wept. Dried his tears time and again, so many, til they stopped falling.

"Come tomorrow though, those clouds'll dry their eyes, cause you can't cry forever and the sun's gotta shine." Alexandros promised. "Here. This will help."

The guard's left arm reached over across Dragesus' outstretched knee to rest on his leg. There hung a yellow ribbon, bright as golden sunshine through all the rain and the mud. Alexandros' other gauntleted hand grabbed hold of the band of cloth and pulled til it tore - coming apart halfway between its tip and the distant knot that held it to his arm. "This world's not all gray. Give me your arm." Alexandros instructed, voice curt even though it retained its warmth, as his large palm turned to hold Kitan's shoulder.

He tied the torn ribbon carefully about Kitan's proffered bicep, cautious to knot it tightly but not too tightly, so that it hung there - a replica of Alexandros' own, in miniature. When he spoke again it was in hushed tones. The whisper passed from his lips, only just barely over the shield of his visor, to find residency in Kitan's sensitive ears."It belonged to someone brave before I found it. Because you have it, now you have to be brave too."

"That's just how it works." Alexandros assured him.

"Now get that boot off, it's no good for you - worn through on the sole already, and too big anyway." Instructed the warrior. To be honest he had no idea whether or not the shoe was worn through or not. One thing he did know though: it wasn't healthy for a boy to wear a dead man's clothes. "We get to Marn, well I'll buy you a proper set if you want them. I owe Drifel more than that anyway."

"Besides, I'll owe you too." Alexandros expounded cryptically. "My body's a bit tired, and my head's woozy. I'll need you to help hold my reins and be strong for me. Leto won't mind, he's a good horse." From behind him the guard heard his brown-flanked steed stamp the ground impatiently with the wet thud of a hoof displacing mud.

"Well, he's an all right horse I guess." Alexandros ammended with a hidden smile. When he rose, he did so slowly. Not out of fear of alarming Kitan this time, but because it hurt so terribly. "What'd'ya say? Lend me a pair of hands?"

[Morveya Aris]

Not long ago they'd, collectively, had a sole, if very significant issue. That being to stay on guard against whoever – whatever – it was that had conducted the murder.

Now – now –– it was something as if the whole world was wrong.

No – not the world. Them. Each of them.

She truly feared that Kitan had lost his mind. Morveya had treated lingering shifts of mood, chronic depressions, and similar ills of the mind, the heart, or psyche. With varying degrees of success, dependant upon the nature and origin of the condition. And whether or not the patient truly wished to heal from it. Which was not always the case.

But, none of it had prepared her to deal with the like of that which afflicted Kitan. Which she supposed might be not more than the cumulative effect of shock. But was no less disturbing for it. She felt that she should be the one who should know, offer something...

But, she was not. It was instead Alexandros who took the matter in hand. Morveya let go a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding pent, as the guardsman addressed the shaken shifter. Attempting to push beyond the madness and the pain – and reach the core of Kitan; the part of him that might yet seize upon an appeal to responsibility, and for one of aid.

Morveya blinked several times, as Alex spoke, and proffered the strip of yellow ribbon, completely akin to the one that he wore. She wondered at it – the identity of this courageous one whom Alex had adopted it from. She had a sense there was a tale here, that might well be integral to who he was today. But it was neither here or there at the moment.

She felt more than a little uncertainty about his asking Kitan to take the reins of his steed. Though it did position Alex behind him, the possibility of mishap or complication didn't need to be elaborated. She opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it.

What else were they to do with him? Let him continue to walk? Place him with the far less sympathetic Lurus? Or with herself –– not physically strong enough to restrain him? Or ask the newcomer to take him up – ?

No; she grasped why Alexandros was going this route. There was not much of another choice.

Now it just depended how Kitan would take it. With that response pending, Morveya went to collect Alstris. The poor animal was all nerves, stamping some and shifting her weight. Most thoroughly drenched – white mane flat and straggled upon her neck. And quite mirroring her rider, in that regard. They would all catch a short list of ills, if they didn't remove themselves from the elements soon.

Morveya softly stroked her steed's white-blazed muzzle. Uttering several low and soothing words as she did. Once Alstris had calmed some, Morveya led her forward a bit. But not too close. In case Kitan suffered some extreme reaction. She prayed he would remove and relinquish the dead man's boot. Keeping it would very surely do nothing positive for his mind or heart.

At that juncture the herbaler spared attention for their other two companions. Lurus. Morveya found she had a seed of distrust for the elvish sharpshooter. What Alexandros had in heart and compassion, felt like a vacant place in that one. And there had been the short and odd standoff with Kitan, at Drifel's. And...whatever had occurred with his partner, and sent him hence. When they had most needed him. Right prior to Alexandros ending up in the mud, with an arrow in his side. Morveya felt a sudden frisson connected to Lurus – and realized at that moment she'd feel more comfortable with him gone.

But she knew that wasn't possible. And probably not even truly desirable. Not yet, anyway. Until they were all out of the woods. Figuratively and literally.

And lastly her dark eyes were upon Clarisse. Not at all having missed that last exchange between she and Alex. Whose misgivings and feelings had very obvious founding. And yet still – Morveya could not overlook the very real help the woman had rendered. At risk to herself. Most warriors and sell-swords were not refined, or especially gentle. How could they be-? The woman's demeanor and persona didn't speak of any sort of an easy life, that was sure.

These things considered, Morveya drew a deep breath, shuddered once in the wet and the cold –– and awaited to see what would happen next.

[Clarisse]

The rain poured down over Clarisse, cascading over the tip of her hood in a small stream. Even though most of her passed life had revolved around water, she never really enjoyed getting wet. The cold rain water had soaked through most of her outer garments and she was starting to feel the cold water seeping through her leather armor hidden below.

”I’m one or the other Guardsmen Alexandros,” She said with a slight condescending tone, noticing that her earlier words had struck a chord. ”But the time to make that decision isn’t now, and unless you intend to stand out here and rust in this demandable weather I suggest we get a move on.”

She felt as though her words landed on deaf ears as Alexandros tended to the little fox shifter, still shocked from the battle that had ended only a few minutes ago. Clarisse didn’t really understand why the guardsmen coddled him so, he seemed about as old as she was, judging from his height build, but then again she figured she wasn’t the best expert on shifter, only dealing with them when she was forced to.

Clarisse sighed, letting her thoughts on the matter escape with her breath, clearing her mind and tried to regain her focus on the situation at hand. Her eyes gazed around the small portion of the road they were on, aside from the dead thugs occupying the road she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, though she knew that it would change in a matter of time. The rain helped dampen the smell of the fresh corpses, but she knew it was only a matter of time before something picked up the sent and would be happy for a fresh meal.

Clarisse felt her arm, feeling a set of scars from a small pack of wild dogs that once tried to make a meal out of her after she had been knocked out during a small skirmish. She remembered that she was thought dead after they couldn’t find her after the battle and had left her among the corpses. She never forgave them for that, waking up to a creature gnawing on her arm was a less than pleasurable experience, and especially one that she did not want to repeat in anyway shape or form.

The thought of beasties in the woods waiting to eat reminded Clarisse of her own budding hunger, she hadn’t had anything to eat since her arrival in Marn the previous night. Her pack was a short distance away, hidden at the base of the tree she was in earlier and she figured she could steal away for a brief moment before they started heading toward the city. Clarisse made her way thorugh the mud toward the tree, trying her best not to get sucked into the deeper portions of mud and potentially losing a boot. Upon reaching the tree she searched for her pack, a brief search seeing that it was right where she left it, hidden under a fallen branch with a few sticks to break up its outline. Unsnapping the buckles to the main pouch she pulled out strip of jerkey and a slice of cheese before closing it up and placing it on her back. Un snaping her leather mask she headed back to where the others were, waiting to see if they had decided to head to the city yet.