A bard in time saves...

[Metarie]

Eyes closed, Metarie missed the look Hapnir gave her. Idonir awoke

“The fuck…”

Kona growled low in his throat. The dogs hackles lifted and the dog rose up from his sitting position slightly. The sound and movement alerted Metarie to Idonir’s movement. Metarie had been watching Lanya leave the room. The look on Metarie’s face showed compassion for the woman. This was not Lanya’s fault, but the fault of a government gone awry. When Idonir stirred, Metarie returned her attention to him and Hapnir. Metarie did not cry. To do so in front of Idonir, Camulous, and Hapnir would be weak and especially in front of the waking Idonir weakness was not something she could afford. Metarie’s hands dropped and her right hand automatically went to rest on the dagger she had strapped to her thigh. Her hand-to-hand skills were poor, but that did not mean she would not defend herself should the need arise.

“Sit, Kona.” The dog immediately sat his butt back down on the floor, but glanced to Metarie as if to say: “Are you sure?”

Idonir’s eyes narrowed and Metarie returned his look with a stubborn, set expression of her own. It didn’t matter one bit to her that she wore nothing but a feminine undergarment, leggings, and bandages. She would not be cowed by that human. Hapnir, guessing where the man’s thoughts were headed, inserted himself in between them.

“Forget it. Get up, we have to go."

Metarie stepped back only then to give Hapnir enough room to help the big man get up.

[Lanya Caliope]

Grateful that they'd left her be, she closed and bolted the door behind herself, then leaned forward to press her forehead against the grain. The pain was acute and piercing now, and her eyes stung with the effort of holding back tears. Even here, alone in the room, she didn't allow herself to succumb to the grief rolling through her in waves. She found herself remembering Lucian staring at her from his own jail cell, demanding that she not undermine his ability to choose for himself. Insisting that she not take that away from him. Hard eyes boring into her from across the space, not allowing her to look away.

Lucian was dead.

The responsibility of choice is yours alone.

And she was tired of this game.

With her path clear before her, she felt as though she could float from the room. The years of exhaustion and terror melted away into this moment, where she finally made the decision to lay down her own life to spare any others from the same fate. The little girl had been the first to die; now Lucian would be the last. It was past time to end this ridiculous charade and accept her fate.

She had left her cloak outside, but it didn't matter. She would take Metarie's cloak and hope the elf would forgive her in time. At least this time the boots fit perfectly; her feet wouldn't hurt as she walked to her death.

The tears were long forgotten as she moved to take up Greenfyre. She wouldn't leave the deadly instrument where it might hurt someone, and perhaps this city had a way to destroy the thing once and for all. If they were so strict with magic, then surely there was a method to destroying magical creations as well.

And it would keep her hands warm.

She glanced around the room as she tied the brown cloak off, taking stock of things. The bed was ruffled - she fixed it. The bathroom door left ajar - she cracked it a bit, for comfort's sake. She had no more use for her things beyond what she wore and Greenfyre. The staff would also be left behind.

She didn't doubt that her last hours on this earth would be lonely, miserable and quite possibly torturous. She wondered how they'd executed Lucian, if they'd beheaded him as they had Wolfhound. She wondered if she would share this fate, and if would hurt. She couldn't help a wry smile that her last days would be spent as a brunette - a lie right down to her appearance, for whatever excuse they used to kill her would surely be a lie as well.

It didn't matter, so she put those thoughts from her mind. She looked to Flame where he sat on the bed, watching her in mild birdy confusion. He'd expected her to sob the moment the others were behind the door; he'd seen her cry herself out before. He couldn't understand this emotionally barren woman who stood before him. He'd never known her to be so detached before.

"Flame, could you check in the bathroom for anything else I might have missed?"

The bird wasted no time to obey - he launched from the bed to flutter through the cracked door, a quick pass-over of the bathroom and back outside to indicate that nothing had been left behind. By the time he returned to the bedroom, the trap door was clicking shut behind woman and guitar.

* * *

She followed the same path as before through the yard and out the gate, tightening the cloak against the chill in the air. She gripped the guitar by the neck as a club, more out of disrespect for the instrument itself than any desire to brandish it as a weapon. She determined to simply walk until she found a citizen and again ask for directions. She had no doubt that every citizen in this cursed city knew where Justice Hall sat.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

Oh, the look on Mr. Crowley's face was beyond humor.

Everett could barely manage a business-like mien (it looked more like a shit-eating grin than lucid neutrality) when Geri's stubby fingers wrapped around the guy's throat and started squeezing the living bejeezus (i.e. air) right out of his lungs. The guy's beady little eyes seemed to poke out of his skull and his tongue seemed to be caught in an endless waggle, trying desperately to speak when really Geri had enough of him speaking. Even when caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he still wanted to keep going on and on and provide a perfectly logical reason as to why this was all going down. What was even funnier was when Geri's momentum and weight cause her philandering soon-to-be ex's tubby ass to fall over as he was being choked---which then, of course, prompted her to let go and begin pounding the daylights out of him. As much as he wanted to see this guy get bloodied and bruised for being such a goddamn louse, Everett managed to summon enough decency to peel the flailing Geraldine from her soon-to-be former husband.

(The hooker (or current girlfriend) that hung out with Mr. Crowley decided to leave when all of the drama ensued. She didn't even think twice to step over the bastard without so much as even a look down. Everett, of course, made sure to at least give her an award winning smile and a wink just to make sure that he is in possession of a future with this woman---one that involved lots of booze, lots of talk, and even more sex. He was fortunate enough to get a modicum amount of insurance from her in the form of a small smile and a loooooong gaze. Oh, yeah. There's definitely something there.)

After he settled all accounts with the feuding couple, Everett meandered back to his little hole in the wall.

"It was the man next door, wasn't it?" asked Watson, who apparently wasn't ignoring what was going on.

"Isn't it almost always the guy next door, Watson?" retorted Everett, as he walked around the dreaded center of the room and into his office-cum-bedroom. The gumshoe approached his dresser and started sifting through the contents of each drawer (there was no need to open them as they were already opened and filled to the brim with unfolded clothes).

"There were a couple of strange cases," indicated Watson, with something of a pause. Apparently, he had to think of a good answer here. "Like the time the lady was holding her own daughter for ransom."

"Yeah," Everett snickered, pulling out a red pull-over vest. He made a face when he saw the coffee stains and gods-know-what-else on it. As a matter of course, he chucked it over his shoulder. "That was freaking hilarious. She made it so blatantly obvious. No forced entry? No signs of a struggle? No trace of astral energy to be found in the immediate vicinity to indicate foul play magically? I mean, how stupid do you have to be?"

"Not everybody would've been able to discern the answer to that, sir," Watson said, almost as if it were an attempt at flattery. Everett knew better though; the Gnome didn't need to appeal to his ego because he already had one large enough to satiate and nourish itself.

"Well, considering that she lied about going "cold turkey" on her various drug addictions and that she had a couple of 'dealers breathing down her neck," Everett said, with a measure of disgust, "She had to get her money from somewhere. What better way than to sell your own kid? Gods." After finally finding a clean shirt (which was a red pull-over vest; he had a drawer full of these), Everett disrobed and slipped it on. When the shirt was halfway over his head, it got caught on one of the metal doo-hickeys on his arm. The gumshoe let out a muffled growl and staggered around a bit.

Watson's head peered in from the doorway. His round, expressive eyes moved back and forth. "Do you need any help, sir?"

Everett could only bump into his desk before replying. "YOW!" he barked, banging his knee off of some measured and marked area that was designed specifically for maiming that part of the body. He reached up and gave his vest a sharp tug with his real hand; lo and behold, it managed to un-snag itself without tearing down the middle and drape over his upper body normally. The gumshoe looked at Watson, dark hair tussled about and his brows furrowed.

"In case you didn't notice," Everett said, making a wide sweeping gesture with his prosthetic hand, "I'm KINDA half naked in my boxers. Now maybe if you were some hot babe rather than a stout old fart, maybe I'd like you looking at me. I told you, Watson, that this area is my domain. Unless you hear the words "help," don't even look in here."

Watson unceremoniously swerved back around the corner and replied, "Well, I can't help it when some of your lady friends are screaming in pain."

"It's called 'screaming in pleasure,' Watson," Everett corrected, glaring at the empty door space for a second before looking around for some pants.

"That's not what some of them told me," Watson said. If it were anybody else, there'd be a grin was evident in the tone. "Some of them have actually complained about you misplacing your mem---"

"Fuck you, Watson," Everett snapped, cutting him off straightaway. He never understood why all of the ladies found Watson to be inimitable part of the package. Whenever Everett would be steadily dating someone, they would always talk to his Gnomish assistant on the side. Whether it was trying to garner insight, worldly advice, or the answer to a simple equation---some of the hottest chicks that Everett would lay would go straight to him. Go figure.

After scrounging around through the pants drawer, Everett managed to find a pair of midnight blue denims. He slipped them on without fail, buttoning them and zipping them and what-have-you. They hugged his hips and hung loosely off the rest of his body. Everett frowned when he found that the jeans hugged his hips; that meant that he was drinking more than exercising this week. He should get back on that soon or otherwise the rest of his manly physique was going to go right down the shitter.

"And now," Everett quietly said to himself, "For the coat."

Everett walked over to the chair that was behind his desk and scooped up his long-sleeved leather trenchcoat. With a contented sigh, he slipped it on and looked himself over. This coat was for means that superceded anything practical. Nevermind that Marn was chilly this time of year and actually NEEDED something like this to stay warm. This was Everett's raison d'etere for being what he is. It made him look cool and feel cool. It's like his signature trademark; everybody at the Rat knows it's Everett and so do all of his contacts, by simple virtue of the coat. Of course, this had the potential to be bad...but, the pros outweighed the cons in the end.

After wrangling up his specially-made, super-quiet boots Everett walked out of the room and absently waved to Watson---where ever he was.

"I'm heading out for a while," Everett called out as he stepped around the dreaded center of the room. "Be back whenever. Try to hold the fort down for me, will ya?"

There was some noise in the back room---Everett took it as an acknowledgment to his claims. He shut the door and looked across the hall. Things were eerily quiet, but not so quiet as to raise too many eyebrows---most importantly, though, his own. Geraldine and Crowley must've settled accounts and parted their own ways. It was obvious that the little bastard didn't have anywhere to go after this; if he tried moving to another spot in town, she would definitely find his ass without any sort of help. Leaving town was out of the question, too---everybody knows that if you try to move out of Marn you might as well be considered a nonperson and without any hope for survival.

Everett hopped down the flight of stairs with measured, quick steps and walked through the dingy-ass lobby to the brisk outside. Wisps of heated air blew from his lips and a blustering breeze stung his cheeks a little bit. He shoved his hands, prosthetic and real, into his pockets. It was going to be a cold, cold night. The gumshoe didn't really had a particular destination in mind as he walked; though the sighting of a dark-headed beauty stirred his libido a little bit, he wasn't actually randy enough to go down to the Rat and blow his hard-earned bishans on the resident babes. No, this was one of those times where he just needed to get out and smell the shit that lingers in the air like cheap perfume.

For some reason, it was good for Everett's soul to be out and about, alone, with nothing but your thought-processes and the pulse of the city to keep you company. With those things at your back and ever-present, you really never had a chance to be alone because there was always something to see, always something to occupy your thoughts and distract you from everything else. Like the bum on the corner he passes by, holding his tin mug and asking for some spare change; the ugly-ass hooker, slinking her skanky dress up even in the middle of this gods-forsaken cold to sell her body; the parents, window-shopping while their kids fawn over the latest glamours and toys...the list could go on. Each section of the city was like a greater and thriving macrocosm, a world in and of itself. That was one of the only joys of Marn, in Everett's opinion, was the sheer variety.

As Everett drifted off into thought, his feet carried him on and on through Marn until he finally ended up in "Grandma" Metarie's general living area. He hadn't seen her for a while, so he supposed that going to visit wouldn't hurt any.

It's a shame, though, that Gnomish technology had certain other plans for the gumshoe. No sooner had he started walking down the sidewalk that would carry him to the city's outermost limits, there was a sharp whining of gears that emanated from his prosthetic arm. As if the blood in his veins froze him solid, Everett stopped right dead in his tracks. Incessant humming---that can only come from two things: Malfunction or exertion. The latter definitely wasn't happening. A couple of passerbys (as few as there were, of course) looked at Everett oddly because of the noise that was coming from him; of course, he did his best to try and smile it off, to make it as if it were just normal. With his fleshy hand, he beat vigorously on the damn metal arm and swore at it.

In response, the arm slipped out of his pocket and socked him under the chin with a fist. Fortunately for Everett, he leaned back at just the last second---otherwise, it would've been more than just a glancing blow. The force was still enough to put him on his ass and make his jaw a little more looser than what it was before. Everett made a horse noise as a little bit of blood trickled from his mouth. The arm still whined and whined, jerking about spastically. Then with a sudden tug forward, Everett was planted face-first into the ground. The arm sort of dragged him across frigid dust and concrete, jerking and pulling forward as if it were drawn to something. Everett yelped repeatedly in pain, the yanking exerting enough pull on one half of his body to really hurt.

And to think, this was happening in front of a guitar playing, dark-headed babe that was gloomily walking along...

[Camulous Smithson]

Idonir's eyes flashed a warning at Hapnir when he got in the way. It was a risky move, trying to stop Idonir from doing something he wanted to do. Idonir obviously thought he was in the right and felt that his blazing hatred for Metarie, which led to the attack, was completely justified. Who was Hapnir, to presume that Idonir was in the wrong, and take the side of that bitch?

The smaller guardsman wasn't going to meet that challenge head on, nor was he going to back down like a coward. He played the middle ground instead, looking away and trying to distract Idonir from thinking about what was making him angry. The process of helping him stand again and his carefully chosen course not to accuse anyone of anything managed to keep the situation from exploding. Hapnir artfully dodged the bullet in time for Camulous to return.

A thirty second repose in the kitchen didn't manage to make Camulous look any less like he'd just been put through a blender. When he appeared again, all of Idonir's tough guy routine shrank like a snail back into its shell. When he saw that the captain of the guard was right there, the gig was up. As a guilty party, he was no longer a threat to Metarie or Hapnir, and had an inexplicable desire to get out of the house as per Hapnir's suggestion. Camulous didn't even have to say anything, it was obvious that it was a really bad time to be disagreeable.

The captain's blue eyes followed both of the guardsman until they were out the front door, and then turned to Metarie.

"Thank you for your help. It was a mistake to send Idonir here alone. Apparently all the men knew it would be trouble except me. I thought he would know better, but you have my word he'll learn."

The dark cloud continued to hover over his head and, combined with the dark loops under his eyes, made Camulous look like he was possessed by a demon. He broke eye contact, apparently realizing how he might be coming across, and forced the anger aside, standing there still as a stone with his hands at his sides. He was doing a lot of gazing out of windows lately. Something was on his mind, or perhaps it was just the exhaustion.

"Lanya is going to need you still. She's strong but she needs time and a place to stay."

[Metarie]

Metarie continued to keep her gaze on Idonir, unsure what the man would do. Camulous was a palpable presence at her back as he moved toward the guards. She could see Idonir’s eyes shift and the man’s whole body seemed to deflate. Only Camulous could do that to someone. Metarie watched Hapnir and Idonir leave.

When she looked to Camulous again his gaze had just shifted to her. A complex look filled her gaze. She wanted to comfort him, take care of him, and knew that he wouldn’t let her do so in a million years. His pride would be bruised for allowing Idonir to come here. He would take the responsibility on himself for Idonir’s actions. He was he captain after all.

"Thank you for your help. It was a mistake to send Idonir here alone. Apparently all the men knew it would be trouble except me. I thought he would know better, but you have my word he'll learn."

A rush of feeling filled her. She shook her head. “Oh no, Cam,” her voice was soft and emphatic, just like the look she gave him. “I am glad to help you.”

Something troubled him, plagued him, or tormented him. He looked exhausted and angry; deeply angry. That wild look made his eyes seem bluer than the bluest sky in autumn. Camulous broke eye contact and stood like a statue. Despite the discomfort it caused, Metarie reached out her hand to touch his hand – the only place on his body beside his face no covered in armor.

She searched his face. “Cam, I… let me help you. You look exhausted.”

"Lanya is going to need you still. She's strong but she needs time and a place to stay."

Metarie tried to shutter the emotions from her gaze. Hopefully she succeeded before he looked at her again. He was strong. He needed someone, too...

“Of course, she can. I like her.”

[Lanya Caliope]

She wasn't lost in thoughts; her mind had quieted to a dull hum for the first time she'd ever known it to. This quiet was necessary for her to do what she needed to; the bard had no active desire to fulfill her mission. She only felt that she needed to.

It had been just as easy as before to obtain directions, though the passer-by she'd asked had given her a look as though she were insane. She hadn't disguised or modified her voice when she spoke to him, so her foreign accent had shone through clearly. Obviously foreigners were not looked on with anything beyond wariness, if the man's surprised and suspicious face was any indication. But he had given her the directions she needed, and she didn't care what he thought of her otherwise.

She pushed aside any doubts or other thoughts that might try to penetrate as she moved along, walking in her smooth natural gait and watching the ground before her feet. This was an old habit from years of travel, the need to watch where she was going so that she wouldn't trip on something directly in her path. At the moment it gave her something to focus on entirely.

Cries of pain pulled her eyes away from the road, and she creased her brow as her attention took a moment to follow, scanning the road. The source was easy enough to find - a man lay in the road in obvious pain, one arm convulsing and dragging him along.

Her immediate thought was: He looks like a dying fish.

Then her natural compulsion awoke, and she moved towards him at speed, not running but with a clear goal in mind. He was crying out in pain and that arm was clearly moving without his consent. He could be seizing; she'd known a few people over the years who'd had seizures and needed help. She couldn't necessarily help him herself, but she knew a healer now who could. If he needed help, she would provide it however she could.

Thoughts of Justice Hall moved to the side as she became wholly focused on helping this stranger.

She stopped about four feet away, far enough that any spasms would not hurt her but close enough that he could hear her speaking. She crouched, lying Greenfyre in the road next to her and sending a silent prayer that the instrument would remain still; she'd brought it to have it destroyed, but now cursed the decision as the guitar could become a danger if this man's spasms hurt her. There was nothing for it, though. She could only hope.

Now came how she could actually help him. If he were having a seizure of some kind, chances were he would not be able to control himself for several minutes, but she'd heard that these people could at least hear during these times. Perhaps some words of comfort would help, just until his fit ended and she was able to actually help him by taking him to Metarie's home. It couldn't hurt to try.

"It's alright; I'll help you if I can. But I can't come closer yet."

Her voice was smooth and lilting, layered with as much of a comforting tone as she could manage. She dropped her knees to the ground rather than remaining crouched uncomfortably, and folded her hands against her thighs. The cloak offered some protection from the dirt in the road, though she paid this no heed.

"My name is Lanya, and I swear I will help you in any way I can."

Her name came easily enough; she couldn't fathom not trusting someone in such clear need of aid.

* * *

Flame had settled on the comforter of the bed to preen himself, waiting. If Lanya had left, clearly she would be returning, and he hardly worried that she wouldn't come back. If there was one thing the bird knew, it was that she would never abandon him unless forced to, as she had when she'd been captured. Content to wait, he fluffed his feathers and settled into a tiny ball of robin, dozing.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

As if it could skim the most obvious thoughts of those closest to it, Everett's mechanical arm decides that it would be most prudent to make the attachee very conspicuous. Granted, such a feat was already accomplished (with great relish---at least, that's what Everett thinks. He swears the arm has a mind of its own); but if he were to keep flopping along the ground, he would just look like some guy gripped in the throes of going cold turkey from his drugs or ODing on said drugs---an all-too common sight in the city and one not really considered. He would at least like to look like that. Alas, there were other plans in store for him. Screeching with mechanical fury, the arm suddenly lurched upward and rocketed Everett a good two or three feet off of the ground, as if he were laying flat on a bunch of miniature explosives. The gumshoe had no hope of landing gracefully with only two or three feet to spare and from laying out vertically.

With a thump, Everett came to rest against the ruddy and unrelenting earth. The arm twitched, convulsed, and eventually brought its randomized fit to an end with a couple of audible clicks. Everett groaned and rubbed his nose into the ground that brought him next to no comfort through his ordeal. In a private part of his mind, he began damning that patch of earth for not being something as soft as mud or even clay. Granted, he would've been dirty as all get out (who is he kidding? He's already dirty), but at least his bones and his body wouldn't be hurting as bad as it was right now.

Then, a voice spoke to him.

"My name is Lanya," it said, "And I swear I will help you in any way that I can." The former half of her proclamation was lost in the tide of his fit; that one, however, came at the end and he heard it as clear as a bell. The voice sounded lovely and it most definitely belonged to a woman of some kind.

Everett let out a sound that was a cross between a sob and a sigh. He didn't sound close to tears, but he might as well have been. His only hope was that he could lift his head and look right into the face of someone of the opposite sex who was unattractive. He wouldn't be so embarrassed if that were the case. He pushed himself up with his real arm and sat on his rear, peering at the source of the voice. Completely oblivious, was Everett, to the fact that his mechanical arm was perpetually stuck in a "l" shape with its palm open. It almost looked like he were waving.

He got a good look at the source of the voice and he ducked his head a bit, uttering an oath underneath of his breath. She was attractive. Fuck.

"Yeah," Everett intoned. He then waved with his real arm. "Hi there."

[Camulous Smithson]

Metarie took the situation very well, considering that she was nearly raped, or killed, or robbed, or at the very least maimed by one of his best fighters a few minutes ago. It was a relief not to have to deal with a disgruntled female elf who he presumed was a descendant of the first settlers with a fair amount of influence among the elves in Marn. On the contrary, she was grateful for the opportunity to help out.

On a better day, when his head was less groggy and clear of distractions like how to discipline Idonir and how Lanya would handle the news of Lucian's death over the long term, he might have read more into Metarie's reactions. In his current situation, he figured it was patriotism alone that was driving her to want to help. It caught him completely off guard when he felt a soft hand touching his. He very nearly blushed with the awkwardness of the move, but he was still too stone cold to do such a thing.

You look exhausted.

His response was to stop looking at her like she had gone crazy, and nod in confirmation. He made no move to take her hand, however.

Of course, she can. I like her.

"For an outsider, she's quite likable."

Hapnir closed the door behind himself and the pair of guardsmen could be seen passing down the road towards headquarters through the thin windows. Hapnir was keeping a good five feet of distance between himself and Idonir, who did not look back and was rubbing a sore spot on his neck.

Camulous' free hand came up to pull his hair back. "I really appreciate your assistance Metarie... I haven't slept in nearly two days. I should go."

[Metarie]

He was looking at her as if she belonged in the asylum. She had said that she was happy to help him and he was looking at her as if she was crazy. With inimitable poise, Metarie managed to pull off being embarrassed without showing it.

"For an outsider, she's quite likable." And beautiful… and human… and non-magical… everything that Metarie was not. A little feeling of dismay curled in Metarie’s gut, but she shoved that away, too.

Metarie’s fingers slid around Camulous’ and she held his hand lightly in hers. Her thumb brushed across his knuckles while she looked at him in concern. In a gesture further telling of his exhaustion, Camulous pushed his hand back through his hair leaving dirty blonde waves to fall in further disarray. Her best attempt failed and she continued to look at him in a combination of respect, compassion, concern, and deeper feelings. He would probably think she was just being a healer. Under the circumstances, that was probably the best thought anyway. Nothing would come of anything she felt. They were too much alike. Their jobs eclipsed everything else in their lives.

"I really appreciate your assistance Metarie... I haven't slept in nearly two days. I should go."

Still holding his hand lightly, Metarie replied, “Let me at least give you something to ward off the fatigue…purely natural. It will not impede your sleep when you can finally lie down.” Metarie softened her words with a gentle smile, a direct look, and a squeeze to his hand by hers. Her thumb again brushed against the top of his knuckles. “Besides, it wouldn’t do to have the Captain fall asleep in the middle of the street.” Metarie gave his hand another gentle squeeze. “Alright?”

The door, warped as it was from Idonir’s charge, did not close properly; it leaned outwards at a slight angle at the top and poked in at the bottom. A few seconds after Hapnir closed it, the door slowly swung open again.

[Lanya Caliope]

She longed to reach forward and draw the pain from his convulsing frame as he flopped on the earth. The sudden leap and fall looked particularly painful as he crashed back to the ground. Slowly, the twitching ceased, and she found herself facing a sulking man.

She had seen enough men coyed by their states of being to recognize wounded pride. She wanted to comfort him, tell him it would be alright, that she would not judge him for his handicap - but all of this would only make it worse. The only method she'd ever found to comfort a man clinging to his dignity was to simply ignore the cause altogether. He would come around on his own if given time.

She graced him with a gentle smile, not a trace of mocking in her eyes. Her eyes remained firmly on his face, pointedly ignoring the oddly-positioned limb as she addressed him directly.

"I know a healer nearby."

An open-ended statement. Perhaps she was merely random, spouting out completely useless information to this stranger, who could grace her with a look which clearly stated she was insane. Or perhaps she was offering him aid. She would not force him to accept her help.

She took up Greenfyre by the neck and straightened to standing, holding a hand out. She left the purpose of this hand up to him; it could have been to help him up, or perhaps a mere hand-shake, a courtesy she favored him with out of general politeness. Whichever he needed to begin the long road back to self-assurance.

[Camulous Smithson]

Finally, as if the muscles in his hand were pulled by some other spirit inhabiting his body, the captain gave her hand a squeeze to acknowledge its careful placement. He was not devoid of feelings or meaningful personal interaction. He kept it pushed away in order to keep doing his job as it needed to be done, and the squeeze he gave her hand was about as much of a request for personal help he had made of someone else in years. It was also as far as he was ready to go.

He looked at her with blue eyes that were red around the edges, offered a smile and a sigh, and said "Alright. Just be careful I don't pass out while you're preparing it, because I'm ready to."

Carefully, he withdrew his hands from hers and looked for the closest place to sit his behind, which was fortunately a couch. He flopped into it and sagged in a most unprofessional manner, essentially propped up by his cuirass from sliding onto the floor. He folded his hands over his tummy and looked like he was indeed going to pass out, but managed not to.

"You should check on Lanya, too."

[Alibi of Tyrants]

The gumshoe opened his mouth to respond to the woman when he saw his arm out of the corner of his eye; he immediately clammed up and ducked his gaze away again, swearing even more. Everett realized at the very last second that his left arm was cocked at a very strange angle; he didn't realize it any sooner because, well, it was sort of difficult to have physical feeling in a limb that was devoid of any touch-based sensory organs. Fortunately, the sleeves of his trenchcoat molded close to the surface of whatever it rested on; the last thing he needed was for her to gawk at that hunk of metal attached to his ribcage. He could tell that she was being earnest in her gaze and in her smile; however, Everett was a bit cross when it came to pity. It was a matter of pride that just didn't relate to gender; it was also based on experience and a rough background.


He cast his dark eyes to Lanya's hand and then back to her face. Her expression was nakedly genuine and filled with compassion. It grated on his nerves a little bit; it wasn't like he was a complete invalid or anything. Nevertheless, though, somewhere in his mind he felt the expression was thoughtful and pleasant. He didn't know why he got the warm fuzzies somewhere in the back of his brain; however, he wasn't quick to dismiss it.

"Thanks," Everett began, voice trailing in a murmur when he uttered the courtesy. There was a sincerity there, but also a sort of an agitated edge. "But I can stand up okay. Really."

Making a slight grunt, Everett pushed himself to his feet with the only un-crooked part of his upper body. He stumbled a bit when he got there, almost careening far off to the left and falling on his side. The weight of his arm was considerable, especially when it's inert; it almost weighs a hundred pounds (maybe more). It also throws off the body's natural sense of balance ("It's a fact that arm amputees got t' learn how to walk all over again," Rosalee had once told him. "So until ya do, you're gonna be my big and oversized baby until then." What fun was that experience).

"And, y'know," Everett grunted, as he struggled to stand up properly, "That's funny. 'Cause I know a doctor around these parts, too...I was just about to go and visit her."

His prosthetic arm clicked audibly. Everett curled his lip and, with a snarl, used his real arm to try and batter the left one down into a normal position. It didn't work; that damnable arm and its gears were locked up like a clock-cog congested with a loose spring.

"Damn piece of shit," he muttered, thwapping it one more time for good measure. He then swore again and tried to shake the pain that had just caught up to his real hand.

[Metarie]

Camulous returned the squeeze of her hand with one of his own. Metarie fought the urge to read anything into the gesture, but could not stop a foolish sort of happiness from making her feel warm inside. Metarie smiled at Camulous, then, with a smile that was not feigned professionalism but fueled by genuinely felt emotion.

"Alright. Just be careful I don't pass out while you're preparing it, because I'm ready to."


“Just keep talking while I prepare this. Tell me what you have been doing and found out that has kept you awake for two days solid.” Camulous slipped his hand from hers and moved to the couch. Metarie grinned as she moved off toward the kitchen.

“You should check on Lanya, too.” Metarie stilled internally, but kept moving.

“I will, but you require attention first.” Metarie compiled the list of items she needed in her mind. “Please, keep talking.”

At the cabinets, she reached up out of habit. The sharp pain of cracked ribs clenched her muscles and she paused mid-reach and grit her teeth. Metarie forced herself to keep reaching. Her left hand gripped the edge of the counter and her eyes narrowed. Six canisters were removed. Measuring spoons were pulled from a drawer. She moved to the stove, checked the kettle for water, and then placed the kettle on to boil.

Ingredients were doled out in the proper proportions and a small amount of suger to remove any possible bitterness. The water and ingredients were placed in a press. With each motion, Metarie was acutely aware of just how important having un-cracked ribs actually was. Metarie steeled herself, and pulled two cups from the cupboard.

By the time she brought the two cups and the press canister back to Camulous a fine sheen of sweat had formed on her face and she had become slightly paler as well. She couldn’t hide the way her mouth twisted slightly from the pain in her side or the way her hand shook when she poured the concoction into the cups. Metarie lifted the cup and held it out to Camulous. The cup trembled slightly in her hand. A wry smile curved her lips.

Camulous had fallen asleep.

Metarie placed the cup back on the table and sighed slightly. Sitting down near to Camulous on the couch, Metarie leaned back against the soft, comfortable cushions. She thought she should try to make him more comfortable. She thought she might do that in a moment, once the pain had subsided back into a dull ache.

Kona rose and stretched. His toenails clicked on the floor as he walked over to her and put his head on her knee. Metarie lifted her hand and placed it on the dog’s head absent-mindedly scratching behind his ears.

The scratching slowed.

The scratching stopped.

Metarie dozed.

[Lanya Caliope]

She drew her hand back with a nod as he pushed himself to his feet. She started to step forward when he swayed, but he righted himself and she kept her hands at her sides. A sudden craving for the courtesy of a simple handshake nearly pushed her hand back out to take his own in a companionable introduction. She didn't think he was interested in such things, though, so she let the moment pass.

She was itching to help at least take some of the weight of that arm. It was clearly not made of flesh and bone - not just because of the odd angle it was now frozen in, but because when he began the annoyed process of trying to beat it down into submission, it was not the noise of hand hitting flesh that emanated.

While he was distracted by his anger at his metal limb, she took a moment herself to examine it. There wasn't much to see past the coat itself, but she couldn't help the sense of wonder that accompanied meeting someone with a prosthetic limb. And she had indeed met someone with a metal arm before, though she believed theirs had been in far better working condition. If she was reading his annoyance correctly, this arm had given him plenty of problems in the past.

His comment on knowing a healer drew her gaze back to where she'd come from. It was possible there was more than one in this area, but she didn't see the danger of saying the elf's name to this stranger.

"If you mean Metarie, then let's head there now. Unless you need more specialized care?"

She had no understanding of machines and how they might work. Cogs and gears lay beyond her sum of knowledge, and she felt no shame in this. She'd never had a need to know how such things worked, though she couldn't help her innate curiosity. Questions piled up, some interesting, some sharp-witted and some just plain silly. She decided to ask a more practical question, in relation to her own experiences.

"Is it not magical?"

She nodded to the arm, though she doubted he needed the clarification.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

Through his agitation with his prosthetic arm, Everett couldn't help but to raise an eyebrow. She knew Metarie? That's weird; usually Metarie doesn't get to know her patients---most doctors don't, out of professional courtesy---but for extraordinary (and alarmingly persistent) cases like Everett, that's a different story. When he was rushed to the hospital and retrofitted with the Gnomish arm at sixteen, he discovered a number of details while pilfering through the hospital's archives ("I was bored," he would always say when a nurse would chastise him for being out of bed or something of that nature. "What can I say? It's not like I can grab a skin mag and entertain myself!"). He found his birth certificate during one of his escapades and discovered an interesting tidbit: One of the doctors that treated him, whose name was Metarie Sekhara, also had their name on the certificate. When he confronted her about it directly, Everett just couldn't help but laugh and deem her his "Grandma" (seeing as how he didn't have any other family that he could call his own).

So began a whirlwind friendship filled with jabs and jukes and snarky comments. Over the course of the years, Everett kept in relatively close contact with Metarie. Whenever he needed to drop by the hospital to get his arm checked out, he would personally pay her a visit and chat it up with her. Everett even tried to court her at one point---his advances were most vigorously rejected by the elven doctor. Soon he channeled that defeat into ammunition that he can utilize in their many exchanges---boorish comments about her good looks always get under her skin.

As for the question about the arm, well...

"I guess you could consider Gnomish technology magical," Everett jeered, rapping his knuckles against the prosthetic limb again to produce a more pronounced (and less painful) sound of flesh-on-metal. Even through the leather of his trenchcoat, there was a soft yet very hollow ring of metal. He didn't look like it, but he was surprised that she was able to catch on so damn quickly. That was a plus---goes to show that she had a measure of intelligence in that gorgeous little head of hers. "You oughta see some of the crap that they throw into their stuff. This arm is a gods-damn miracle, I tell you.

"But then again," Everett continued, rolling his eyes, "Everything is magical nowadays. Never you mind a mundane explanation; it's all for the bloody quacks. Whenever some shit goes down, good or ill, it's magic."

As they walked along, Everett couldn't help but ask. "So...how is it that you know Metarie, if you don't mind my asking?"