Thar Shaddin

Ysoria watched the group as they reacted to Iolan's telling. She remained quiet, her expression still and thoughtful. The lad's eyes widened appreciably with each small story, near to bursting with questions that Iolan's no-nonsense delivery of his experiences did not give him the time to form. The lad almost vibrated in his desire to give voice to those questions, though at one point Pippa laid a restraining hand on his shoulder -- manners and the teaching thereof having obviously been laid in her lap.

Pippa, too, had a still expression, something akin to resigned disapproval lurking in her eyes.

But the men, of course, were watching Iolan avidly. As a sailor eyes a well-rounded woman at port, they looked him up and down as discreetly as they could. His deformities were taken note of, measured, and considered. They stroked chin hair and nodded gravely as Iolan spoke, but had nothing to offer in commiseration or like experiences: these were in no way battle-trained.

The lad, of course, still needed training on when to keep his mouth shut. "What's it like, losing your parts?"

Pippa's fingers dug into his shoulder, to which he let out a quiet grunt of pain. He jerked his shoulder away from her, eyes locked on Iolan with renewed determination.

Ysoria sighed.

Iolan smiled; a cold, feral thing that didn't quite reach his eyes. The memories of that last story lingered after he finished speaking, dancing around the edges of his vision. Sometimes, it seemed that if he turned his head fast enough, that if he only looked, he could see them. But they were gone, all of them, good and bad, and he was still breathing, so to hell with them and their staring, dead faces all puffed up in the firelight. Swallowing his broth, he swung his gaze about to rest fully on the young lad, lowering his voice to a near whisper as he leaned in closer.

"Nothing," he said, "at first. You're so full of battle-lust that all you get is this sting, and you wonder why it does not answer. Then it drains and your nerves catch fire all at once and the blood flows quickly. They find you quickly, or you die quickly. I was found quickly."

He leaned closer still, glancing around conspiratorially, and one hand slid to his knife almost of its own volition. He let it rest there, his other hand raising the slowly cooling mug of stew to his lips for another noisy sip. He could have sipped silently, but he was getting tired of the judgmental looks from his employer. Besides, it always paid to seem a little more dim than you really were with strangers.

"I can show you if you like," he said, levelly. "It's a hell of an experience."

"Thank you, Iolan, for keeping us entertained while we eat," Ysoria cut in, voice much too bright, over the end of Iolan's statement. "Long day tomorrow, and good guards go to sleep early!"

She stood up, beaming first at Pippa (the woman looked much too protective) and then around the gathered circle. The men looked caught between wanting to laugh and concern; Ysoria was certain that if they'd been mercs they would have laughed. But, these were not mercs.

Iolan, she decided, had spent entirely too much time around bloodletters.

"Come along, now, so we can discuss the morrow's strategies and such!" She aimed her face at Iolan, just enough of an edge on her voice to tell him she meant business.

Iolan kept his serious expression just long enough for the boy to do a double take, and then grinned, laughing hugely to show he was harmless. Honestly, it was just too easy messing with these people; they were far too serious in all the wrong ways. These trips were tense, and breaking the tension was the key to keeping people, especially armed people, friendly and away from each others' throats. Besides, if the lad wasn't answered he'd keep pushing, and likely go where he shouldn't to find his information. He'd rather risk his employer's ire for speaking out than explain why the lad had gotten in the way of a shot. Shaking his head, he drained his mug and rinsed it out briefly, glancing at the boy.

"Keep a sharp, heavy blade if you want to try it on someone else. A good edge and heft will do half the work for you."

He worked his jaw again, watching as his employer decided to show her true colours again, but kept his smile. That was another one that needed to lose some tension, he thought, propping himself upright more awkwardly than he needed to. It also paid to look slower than you were, in case anyone was watching. And he knew the whole caravan was watching. If anyone got ideas, he was going to give them a surprise. Hefting his bags again, he left the remaining game by the campfire and limped after the woman, leaning heavily on his crutch.

"Always been a dream of mine," he said, turning and spitting, "to be dinner theater on the roadside."

Ysoria brushed the front of her vest, lips thinning into a severe line. The men seemed amused, and the boy's eyes were wide and gleaming as if he'd just found a new personal hero; Ysoria knew she'd have to look to that before Pippa took it out of their wages.

Once they'd cleared a decent distance between them and anyone in casual earshot, she turned a congenial smile upon him. "I'm sure your generosity might be a little, mm, too much for this particular setting. Mayhaps you should save some for our destination."

She watched him by the light of their own small fire, her movements economical as she set her bedroll.

He was feisty in a way that lead to unpredictability. There was conflict brewing.

"Now, why would I do that? We have to appear a team when we arrive," he said, just as quietly, shrugging. "For that we must practise our act. I must appear the big violent brute and you the quiet sharper who holds my leash, yes?"

Shaking his head as though being reprimanded, he grinned for her alone to see. It was unlikely more than the boy were watching, but that was no guarantee. Guarding caravans was, by and large, boring, boring work peppered with hellishly violent clashes, and those on watch tended to seek any and all distractions to keep themselves occupied. For such people, the funny strangers in their midst would be the best distraction. He knuckled his jaw, feeling a brief ache where the wooden dentures wore against his gums and a deeper ache behind his eyes that was slowly moving back through his head. Pressing down the urge to take a drink, he settled his rifle into position in the crook of his arm and let his other hand settle on the hilt of his knife. Having them close to hand settled his nerves, and he met the woman's gaze straight on.

"So when we go to work, you will be sick of my stories and I of yours and we will appear to be old hands. That will give them pause."

He turned slightly, waving back at the boy, who was watching as subtly as only the young could manage. Turning back, he set down his own bedroll, glancing again to where the others were on watch. He had the fifth watch, but it still took him a moment to find the one he would be relieving. Until he knew more about them, it would not do to put too much stock in their abilities. As much as he'd like a drink or two to help him sleep, he needed to be clear headed if he was to awaken early. Damn it all. Stretching, he looked back at his employer.

"Useful boy there," he said, conversationally. "He'll get everywhere and hear everything. Perhaps now we will too."

"We are a team," Ysoria interjected.

He talked, and he talked. For so much talking, it was surprising that he still just didn't get it. He was so close to reaching understanding, but his masculine ego and mercenary pride seemed to be forming a gap between where Ysoria needed him to be, and where he was. She knew he wanted space to boast and show his prowess (he did want the job, after all), but really, it was too much.

She decided to be the bigger person.

"Yes, yes, I am sure he will come in useful, as I am sure we will. As a team. Which we already are." Her smile was wide and unassuming.

She paid no heed to the dim shapes beyond their circle of fire. "Right, well, if you're going to be up with your gun, be a dear and take care of the fire, would you? Good night."

Without a beat, she smoothly rolled over and pulled her blanket up and over her head, leaving only a little space for breathing.

The Pathfinder was used to being taken care of, after all.

Iolan met her look blankly and said nothing as she turned in for the night. They were a team? No, they were a big mouth and an old soldier who had to do the job of three younger men. But then, he was a foreigner, so what would he know? Waiting until her breathing had evened out, he rose silently, leaving his crutch and pack by his empty bedroll. Taking out his teeth, he cleaned them quickly on his tunic and slipped them into a handy pocket before stepping into the shadow of a nearby tree and hunkering down, staring into the darkness until his eyes adjusted.

Around him, the night was alive with insects and the sounds of nature, but hopefully if they came sniffing around, they wouldn't see him in the shadows until it was too late. Fire was always a double edged sword, he thought, quietly loading his rifle. It gave away twice as much as it showed, and it could tear through a camp in minutes. He clenched his now much more comfortable jaw, feeling the old pain spread across his shoulders at the thought. But fire also blinded you at night, so he sat with his back to the lights of the camp and let his thoughts carry him away.

As always, his mind brought him straight home, and he stared silently at the woods and tracks of his homeland; the ancient patterns worn into his memory. He missed the chill of the mountains, waking up whole and hale, and being among others who looked and spoke like him. The tongue of these lands tasted like oily flint in his mouth and he always felt that he should spit to clear his throat afterwards. The other travellers slept more noisily than was preferable, but he eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep and unpleasant dreams. When he awoke, he barely moved for a long moment, taking in his surroundings.

He relieved the sentry, exchanging muttered gripes as they passed each other, moving to a shadowed position from where he could see the most. With any luck, it would be an uneventful night.

The night passed, and then two more. Like that, they fell into routine and an uneasy truce where they edged around the limits of each other's tolerance. They remained polite towards each other, and despite all of Ysoria's best laid intentions, their stories continued to be told, both to each other and to the leadership of the caravan. Iolan spent more time with the dwarves than she; given his insistence of seeing to the caravan's security, it was an inevitable scenario. Still, he made no effort to make friends with them, which warmed her towards him in subtle ways that would have made little sense to outsiders.

The terrain they traveled through was rocky and hilly, though the caravan's leader claimed they were to reach a fertile valley in a day -- in the middle of which sat the city of Umora. They were making good time, all told, and though Ysoria had not yet reconciled her view of the way things should be with Iolan's words and actions, she had come to accept that he was competent at what he claimed to be, this conclusion drawn by the hours spent watching and talking to him. In his own way, he reminded her of Diota, which she had to grudgingly accept could only be considered positive considering the work they were to be doing.

The boy had taken to shadowing Iolan. Though he would never admit to such, it was clear that he worshiped the old mercenary, and would ask questions every chance he got. Pippa held reservations, which were soundly overridden by her husband and other men of the family; Iolan was not vulgar or cruel, and they said it was good for the lad to show interest in the outside world, considering that he would one day take over the caravan and needed insight into how people worked. That, evidently, included the whys and hows of bloodshed. Ysoria suspected they were primarily amused at the boy's interest, and privately glad Iolan was able to keep him entertained. Teenage boys who were bored tended to get into mischief something terrible.

So it was that they dined with the caravan leader and his family every night, and that night was not particularly different. Ysoria collected Iolan from his post, one of the dwarves took over, and Pippa cooked while they shared stories with each other. As was usual, eventually things drifted over to Iolan's life and experiences, given that among them his were the most objectively flashy (while Ysoria had a few stories of her own, considering that her part in any action was watching from a distance, and her skill at telling stories was that of a spendthrift, interest tended to ebb quickly).

Thus it was that Iolan was in the middle of one of his stories, all attention focused on him (Ysoria having eventually capitulated to weary resignation, and ceased to give him the significant looks that had generally accompanied their earlier dinners), when one of the dwarves on the northern perimeter gave a strangled cry of alarm.

Thankfully, the night did pass peacefully, and morning broke peaceful onto another peaceful, boring day. Iolan rose early, ate sparingly and was generally prepared long before his employer, whom he tried to think about without frowning, had even stirred. It was an old habit, which, he noticed, some of the Dwarf guards had yet to cultivate. Checking the road, walking or at times limping around the perimeter of the camp, talking to the sentries. Most had little more to say for themselves beyond the fact that they hadn't been asleep, but it was always a good idea to compare notes. He didn't like the territory they were moving through, nor did he particularly like the other guards, but they were on watch while he slept and had yet to kill him, which was only for the good. Truth be told, he didn't like guarding nine wagons either, but they had a reasonable compliment of people, so really he couldn't complain about numbers, at least not out loud.

He also made a point of watching the people they were supposed to be escorting, which was another old habit. Many a caravan had been sabotaged by hired men turning on their employers too, and he didn't intend for that to happen to him. There was the usual segregation and cliquishness that went with caravan life, guards sticking together, wagoners and drovers pairing off or avoiding one another, while Big Eddie and his family more or less kept to themselves, with two rather glaring exceptions. The boy, Eddie Two as he was affectionately called, took to shadowing him despite his mother's insistence to the contrary, and the daughter, Mal, seemed obsessed with his employer, who clearly if politely despised this state of affairs. The boy, he could deal with, though his attention was drawn more to the wagons and the cargo. No-one paid any particular care to any one wagon, that he could see, though the family's cart was, of course, given more protection.

On the move, he stuck as close to his employer as professionalism required while maintaining a healthy distance. His leg ached him despite the oil he rubbed into the scar tissue, and the hot, damp air made his clothes stick to him, but he kept pace with the others, still positioned so as not to be immediately visible beside the caravan. They made good time, rarely stopping except to feed and water the horses, and despite the utterly unkempt state of the roads, the wagons suffered no lasting damage. Still, Iolan was uncomfortable. He ached for a drink, but drank sparingly if he drank at all. On the move and in the heat, drink could be the death of a man, and frankly he didn't want to give his employer the satisfaction. To distract himself from all of this, he found himself answering the lad's questions honestly enough, showing him how to walk and where to stand when they stopped, or more often explaining why the guards were doing what they were doing. The lad soaked it all up with wide-eyed wonder, but Iolan was just glad that it kept him sharp.

His relationship with his employer and the caravaner's family remained somewhat ambiguous as time passed. They respected him, most of them, but he was well aware that they didn't like him, and even if he'd wanted them to, he wouldn't have changed his manner, so they could all go hang. Eating with them became a regular occurrence, slightly to his chagrin, as he found himself having to make conversation more and more with people who grimaced at both his accent and his choice of words. His anger flared up often, but he channeled it into his stories, which in turn endeared him with the lad further, as he was assumed to be merely passionate, as opposed to wishing fervently that he could haul off and clout someone. Still, he never pretended to be anything that he was not, and was content to remain in his own spot with his own things, so the guards and the family were more inclined to leave him be.

Three days passed in this manner, enough for hope to creep into the voices of some that they would reach their destination unmolested. Iolan, however, felt an increasing sense of dread with each passing hour. His employer would have, and quite often did, call him paranoid, but despite what the empire continued to claim, the roads were never well patrolled at the best of times and small bands of outlaws were commonplace. Yet they'd met no-one beyond the occasional traveler, who Iolan was always careful to observe from concealment. Big Eddie, he noticed, was equally wary of those they passed, answering questions pleasantly but blandly, diverting people as quickly as was decent and refusing to relax until they were alone (relatively speaking) once more. Iolan found this, as well as the looks the man shared with his wife, slightly curious, but his employer did not seem inclined to ask about it, so he simply watched.

On the fourth night, when he was once again summoned to perform his party trick and entertain the masses, he'd settled into a story of a particularly vicious fight he'd had with a slaver whose party they'd surprised in the plains of Northern Tian Xia. It was a very physical story too, which helped sell it, and he hardly had to add any embellishments. The camp site was well chosen, if well used, as a caravan their size, or of any size really, could hardly pick and choose where it stopped, and his voice carried clearly enough through the night air. The atmosphere was as relaxed as it could be, given that none of them really liked the others and they all wanted this trip to be over. Big Eddie and Eddie Two listening attentively with Pippa's brother, Quentin, while Pippa argued with her daughter over some figure or other in her ledgers and his employer looked at him with impassive distaste from a short distance away.

"So he knocks me down, right? Big bastard, stinking of horseshit, and he thinks he has me. Goes to swing down his blade and I swing my blade across to cut through his ankle and he falls down like a lump of stone, crying out like..."

There was a strangled cry from the direction of one of the sentries.

"...like that," Iolan said, not waiting before he moved.

Snatching his rifle, he rolled into the shadows away from the firelight and came up on his one remaining knee, balancing against a cart as he aimed in the direction of the cry. The alarm went up across the camp and soon the night came alive with the sounds of running feet, shouting people and frightened horses. The guards immediately sprung to life, readying weapons and moving to engage the threat, but Iolan stayed put, watching. A deeper shadow moved towards them, followed by many more, and he breathed a silent curse before squeezing the trigger, the sound of the shot followed swiftly by the satisfying scream of a dying man. Reloading quickly, he glanced around for the family and his employer, praying that they had the sense to stay calm.

Amidst the sounds of fighting and the growing chaos of the camp, there was one person wholly undisturbed by the rather unsavoury proceedings of the evening. You see Big Eddie had some very unusual cargo. Tucked away in his cart was a rather innocent looking chest, but if someone had happened to open the chest in question, they would have seen a suspiciously human figure. Swaddled by rune marked blankets and drawn into the fetal position.

Now Eddie and his clan were not transporting corpses as one may be inclined to think, no their cargo was far more valuable than that, a certain magical golem. Wooden and inhabited by a rather ruffled spirit, it was quite the catch and would sell for a fair amount. Enough to make Big Eddie, Mr "always a pleasure to see you, please may I shine your pointy shoes" Eddie.

But enough about Eddie and his incoming wealth, let us take a closer look at our friendly neighbourhood cash cow of a golem. Gain a little insight as to how he even came to be bundled so ungraciously. One may wonder why he did not cry out or smash his way out, the answer lay in the rags that were wrapped around him. These seemingly innocent and irrelevant pieces of cloth were marked with runes, runes whose function was solely to suppress the effect of magic on whatever or whoever they were lain on. The effect they had on the golem were quite like the effect several drinks would have on a man, he could not talk nor see nor move and could just hardly hear. The spirit inside him trapped in an experience akin to limbo, it's very presence oppressed.

The golem was named Deer. You see prior to being packed away Deer was on a very personal and important journey, seeking out a way to be freed from his horrible wooden prison. Being the gullible little monkey he was, it only took a curious elf minimal effort to trick him into bondage. The details of how exactly this went down currently escaped him and even if they did not, it was unlikely that they would mean anything to him in his current suppressed state.

And so Deer slept on, blissfully unaware of whatever was unfolding around him.

Before the cry had faded back into the darkness, Ysoria was moving. She got hold of Armalia -- Pippa had tried to take hold of Junior, but he'd deftly avoided her -- and pulled back to under the closest wagon. Junior had dashed out, Big Eddie reaching for him and missing. Quentin in turn had caught Pippa when she'd started after her beloved son, growling "no, Pip," over and over in her ear. Someone was going to get killed, Ysoria was sure of it, but she was also determined it wouldn't be her. Or Pippa. As for Big Eddie...

The sound of fighting had intensified, swirling around them in a confusing mishmash of barely-illuminated shapes. Not for the first time, Ysoria cursed her single eye and her own clumsiness: she wished for Diota. She wished to conquer her own fear, the fear of near helplessness in the midst of struggle. She had a knife on her, which she would use and had used in desperation, but she was no skilled fighter.

The sound of Iolan's gun was loud, and it was comforting, but it was soon joined by the sound of another, different gun. And the sound of crossbows. Expensive weapons for this nighttime assault.

"What are you carrying?" Ysoria hissed to Pippa, eyes wild.

Pippa stared back, mouth slack, desperation all over her face. "My son -- my son!"

Ysoria's grip on Armalia tightened, eliciting a squeak from the girl.

Out in the melee, Big Eddie had found himself caught up with one of the attackers, brandishing his long knife (or short sword, depending on your preferences) against a good steel blade. Had anyone been aware, they would not have been surprised when steel slid into him, and he went down. The wound was not of itself fatal, but as he gasped against the dirt he was pouring out blood, unnoticed.

Junior had disappeared.

Iolan silently thanked and cursed the firelight as he took aim again. It ruined one's nightvision, making it hard to distinguish friend from foe in a pitched fight, not that it was easy to tell at the best of times. Conversely, it also meant that any enemies looking in the fire's direction were blinded too, so he was almost invisible there in the shadows. Still, as he squeezed the trigger again, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was off about this attack. His second shot rang out with a flare and blast of acrid black smoke, whistling through the air to tear through another dark shape as it raised a weapon to strike. The dwarf it had been about to kill seemed stunned for a moment, before rushing forwards once again to help his friends. A crossbow bolt clattered somewhere nearby, but Iolan wasn't too worried about that. Now that things had gone to close quarters, he knew any marksmen would think twice about firing into a melee lest they hit their friends. He had no such worries, firstly because he didn't have any friends out there fighting and secondly because most of those he was aiming at were taller than those they were fighting.Beginning to reload as quickly as he could, he prayed that he'd have time for one more shot before it came to blades.

A shot rang out, whistling through the air to hit a wagon nearby and he thought he heard a curse from the enemies fighting. More importantly, he thought he saw the muzzle flash and he grinned, unseen in the shadows, as he plotted out his next shot. It was a smaller bore than his, by the sound, likely Eyropan in design, so it anyone hit might survive it if they were lucky. On the other hand, those models were very accurate at middle ranges, and anyone good enough to be the only rifle in this gang wasn't likely to miss often. That complicated things slightly, as that rifle was unlikely to rush things, and would wait to place their shots when they would do the most damage, sort of like he was doing just then, and if he'd seen that flash, that rifle had certainly seen his. Would they waste their powder on him while they had crossbows to do the job? It was hard to say. All of this flashed through his mind as he finished loading, and he hefted the rifle to fire again when someone rushed at him from behind. He spun, butt of the rifle raised to smash away the attack and found himself face to face with a very nervous pair of eyes that he recognized, and he swore under his breath, pulling Junior down to the dirt beside him.

"Stay low," he hissed, scanning the darkness around them, "and stay close!"

"But my father...!"

"What?"

"They're going to kill him! You have to..!"

Iolan swore again, though quietly, and looked in the direction Junior was gesturing, trying in vain to get him to atop wagging his arms about. That sort of thing got you noticed and when you were unarmed, getting noticed often got you killed. He didn't feel like explaining to anyone how Junior managed to die beside him while he was unharmed. That was unlikely to help his chances here. Whatever Junior had been pointing at, however, was lost to him as he saw a number of unfamiliar shadows moving towards the carts from the direction of the road. Pulling Junior behind him, he swung the rifle up, took aim and fired, striking the central shadow in the chest. It fell back, clutching at air, and he leapt up, drawing his knife as he rushed forwards.

"Behind!" He yelled, only to be pulled back by a hand on his elbow, almost pulling him down. "What?"

"Please!"

"Protect the Carts!" He yelled, "Thieves!"

He pushed Junior away, ducking back and on cue, another shot rang out, whistling through the air between them. Junior looked hurt, but Iolan had no time to worry about his feelings. They were surrounded and something was definitely up here.

"Lead on," he said, "quickly! And stay low!"

The power of the seals was not set in stone, it rose and fell but otherwise kept a constant range. At the worst times Deer was completely dead to the world, and at the best times he could form coherent thoughts in his head, sluggish as they were.
His thoughts bounced slowly back and forth befuddling him as he attempted to unravel them, they mocked him and allowed him to come close to deciphering them, only to blink out of existence. After much of this frustrating play he managed to snag one, perhaps out off his own pity for himself. Nonetheless he delved into the recesses of his mind, and a memory from the beginning revealed itself.

It was on the Astral plane oh so long ago. Deer -although he lacked a name then- was insubstantial, a creature composed purely of magic. One which spent much of it's time simply wandering the planes, and gathering what it deemed as important knowledge. It frolicked in nothing and everything at once, resting on frozen mountains of flames and diving into a sea that had no bottom.
Then one day there was bright light and an irresistible tug, it felt pain and then felt nothing as it was forced into a frame. It awoke as an old man's plaything.
But although it was trapped it was not alone. It sensed creatures much like it, sensed their magical potential and power. It saw them. Eleven of them trapped much like it, and it reached out to them with it's mind. They reached back.
They served that man until he died, always talking silently to each other; planning and scheming and replanning. Then they split and went their separate ways.
The memory fizzled as the seals took effect once more, and he recoiled into oblivion.

Outside however, was far from peaceful. The shadows were clearly organized and attacked with a single minded determination, it did not matter how many of them fell as long as they got their prize. Less people meant more money anyway.
The shadows converged and dispersed in small groups, exchanging information before going their way. Snippets of conversation were exchanged.

"How many dead?"

"Do we have the package?"

"Qida said it's in the-"

The speaker was cut off as a bullet explored his chest, and the group dispersed once more. One of their number sent a shot back in the shooters general direction, while the other spread out. Looking around, inside and under carriages when they could.

In short order, the orderly campsite had turned into a disorganized nightmare. It was loud, it was chaotic, and sure as shit there were going to be piles of bodies to sort through once it was over. Ysoria remained under the wagon with her charges, if they could even be considered that, and observed what little she was able to see. She was always an observer when it came to combat, and while that didn't usually bother her, she usually also had a team that she trusted. Considering her shaky relationship with Iolan, and the lack of seasoning between them, there was more than a little worry there.

That and her horrible position.

The people under the wagon with her were quiet and tense, watching as she was watching. Ysoria didn't know if this was their first time dealing with an attack, but besides the boy's stupidity, the rest of them seemed content to do the smart thing: nothing. They were quiet (though the girl was clinging to her and making occasional, weak whimpering noises, and Pippa was silently crying), and nobody seemed the sort to try any backwards heroics that would be likely to get everyone killed. So, from that angle, she was pretty lucky.

Until, that is, a small cluster of men decided to use the wagon they were under as cover.

Until one of them crouched and looked under the wagon.

Until Pippa, enraged and grieving for the potential loss of husband and son, stabbed him full in the face.

Ysoria hadn't even realized the woman was armed. She wasn't even sure, as she watched the metal disappear into flesh and skid sideways as it encountered bone, if the knife was a weapon. It could have just been a very sharp knife used in her daily preparations of food. Judging by how well it was slicing through his -- it dipped down and found the hole between cheekbone and jaw, and sank up to the hilt (handle?). Ysoria winced, leaving the problem of Pippa to Quentin (who, bless him, had taken hold of her and was yanking her back right as the man who'd been impaled started drawing in breath for the scream), and instead took hold of Armallia and propelled her out from under the wagon.

Armallia was staring at the man, who'd jerked backwards. Rather, she was staring at the knife protruding from his face. "Cover," Ysoria snapped, "girl, move it!"

She didn't have time to herd all of them. "Quentin," she called, but the man had self preservation instincts as good as her own, and he was already dragging Pippa out... but the woman had lost it. "Shit," Ysoria said, under the sudden tirade of babble coming out of Armallia (not even worth listening to, it was so disjointed), and shoved the girl towards the next wagon in line. The raiders were focused on Pippa -- hard not to be, the way she was screeching and windmilling, some extraordinary hellcat spat out from the plane. And that gave Armallia ample time to go and hide.

But it wasn't exactly good news for Pippa, and considering Pippa counted as one of the purses from which money and good reputation flowed, Ysoria wasn't about to just abandon her and Quentin to their fate.

With Armallia sorted, Ysoria turned back to crouch-run in Pippa's direction, hoping the confusion of the encounter would keep her out of anyone's line of sight before she was able to . . . alright, well, she hadn't figured out what she was going to do yet, but something had to be better than nothing.

Until someone stepped in front of her.

She looked up.