A bard in time saves...

[Lanya Caliope]

Her eyes darkened with his question. She wouldn't lie to him, but she certainly didn't want to tell him the truth. She looked up to see if a distraction lay waiting, and sure enough, the stranger from before was approaching with Flame leading the way. She hedged.

"I was making a choice. Now I am helping you."

She nodded to indicate the stranger's progress.

"This man is a friend - I helped him before."

She was grateful to Flame for thinking of bringing help, but didn't have the spare hand to pat him in gratitude. She would save the gesture for later; the little robin was already flapping back towards the house, twittering as he went to alert Metarie to their return.

As the stranger took the rest of Lucian's weight, the bard let out a sigh and took the moment to rest her knee, shifting so that the majority of her weight rested on the other leg. She spoke to the stranger, though turned her face so that Lucian could see her mouth.

"Thank you. How is Metarie?"

[Lucian]

She hadn't lied. But Lucian, before all else, could weigh things in people, in circumstance. He knew that she was doing something, and she would not tell him because of guilt. To tell him would make her feel guilty.

It made him feel confused. And angry. She was doing something to incur guilt.

But then she said, "This man is a friend - I helped him before."

Which made him glance up, only just becoming aware of the man as he took his arm and helped him stand further- which nearly caused Lucian to cry out but he settled for a groan and a grimace. The man was holding his left arm, and it hurt. In the wrist, it hurt, and the hand, where the fingernails had been torn out-

He wanted him to let go- he didn't trust him, didn't know him- he smelled like the city.

But then Lucian stumbled, shocking his body with pain as he over corrected, only staying up because of the new-comer's help. Grinding his teeth hard enough to send vibrations through his skull, the gypsy kept moving, making it mechanical. One foot, then the other. Focus on each step. Each step, one after the othe-

Without warning his stomach violently seized and cramped, bile surging up and he vomited almost nothing - just a small splatter straight down at his bare feet - but he gagged and retched for seconds after the bile ceased.

"It'sah fever. In'a my heaad." He swallowed dryly, his voice hoarse and cracked, his speech as slurred as his thoughts were becoming. Either that or the terrible pain that was creeping back into his perception was responsible.

It was a fifty-fifty call at this point.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

Everett saw the stranger squirm around helplessly and groan in protest of his help. Too bad it fell on deaf ears. As asinine as it sounds, making him feel a little bit of pain was probably the best thing for him. It didn't take much for Everett to figure out that the "fever in his head" was a measurable concussion; this observation was not coming from how learned he was, book-wise, but rather from the fact that he himself had been on the receiving end of head-blows that have caused him some serious damage (the cause of these painful injuries? Oh, that runs the gamut; anything from fighting over a select hooker or drunken brawls can be applicable). The last thing he needed was to get comfortable and lull himself into an induced coma.

"You know, you don't look it," Everett grunted, shifting Lucian's weight around so that he can get a little more comfortable, "But you're one heavy-ass bastard. Ever consider taking a jaunt on a treadmill or summat?" This was an attempt at a joke on Everett's part; the man was not actually that heavy, merely awkward to carry because he was dragging his feet along. Everett didn't want to risk using his prosthetic arm, even if it would have made the task that much easier. The gumshoe was afraid that whatever part he gripped would be crushed to a bloody pulp of what it once was; poor guy suffered enough as it was.

They arrived back at Metarie's place in record-breaking time. Everett whistled sharply.

"METARIE!" Everett cawed, cupping his mechanical hand around his mouth to boost the sound. "GET YOUR WILLOWY ASS OUT HERE! WE GOT COMPANY AND HE AIN'T DOING SO HOT!"

[Metarie]

Before settling down, Metarie had returned to her room. Pulling on a short, silken, dark green robe, Metarie reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a small leather case. Returning to the kitchen she sat down once again and lulled herself into a meditative rest. Shifts at the hospital could often last for days at a time with little downtime. Anyone who worked there learned how to do his or her job on minute amounts of sleep. Everett’s bellow was her wake-up alarm.

Metarie inhaled and exhaled a deep breath as she pushed the chair away from the table. Moving as quickly as she was able, Metarie grabbed up the small leather case and headed outside. The sight of Lucian was horrific. Knowing that members of the government for which she worked were capable of such things. Seeing the result first hand was another thing altogether. Compassion rose within her and tears burned in her eyes. The desire to help and heal flooded her. Anger simmered, too. Things like this could not continue.

Opening the case, she unstoppered one of the vials. The same mixture she had given to Lanya at the start of it all was there and ready for Lucian. “Take him into my room as quickly as you can and get him onto the bed, but first…,” Metarie held the open vial to Lucian’s mouth.

“Here,” she said softly to broken and battered man, “drink this.” Hopefully, he would keep it down long enough for her to treat the more desperate wounds and keep him from slipping into more than sleep. She kept her gaze focused on his face, “Can you stay awake for me? You must...”

[Lanya Caliope]

When Lucian stumbled, Lanya felt the shock wave of pain roll through his body. It was everything within her not to begin sobbing; instead she transferred the rush of emotion into a tighter grip to help him right himself, taking as much of his weight as she could until he seemed sure of his footing once more. The bile came then, and her eyes watered to watch his agony. She wished he could hear her, if only so that soothing sounds or words might make a difference.

But he could not, and she remained silent, only tilting her head enough to tap his shoulder a moment - a physical sign of camaraderie before focusing once more on their steps.

The stranger's banter did at least occupy her thoughts enough to keep the sobs that continuously tried to rise within her throat at bay. Although he was crude, she silently thanked him for the distraction. She could not trust her voice enough to thank him out loud just yet; she would try to remember for later.

His bellow drew the bard's eyes up to see their progress, and sure enough they were close enough for the elf to hear the man's request. She hadn't realized they'd come so far, and the relief managed to draw one grateful sob from her. Just one.

Lanya recognized the vial Metarie produced, and shifted herself enough that Lucian could see her mouth moving should he try. If they had drugged him with anything, he might refuse to drink the substance; she herself had only taken it because she had decided to trust the healer's good intentions. She looked at his face as the healer placed the vial against his lips, hoping his eyes would flicker to her a moment.

"It's safe; she gave it to me as well. It eases pain."

[Lucian]

Somewhere after he tried to tell them what was wrong, he lost track of everything. They were telling him things, or maybe they weren't. But they were carrying him, he could barely hold his weight, his head down and eyes barely focused on his bare feet on the street stones. But he kept placing one foot after the other, the feeling of fire and burning so agonizing across his back that it would have been impossible pass into unconsciousness.

Living in a world of silence, he heard things differently. He didn't hear his ragged breaths, but he heard them dragging in and out of his chest like he had breathed in sand with his air. He didn't hear his feet scraping on the cobblestones when he missed a step, but he heard the grit and roughness rubbing against the tops of his feet. He heard these things in an endless eternity.

And then those carrying him stopped.

Struggling with the simple motion, he jerkingly raised his head to see, not even aware that every muscle in his face was taut and rigid, his jaw clenched as his whole body fought to maintain control against the slew of nausea and the unspeakable burning- he was drenched in sweat, it dripped off of his face.

Eyes that were green and flecked with bits of golden sunlight met his eyes, belonging to a face with inhumanly graceful bone structure that wore a deep, compassionate sorrow. He did not know her, but she was speaking to him, trying to communicate with him- her eyes said that she wanted to help him.

All about her he was aware of an aura, cool and soothing, even coming from the house behind her. In a brief flash of synaptic firing, he saw her standing in the grove of Patriarchs, stepping from the tree-

He shook his head. Focus, stay here, he told himself.

She held a small vial to his lips. By instinct he drew away, an act that caused a sharp pang of breathtaking fire to arc across his back- but in doing so he saw Lanya. And she was talking. He knew her speech patterns, otherwise he might not have understood in the midst of his insensibility. But the latter portion of what she said, he comprehended. "... as well. It eases pain."

Even in his state, part of him resisted the idea, screamed danger at the idea of being any more insensible. He'd set his own bones after falls in the wilderness, he could survive this, overcome this.

But the other part of him said this pain was literally killing him, and this was a safe place. Lanya had said it was safe. And he trusted Lanya.

Why had she felt guilty in the street?

He tipped his head forward, pressed his lips sloppily against the vial and allowed the healer to pour some into his mouth. Swallowing it proved far more of a challenge than he had guessed possible, but he did, coughing harshly twice, and fighting the immediate cramping that came from his stomach as the medicine made contact.

A few brief seconds, and then his body seemed to realize that what he had drank was relaxing.

"I'm falling-" was all he got out before his legs went limp.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

The gumshoe watched as Lucian's knees became useless in holding him upright. Everett shook his head slowly; it was a shame that appearances can fool you. Metarie's drinks may look like they were all fun and games, but they tasted like soil and flower petals (a.k.a. like shit) and made you feel too loopy for your own damn good. If there was anything Everett disliked more in a vice, it was when the vice in question completely strips you of all your mental capacities and makes you little more than an inane, dribbling idiot. Plus the side-effects---gods, the side-effects. At least hangovers can be dealt with in the short-term.

And yes, for the record, a more youthful Everett has tried imbibing many of the hospital's chemical solutions in an attempt to get high, so first-hand experience is absolutely paramount in his case.

"Yeah," Everett replied to Lucian. "No shit your falling. Have fun in La La land, bud."

He folded his arms, one metal and one flesh, across his chest and looked over to Lanya. It didn't take a super genius like him to figure out that these two knew each other. What did take the toll and the area of a super genius, however, was the way Everett's mind began to piece causalities together. Any other person would have looked at this as some sort of elaborate coincidence or (if superstitious hullaballoo is the order of the day) that fate had brought the two of them together. Lanya was about to get her ass carted off to the Pearly Gates for a murder and Lucian was taken in for some kind of awful interrogation (the sort of torture employed made that one obvious); it would've made sense that the two of them coincided at around that time. Even perhaps, Everett turned over in his head, that Lucian had somehow taken a sort of "bum rap" for the dark-headed guitar wielder. He doubted that it was a direct consequence of what had happened to her, but...

Needless to say, though, this had "it stinks like shit" all over it. And it seemed, for once, Ramrodulous and himself were on the same page. Something bad was going down here.

Everett's dark eyes flickered over to Lanya. As distressed as she was, he had a couple of questions waiting for her.

[Metarie]

Metarie had been expecting Lucian's sudden relaxation. Everett's letting the man go to fall to the ground was not expected. Out of reflex, Metarie quickly reached out to catch Lucian, allowing him to fall into her arms. A hot, sharp pain flared across her right side; enough so that like Lucian she nearly vomited. Face pale, Metarie murmured to herself, working to push the pain back and away. Through gritted teeth, Metarie spoke.

"Let's get him inside. Everett, some help doing so would be of use."

Fortunately for Lucian, the tincture was designed to reduce the pain and Lanya was fair proof of the effectiveness of the mixture as well as its innocuous impact. Unfortunately, the drink would not completely remove the pain; only being fully healed would do that, but the pain should be reduced enough to make what needed to be done to heal him tolerable.

[Lanya Caliope]

She kept her eyes on his face as he drank, watching intently for the moment his body would give out. She remembered how thoroughly the drought had washed away her own pain, and how she'd swayed after the sudden drop in pain; she assumed it would be the same for him.

And so it was. She braced her back and tightened her grip, again grateful that he was nearly of a height with her. Braced as she was, she did not stumble when the support on his other side abruptly stopped, though Lucian's dead weight was too much for her and she began to stagger with a wince. Metarie's aid was accepted with a somewhat confused smile, and a questioning look was turned to the stranger. She said nothing, though. She was not in the habit of complaining.

"Thank you, Metarie."

Her voice did hold a twinge of pain from holding up Lucian's weight. He was leaned against the side where her knee was weaker, and having to hold him was straining her more than she was willing to admit. It didn't matter to her; she wanted to help him, pain be damned.

She remembered, also, how she had immediately begun to sink below consciousness after drinking the healer's brew. Metarie had said he needed to stay awake; there was a possibility that if he was allowed to fall unconscious, it could worsen his situation. She trusted the elf to take care of her friend, and decided to act within this belief.

She gritted her teeth and jostled him with her supporting arm under his own, not sharply but enough to keep him awake. She continued watching his face as she did so, examining for any clues which indicated impending sleep or any additional pain, and then nodded towards the house.

"We must get you inside. Look, the door does not shut - it is no prison."

She smiled as she said this last bit, a sort of dark humour to try and distract the gypsy from his pain. She hoped he would be happy to know that Metarie's house was just that - a house, a home to stay within for a while, a place in which to be cared for and recover.

Without his legs to help, there was no way the bard could manage his weight into the house alone. Metarie could have helped, but she was injured and both women present were more exhausted than they were willing to let on. It was time to demand necessary aid.

Where the elf made a relatively snide comment, Lanya could only muster a pleading look and hope that the man would oblige.

[Lucian]

Lanya caught his weight, and the healer stepped to side to assist him- these things he realized. But moreso, he felt the wash of pain come from both of them as their own injuries where aggravated in their effort to hold him up. Even in his state, he felt like a burden and hated himself for it.

With a savage growling noise the gypsy fought for his footing, but his brain had forgotten how to communicate with the muscles in his legs. So he wobbled a bit and locked one knee, and in an act of instinct wedged that leg under himself, taking some of his weight back.

And then a long, almost gasping sigh escaped Lucian's lips as he felt the slightest relief from the terrible, maddening throb from his left hand as the drought began to circulate through his body. The weariness was crashing in around him, but shook his head violently, fighting it hard.

Lucian looked at Lanya and she said something to him, but he could not understand her this time. But she was trying to make him feel safe, that impression flowed from her. Face still a hard, tense mask of pain, Lucian looked past the doorway and into the house.

Only to realize he was about to enter a house.

There was something significant to that, but his mind could not find it. His mind was finding less and less.

"My thoughtss ahre sstopping." He tried to tell them what was happening.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

The gumshoe noticed the looks that the two ladies had given him. What? It was tough enough holding the man as it was, especially since he appeared to be abhorred by Everett's help. So, when he made mention of his weakness in the legs Everett allowed him a moment of respite---on the ground, mind, since there was nowhere else around. Of course, Metarie's snide remark reminded him that there was a place that lay just a few feet away.

Whoops. How careless.

Everett immediately got back into the role of paramedic (or nurse) and hoisted Lucian back up to his feet. He may knock on Metarie for being a dainty little soul, but there was a surprising amount of strength hidden underneath of her wiry frame. She has to be strong; gods only know that she helps the nurses shovel disgustingly overweight people from their hospital beds just so that they can head to the can and take a shit or something. He wasn't so sure that he could put up with that sort of thing, day in and day out. A good ninety percent of the people there do it to themselves; if there's anything that Everett hates more than stupid people, it's stupid people who refuse to help themselves. What harm would a little exercise do? Or eating a little less?

This guy's case was a little different, though. I'm sure he didn't ask to get his fingernails ripped out or his face battered. Unless he magically sprouted arms wielding varying instruments of torture or he was just a really good contortionist, some assholes had to have done that to him. Everett felt strongly about his previous conviction; this guy had to have come from the Pearly Gates. Though he was brimming with a lot of questions, he held off and just quietly assisted Metarie into getting him into the house. He heard him slur his words and say something, but he couldn't exactly make it out.

"What'd you say?" Everett asked, peering down at him.

[Metarie]

"Thank you, Everett, please help him to the bed..." Metarie moved out of the way to allow the pair to enter the house and take Lucian to her bed. Metarie detoured into the kitchen to retrieve the things she would need.

"Lanya, once he is settled I will need two large bowls of warm water, please. These will need to be refilled until I have seen the extent of his injuries." Metarie had gone into "doctor" mode. Although she was still polite, there was a quality to the request that indicated it not so much a request as a 'must be done without question.'

"Everett, in the trunk within the bathroom there is extra supplies of bandages. I will also need a bath drawn for him. Hot water, please. Once I have done what I can by hand, we will need to soak him to help facilitate the healing. " By the time she finished cleaning what she could by hand, the water would be of sufficient temperature; a medicated soak would be necessary and would help facilitate her healing magics. It was in this way that she was able to heal for as long as she did on a regular basis.

Metarie set up what she needed by the bedside. Another bottle, this filled with a crystalline mixture was held out to Everett. "This will need to go in the bath, please."

When all was ready, she would begin.

[Lanya Caliope]

"He said his thoughts are stopping."

She spoke quietly as she translated her friend's slurred words. She knew he tried very hard to hide his affliction, and although it might be unavoidable for his deafness to be noticed eventually, she wanted to help maintain the illusion that he himself strove to.

Everett. She filed away the stranger's name for reference, though it would be hard to think of him as a stranger much longer. His help made him into at least an acquaintance, and helping Lucian made him a friend. Albeit a crude and rather odd friend.

She slid from underneath Lucian's arm to let Everett steer him properly and watched with a critical eye as he led the gypsy onward. Metarie's orders sat unheeded for a moment as she let her concern hold her in place, but a loud peep in her ear drew her attention away. Metarie was a healer and better equipped for this situation, thus following her orders would be helping Lucian in the best way available.

She moved to the kitchen and gathered the bowls needed, filling them with warm water to take back to the bedroom once Everett had Lucian on the bed. She doubted the gypsy would be anywhere near settled until his injuries were healed, and she would serve the purpose assigned to her until Metarie indicated it was enough.

She carried the bowls steadily towards the bedroom, balancing one on either hand with practiced ease.

[Lucian]

The man replaced the healer at his side, and then helped him through the doorway and into the... house.

Feverish, delusional- but this moment dawned on him and he stared, transfixed, the aura and ambiance of the house making the walls seems to pulse and creep with life, invisible streams of flowing emerald and moss and pine hues. Lucian had never been in a house, someone's private residence, and nothing he had imagined was anything like this. He kept his legs moving unconsciously as he struggled to focus, to see this.

A place like this existed in the center of the city?

When they turned and passed through another doorway into a room, with sweat running in rivulets down his body, his ragged hair damp and clinging to his scalp, he saw it, and he locked up for a moment.

A bed.

And then he kept moving, looking at it as they approached, his brain spinning.

A bed?

When the man helped to lower him onto the mattress, he did not even think to stifle the choking gasp that suffocated in his throat as pain and searing fire momentarily spiked through the narcotic-induced haze. He made the noise again when he scooted back onto the bed further, assisted by the stranger, but then he collapsed, semi-straight on the bed, his body making small spasms.

Small spasms that would have been a violent, writhing seizure were it not for the drought.

Unable to not squirm, even in his exhaustion, Lucian felt like he would fall through the bed. It was nearly terrifying, feeling his body sink into the mattress, and in his state of delusion he visualized himself being swallowed in fabric and sheets.

But he fought it, fought for control, fought to keep dark clouds of unconsciousness at bay. He could see himself then, and he stood next to the fire in the center of a dark clearing, snarling wolves of fear and torment and pain and death circling just beyond the ring of light cast by his little fire.

The little fire was pure will. It was his drive for life itself. It was hope.

He would fight. He would never stop fighting.

"Water." It was a request that rasped out like a harsh growl, without the use of 'please' because he could not spare the strength required to speak more.

Fight on.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

"C'mon you unwieldy bastard," Everett gruffed as he pulled the delusional, pained man along by the nook underneath of his arm (what else could describe him? He was bullshitting about his "thoughts coming to a stop;" if that were the case, well, he wouldn't be thinking enough to try and talk right now would he? In any case, the guy wouldn't be winning any awards for "best descriptor of one's condition" any time soon), "You heard the lady; time's a-wasting and she's gone into medical maniac mode. I don't know about you, but I don't wanna get my ass handed to me on a scalpel tray for minced time."

The trip was short and extremely tedious. Everett was a guy who could be considered in pretty good condition (in spite of the swelling gut mentioned earlier), but even Lucian's slight frame was difficult to navigate without him being strong enough to give weight to his feet. The gumshoe actually had to lift Lucian somewhat when he got his heels caught in the framework that runs underneath of the door, a gesture that he tried to make as amenable as possible for the gypsy but one that most likely compounded his existing hurts. He didn't see any other way short of carrying his ass like a baby which, while he could do (with some relative difficulty), was not something that he wanted to gamble on with the way his arm was acting. Metarie may have made it functional, but it wasn't one hundred percent. Call it intuition or just plain paranoia, but Everett didn't feel like banking on his odds.

He lowered Lucian on to the bed carefully and looked him over. Everett couldn't help but whistle and "tsk" at the agonies inflicted upon his person. A measure of sympathy washed over the gumshoe; this was the sort of thing that he faced a lot during the course of his childhood. Men and women involved with the seedier elements of the city faced this sort of reprecussion; his gang, thankfully, stood outside of that loop and meted out their own sort of discipline amongst themselves that was much lighter in comparison. While he wasn't above giving somebody a vicious beatdown if they needed it, this sort of thing was just downright...brutal. It was above and beyond the call of anything some punches and kicks would settle. That's how the Skulduggery Kids did it; you fuck with us, you're getting your ass plummeled. But, if his suspicions were correct, then it wasn't just a group of your average Joe Blow thugs that did this sort of thing. Either he had some connections with some of the more seedier elements in town or he crossed the wrong people in the government.

Everett was betting on the government.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask him, so many pieces of the assumed puzzle that he wanted to put in to place---but, Metarie's droning voice ordered him somewhere else. With a longing and surprisingly sympathizing look, Everett turned on the balls of his heels to go and prepare the bath.