A bard in time saves...

[Metarie]

Water, her patient had asked for water. Metarie returned the request with a smile of approval and respect. He wanted to live. That would make her job all that much easier. Metarie nodded.

“Yes, of course.” Looking up to Lanya she asked, “Would you also bring a pitcher of water and a glass?”

Metarie sat beside Lucian. She lifted her left hand and placed it upon his brow. Locking her gaze upon his, Metarie spoke softly. “Rest now, I will care for you.” Metarie closed her eyes and drew her hand down to Lucian’s cheek in a gentle, soft, and cool touch.

“Shasaerai, Ai shaeraes si thys os kaeli kedali eil sys.” Her eyes seemed to change somewhat as if her pupils were a little too large or as if the gold flecks shimmered like dappled sunlight. To Lucian, an aura of green and gold would seem to fill the space around her; this was her healing magic. The aura would extend into a soothing embrace until they were both within the sphere of her magic. Metarie kept her gaze upon Lucian’s eyes. With his sensitivity to magic he might feel as well as see the desire in her to help him.

Let me help you.

To an outsider’s view, those without the ability to see the magic within the world, Metarie would have seemed almost still. Her breath was shallow and she seemed entranced with her gaze upon Lucian. Her skin, fair and golden toned, would seem just a little more pale. Around her though, even those who were not Sensitives might feel as if a breeze, warm and gentle, had entered the room. They might smell the scent of something inherently forest or earthy, yet crisp; like the first entrance of spring to winter’s domain.

Metarie put her hand upon Lucian’s chest. Like a ripple, her aura shimmered under her touch. Tendrils of green and gold smoothed over broken skin. Warmth and caring emanated from her and delved deep as she searched for, found, and mended broken bones. She would heal until all that remained were the bruises and the blood. The blood would be washed away with the water in the bowls. The bruises and muscle fatigue treated in the bath. Lucian would probably still need to rest. Healing depended upon the Will of the person being treated just as much upon the ability of the healer.

I have come. I will fight with you.

Metarie stepped within a circle of firelight. She was clad in raiments of shimmering gold and gilded with the orange and red of the fire. She found him there, fighting off wolves. Metarie lifted her arms and drew back upon the air. Molten gold shot from her fingertips in the form of an arrow seeking out the heart of first one wolf and then another. With each arrow, light around and within her form seemed to expand and diminish. She was not immune to the wolves, but she was determined and if the existence of the fire was indication, so, too, was Lucian.

In the room, a drop of blood fell from Metarie’s nose onto her thigh.

[Lanya Caliope]

Lanya complied with the elf's request, moving quickly between the kitchen and bedroom. She poured the water as she walked, and upon entering the room set the pitcher on the side table next to the bed where Lucian could easily reach. She held out the glass itself to him, producing another warm smile. His state pricked at her nature, making her want to leave the room and sob out her combined relief and sorrow. But she was needed here - if nothing else than to serve as his companion. Although she trusted Metarie, he was still in foreign territory, unsure of the enemy and even more unsure of friends. She understood how he might feel, though she knew he had a stronger resolve than her.

She still wasn't sure about Everett. But he had helped.

She watched without comment or trying to interrupt; the change in the air of the room was palpable, and though she could neither see nor sense magic, the hairs on her arms stood up. There was something happening, and she could only assume it was Metarie's healing magics flowing through her into Lucian. She smiled more genuinely, though she worried for the healer's health. Lucian would be alright.

Her eyes caught the small blood drop as it plopped against her thigh. The bard's eyes widened and she reached out to gently touch and shake the elf's shoulder, only praying that this gesture would not hurt the elf or Lucian's healing.

"Your nose is bleeding, Metarie."

She did not know if the healing needed to stop, or simply be more controlled. She hoped that Metarie herself would adjust the intensity as needed.

[Lucian]

When the healer settled beside him, Lucian was unable to not tense up. She made the bed move and destroyed his delicate perception of a balance that was keeping in from sinking through the mattress, and she was close- a fact which made him disquieted simply because he did not know what was coming.

But her eyes spoke to him, the focus unwavering. You are safe. I will help.

Her touch on his face made him flinch for an instant, but then he calmed and stared back at her, his erratic breathing slowing by degrees as something in the air began to shift. She closed her eyes, and Lucian somehow felt the room begin to glow. Streams of emerald and gold came whispering in through walls and windows and doorways, all invited, all drawn-

She opened her eyes, and the streams as one flowed into her, making the light come emanating from beneath her skin, the colors burning in her eyes.

And the hand descended to his chest.

He gasped audibly as a charge flashed through his body, life pouring through the connection, the pathways of energy into the room continuing to flow into the fae healer, through her to him. Language failed to describe the sensation as life pulled broken things together and mended destroyed pieces.

In his gut, the feeling writhed and lurched as what flowed from her touched what was his, but not his- the thing that he knew, but had no place in him. And when it did, his back arched powerfully and his eyes stared unfocused at the ceiling as he felt his perception expand beyond anything he had ever known and he felt the presence of Lanya in the room and little Flame on her shoulder and the stranger who was further away but in the house, and beyond the four walls of the house and out into the street, he felt-

And with a roar, it all rushed back into himself, where he met her as she came into the grove where the battle raged.

She was beautiful in a way that Lucian found both captivating and foreign, and she radiated with power. When she moved within the perimeter of his fire, he found that he was as connected with her as she with him. And as her power flowed, he saw glimpses of pictures, impressions, emotions. Things he did not pry into, but simply allowed himself to recognize them as cool burning began to replace the overpowering ache in his fingers and hand.

As she knit things in him, she left an impression of herself where the healing was accomplished.

The streams continued to race about the room, and in the clearing the fire burned brighter, but the glow within her began to dim.

At first he did not understand the correlation, but all at once he realized. The streams in the grove of Patriarchs had been the life-flow of the Patriarchs themselves. Here, these streams were the very life-flow of... of... He could feel her name, not the spoken one, but her true name. Like it was ingrained in her essence that passed through him. He did not know it, but he could almost hear it as it sang a song of healing in his very life-essence.

And then he knew. She was giving him her life. That's what she was pouring into him as the feeling of searing fire across his back began to dampen and ease to levels within human endurance. This was not some power from beyond herself, but her own life.

As another wave pulsed through him, he felt that she was damaging herself. She was willing to give this much, to pour out her life like this past the point of safety. He knew she would, because he saw it in the impression she left where her healing touched.

Time froze for a moment in the clearing as the fire, burning almost white in its intensity, began to flare, brighter and brighter.

In an abrupt blur of motion, Lucian's right hand snapped up and latched hold of the healer's wrist, his head sharply lifting off the bed and his eyes snapping back into focus directly on hers, all while a brilliant spike of energy seemed to ripple from him through the whole room, buffeting the aura that surrounded the healer.

Immediately his head collapsed back in utter exhaustion and he lay there, breathing hard, but tendons and veins that had been bulging from his neck and forehead slowly began easing back under the surface as his body relaxed, the agony that had been killing him sharply curtailed. But he did not release her wrist.

His eyes were intense and he held her gaze as his voice rasped in a very focused cadence, "It is enough. I will not," he swallowed, breathed deeply, and finished, "take anymore. Please. It is enough."

[Alibi of Tyrants]

The gumshoe had arrived just in time to see a spike of white light flash over the surface of his eyes. Unceremoniously, he dropped what supplies he had gathered from the trunk in the bathroom. It scorched his retinas for a moment and caused his world to become little more than one big splotch. Colors were tinged with spots of black, objects blurring in and out of the patches of darkness. His vision swam; it felt like there was moisture building up in his eyes. Everett reached up with his real hand and dabbed lightly; sure enough, a concentric sheen of moisture could be seen through his addled vision.

Everett swore underneath of his breath and immediately reached for something to support himself on. The doorframe by the bathroom was there and his fingers wrapped tightly around it. While he didn't feel dizzy, awkward, or even remotely blind his body and mind was still recovering from the shock of being on the tail-end of arcane output. He has never been a big fan of those that practice magic; if there was anything that he could remotely agree on with those bastards in the Marnian government, Judge or Guard, it was on the issue of magic. While he didn't agree with their extremist methods in putting down those rogues that practice magic uninhibited, Everett did firmly believe in some sort of regulating body that FAIRLY adjudicated the use of magic within a given area.

"Fucking shit," he rapsed, shaking his head as he tried to shake away the little webs that were cast up in his skull by the arcane rattling.

When his eyes finally adjusted, Everett managed to stiffly release the doorframe and scoop up the bandages Metarie had told him to get. When he had arrived, the gumshoe immediately noticed that the man was a little more lively than normal and was clenching tightly on Metarie's wrist. He then noticed the bloodstain on Metarie's thigh, a clear and obvious sign that she was starting to get really tuckered out from using her magic (of course, he didn't have anything against Metarie and her use of magic; in fact, she was one of the living examples as to what a magic user should be doing with their abilities). Both of these signs made Everett tense; no telling what this bastard may do now that he's up and (atom, atom!) ant. Other than that, he made no indication that he was alarmed.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Everett dryly said, placing the bandages and other healing stuff close to where Metarie can reach for it. His eyes never left Lucian, carefully surveying the grip that he had on her hand. Everett's astute gaze noticed the luminosity that emanated from his touch and how it conveyed a semblance of light---no, power---to the existing aura of the elven doctor. He was a little uncomfortable with the feeling that he got, that it was he who made his vision splotch-out for a couple of moments. That was some kind of rebuff on his part; since he wasn't a magic user, however, he had no definite way of knowing whether it was going to hurt Metarie or not hurt her.

However, he erred on the side of caution. He reached over with his prosthetic arm and yanked Lucian's hand off of Metarie's wrist with perceptible ease. Everett hoped to the gods that there wasn't going to be some kind of backlash for this.

[Lanya Caliope]

As the magic flowed and flowed, Lanya stepped from the room into the bathroom. She took up one of the washcloths and dampened it in the sink, stepping forth from the bathroom in time to see Everett removing Lucian's hand from Metarie's wrist.

She clenched her jaw and stepped forward more quickly, but did not assume Everett was hurting her friend. With that arm, he could've easily hurt the thinner gypsy. Nonetheless she felt tense and unsure of Everett's motives, and stepped forward enough to place her hand on his shoulder and try to tug him away.

"That's enough, please."

She held out the wet cloth to Lucian, indicating that she wanted to press it against his forehead. She would not step between the two men if they decided to have at it, but she would at least try to diffuse any potential conflict.

"Will you lie back and rest, Lucian?"

She kept her eyes fixed on his, trying to make sure he caught her words.

[Metarie]

Healing him was different than anything Metarie had experienced in the past. Where she would make a connection and heal the recipient of her magics the current of the magic’s flow had always been one way – out from her into her patient. With Lucian the flow started out in that manner, but then changed. Metarie felt connected to Lucian in a way she had never felt connected to another being before. The images and pictures went both ways and like Lucian, personal privacy was respected.

In the clearing, the fire began to blaze brighter and Metarie smiled in joy. Lifting her hands once more, she began to manifest another molten-gold arrow. For a moment she paused as she felt her true name almost being called out. Metarie by-the-fire glanced to Lucian the wolf-fighter and watched as the realization dawned in his eyes. Physically, she felt Lanya’s touch and heard her words.

Metarie’s smile softened as she gazed at him knowingly. She loosened another arrow. Her aim found its mark even though she did not look. With that wolf’s death, the pain in his back eased and dulled. Metarie turned her gaze from Lucian and with a resolute expression another arrow was drawn and let to fly.

A third arrow was being drawn when a flare of white flame erupted from the fire. Lucian seemed to step through the flames and tightly take hold of her wrist.

"It is enough. I will not … take anymore. Please. It is enough."


Metarie nodded and smiled. Around them, Metarie pulled the streams to her as if she were weaving thread from a skein until what remained were two distinct spheres of color – one her own golden-green; one his – pure white. Disentangling from him was not as easy as it normally was. She felt as if she left a part of herself with him and him within her. The leaving garnered an almost bereft, sad feeling. He, too, left an impression.

Metarie lifted the back of her free-hand to her nose. She had been up for almost 20 hours the bulk of which were spent healing others. With the loss of her own reserves, the pain in her side seemed to double. Metarie clenched her fist, closed her eyes briefly, and clenched her jaw waiting out the throb of pain. Her body jerked as Everett forcibly removed Lucian’s hand from her.

“It is alright, Everett. He is asking me to stop.” Dark circles rimmed her eyes and stood out starkly against the pallor of her skin.

"That's enough, please."

“Yes, thank you, Lanya.” Despite the fatigue, a brillantine smile lit Metarie’s face as she turned back to Lucian. “His will is stronger than I could have hoped. We can move him into the bath to soak now. Then, rest.”

[Lucian]

When she withdrew, it felt strangely... sad. As if her being there and then leaving awakened some foreign thing in him. He looked at her, her life drawing back within her, and could not find a word for it-

But longing came close.

The stranger came into the room, Lucian was aware of that, but did not look at him until he had come over to the bed and grabbed a hold of his wrist, and he became immediately aware that no warmth was in that grip, entirely cold and dead. Staring at it as the stranger easily broke his grasp on the healer's wrist, he could not in that moment comprehend its nature.

But there was no life in it. And it was somehow disturbing.

But he had carried Lucian in from the street. And he owed him something for that, and kept all sign of his thoughts from his face and made no movement whatsoever to resist.

Lanya pressed into his field of vision then, pulling back on the stranger and extending a wet cloth toward Lucian. He turned his head toward her and nodded, half-smiling at her as she pressed the cool cloth against his forehead, reading her question from her lips.

"Will you lie back and rest, Lucian?"

He nodded at her, swallowing at the nothing in his throat. "The worst is past, Lanya." Rasping out her name was still strange for him. And knowing her had changed him, changed everything- brought him into places he would have never gone in his life.

His thoughts were no longer an endless mire that he could not even wade through, and it made him feel stronger, even though he could scarcely lift his head at this point.

The healer looked back at him, then, and her smile was bright and genuine, even through the hard lines of pain that stood out on her face and were tight in her neck. The fortitude she showed only deepened the impression she had left.

"Thank you. For your strength." And your home, and your help. But he felt that it would be redundancy to say more. She knew, he knew she knew.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

He cast a long, hard look at Lanya and then her hand. Everett wasn't about to let go until Metarie gave the go ahead; she may know him from Adam, but magic was not a force to be trusted. It addles a man, even if they have the purest of intentions.

When Metarie gave the go ahead, that's when Everett decided to let go. He bucked Lanya's hand off with a sharp shrug and focused his attention on removal. The turbines in his prosthetic arm whirred softly in compliance and each finger that had so suddenly wrapped around the gypsy's wrist unfurled slowly yet painlessly. The lack of fluidity in the movement was a clear representation of the slam-bang repair that Metarie had applied previously to metal mass. A comical and over-exaggerated look of chagrin emerged across his features, one that wasn't really directed at anybody but his gods-damned arm.

Like Lucian, though Everett couldn't read his mind, he disliked the finicky limb. Not only did it like to drag him around and make him look like a fish out of water, but it also killed his libido when it bombed out. Was it ever a turn off...

The gumshoe took a couple of steps back from the bed so that he can not only give her ample space in which to work but also so that he can get himself in a better position in which to assist Metarie if she needed it. He got a clear look of the elf's condition and he frowned. She kinda reminded him of those pale savants that sit around all day at the library and go through the Marnian texts fervently, innocuously indulging themselves in their mental masturbation and doing little else. He didn't know why she reminded him of those needle-nose punks at the library; it was probably because the majority of them were elves that are extremely bored. It looked like she also got rabbit punched in the snoz, too; a fine trickle of blood pitter-pattered on to her shapely thigh, forming a slowly dried puddle of stuff. Her eyes were darkly-circled and stood out starkly in contrast with everything else; she almost looked like a raccoon.

"Metarie," Everett said, emphasizing graveness so that he can get her attention. "You can't keep this up." He nods to Lucian. "He seems to be a little more spry than before; switch it up and be a little more mundane."

[Lanya Caliope]

His dismissal of her words and action meant nothing to her. Of course they didn't. But she couldn't help but feel a bit hurt when he ignored her. It was an unwanted call-back to what she'd thought would be her last moments outside, carried in a man's arms as he took her to Justice Hall. She'd tried to speak, then, to explain herself and tell someone in the world her story. She'd tried to explain why she had acted the way she had, made the choices she had. He had ignored her as well.

She drew her hand back and ducked her gaze, suddenly feeling out of place within this room. The only purpose she served was as Lucian's friend, but he was still being healed and was in good care. This man Everett could help him to the bath; he was certainly stronger than the bard and would do more good within context. She was only in the way.

She dabbed the cloth against her friend's forehead a few more times, then pulled herself away to give them the space needed to transfer him to the bathroom. She took up one of the water-filled bowls and left the room to wash and dry it. She did not see that they were both needed any longer, and leaving the other would give her a reason to return to the room should she need one.

The woman left the room quietly to pull herself out of the way. Lucian had seemed nearly enchanted by the elf, and Lanya knew that Metarie was trust-worthy. Lucian would realize this quickly as well.

He was alive, safe and now in better health. He was in good hands, and soon he would receive the rest he so clearly needed. Hopefully Metarie would be sure to follow. Flame sat upon her shoulder quietly, watching as she rinsed and dried the bowls with the nearest available dish rag. All seemed well for the moment.

That man had no reason to trust her. He hardly knew her, perhaps didn't even know her name. But her gut clenched regardless. The hard look he'd given her had been well received, and she could only back down and remove herself from the situation to prevent it from happening again. She could not trust herself to try not to intervene should something happen again, and Metarie would not allow Lucian to be hurt. Even more, the gypsy could take care of himself.

With a sudden surge, the point that her thoughts circled around came into focus and made her pause while drying the bowl. Regret nagged at her thoughts, whispering that she shouldn't have stopped the first time to bring the stranger. She should have continued on down the road, straight to Justice Hall to force the judge's hand. She was serving no purpose otherwise and it would be no great loss to the world should she be killed.

Horror welled within her, threatening to force tears from her eyes, and she swallowed hard as she shook her head to clear the cruel thoughts away. She had never had such thoughts; where had they come from now? Choosing to die and wanting to die were unequal ends of a cruel spectrum. She found herself shocked into stillness. Annoyance followed the horror, flanked by harsh self-criticism as she began to chide herself for her thoughts.

Fool. Idiot. What are you thinking? Stop this instant; self-pity hurts everything and helps no one.

She laid the bowl down on the counter and shook out the rag, folding it to lie next to the bowl. A glance about the room to be certain she was alone, and then she braced her own hands against the counter on either side of the sink, staring down at the wet surface. Self-loathing was a slippery slope, and she needed these few minutes to beat it back before she could return to the room.

[Metarie]

Metarie gave Lucian a knowing smile when he spoke his thanks. Instead of replying, she reached for the glass of water and leaned forward fulling intending to help him sit up enough to drink from the glass.

She kept her face turned toward Lucian's. She had been a healer too many years to not recognize Lucian's loss of hearing in his way of speaking. There was a roundness to his words that was a tell-tale sign. "Please drink and then we will take you to the bath. You must soak your injuries and then you can rest." Metarie slipped her arm around Lucian's shoulders and moved to bring him up enough to drink from the glass.

Metarie waited until Lucian would take a drink before she turned her attention to Everett. "I will now, Everett. Thank you for your help and concern."

[Lucian]

When she extended the cup to him, he strained for a moment to bring his head up, shocked at how little strength he had as muscles quivered with effort. Then Lucian noticed then how intently she looked him, how clearly she enunciated her words and said everything to its full extent- no contractions or abbreviations. Like she was trying to make it easy for him to understand.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe just how she spoke- elongated and precise.

Or she knew somehow.

How would she know?

When her arm slipped across his shoulders and she helped him sit up the rest of the way, he regarded her closely before tipping his lips to the cup and gratefully taking a few short swallows. The water was cool and soothing as it washed down his parched throat, and as he lifted his head back, he looked at her again searchingly, and then he nodded slightly.

"As you say."

He was still coated with the sweat and grime and blood from the ordeals of the past forty-eight hours. While he lived in the wild, he lived clean, and truthfully even in his exhaustion he welcomed the thought of getting the filth washed off.

Sinew standing out in his neck and arms as he strained, he began to work his way over to the side of the bed.

[Alibi of Tyrants]

The gumshoe rushed in and superimposed the curve of his non-prosthetic shoulder underneath of Lucian's arm, bolstering him up as he moved off of the bed. This guy looked like everything just shy of a bloody wreck and he was still persistent enough to move around---to top it all off, he drank that numbing shit! Everett himself remembers drinking a variant of the swill that Metarie had concocted for him at the hospital; ah, he remembered it clearly. He, with nothing but a fleshy and mangled stump for an arm, writhing and twisting and screaming obscenities. Dimly glowing lights were swimming above him in a miasma of pain-moist eyes. Blue silhouettes shifted around at the edges of his vision, getting him ready for the operation that they were about to perform. Ah, the idiocy that he spewed didn't end.

'I don't want your help!' This was said to one of the elven nurses, who ironically happened to be the willowy Metarie. Everett couldn't measure the elf's expression at the time, but judging from the slight creases that she had in her brow and the pinched little crevasse that surfaces on her nose (which is quite evident when she glares) she wasn't very happy

'Get your fucking hands off of me, you damn dirty ape!' This was said to some nondescript gentleman in scrubs. Though he was thoroughly covered, the man was so hairy in certain places that it just protruded from outlets like the cuffs of his sleeves and his collar. He also had an ungroomed beard underneath of that surgical mask, from what he can remember.

Those were just a few of the things that he cried out up until the little gnome that came out of nowhere (who happened to be Rosalee, his existing physician and the one that checks up on his arm occasionally) did what appeared to be something of a judo-chop right to the base of his neck. At first, when he saw the blur of motion from the Gnome he mentally guffawed. A little midget? Kicking his ass with what looked like a slap? Whatever. Well, it turned out that he learned the hard way; he didn't know it then, but that was martial arts magic at work---the ability to strike precisely and to do it with efficiency (along with style). There was a "ka-pow!" and then mere compliance on his part, an ending to all that struggling. Then, that numbing shit went straight down his throat. Reminded him of one of those Easterners, really, 'cause Rosalee had it ready for him what appeared to be a saucer. And then, bam!

Out like a light. Well, metaphorically speaking. There was residual resistance on his part during the operation, but most of it was his subconscious will to lash out at anybody who he deemed a part of the large, childhood conspiracy that he mired himself in while in a gang. Rosalee and Metarie talked about that on occasion, about how he came damn close to giving each of them a bloody nose and scratched cheek; of course, the gumshoe didn't wanna buy it as he didn't remember any of it. On those occasions, it was probably the closest thing Everett got a compliment from both of them.

"Gods, buddy. You're pretty damn gung-ho for somebody half-dead," Everett grunted, scooping the gypsy off of the bed and hefting him to his feet. The gumshoe wanted to add something to the effects of "just like me," but he didn't want to flatter the guy with similarities. After all, he was still sexier and much tougher (looking) to boot.

They moved to the bathroom with little incident---since Lucian was a little more capable than before, it was that much less difficult to maneuver him from point A to point B. This suited the gumshoe fine; he was getting tired of lugging heavy-ass people around anyway. He carefully rested Lucian on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom and propped him up against the back of it in a way that the gypsy could sit up on his own volition. The bathtub was right beside him, prepped and with whisps of steam curling from the surface of the water.

"Yeaaaaaah. You can...undress yourself, can't you?" Everett asked, leaning his head down a bit so he can look him right in the face. The gumshoe wasn't aware of his handicap and actually mistook his slurred words for just having his world fucked up to the high hells. Though he was incredibly smart, he didn't have a doctorate in medicine. "No offense, man, but I don't do dangling junks except for my own."

Everett held up both hands, one metal and one flesh, and made one of those "slight" expressions that was possessed of only a half-smile. It was the closest thing to "sorry" that the gypsy was probably going to get. There wasn't even a twinge of guilt; Everett didn't like guys. At all. He didn't like looking at them, didn't like smelling them, and he especially didn't like them when they were naked. All signs point to competition for the femmes or just an outright opposition to a normal sexual oriental to him, neither of which appealed to him in the slightest. It's not like that he didn't have guy friends, but male strangers...blarg. No, no, and no. The same tenets applied there as it does here, only with more ample distrust of the stranger.

And with that, Everett turned his back from propped-up Lucian and walked out of the bathroom.

Cracking the joints on his real fingers by stiffening and bending them at the joints, Everett brushed past Metarie and made a beeline straight for the morose Lanya. The gumshoe figured that it was time to stop hee-hawing around and get to the bottom of what the hell was going on. There was a man battered and beaten and a woman that possibly knows about why. From the moment he laid eyes on her, he could tell that this chick was up to something. It wasn't a "something" that was directed at others, mind, or even a criminal activity of any kind. No, he could tell that she was far too guileless for that. Hell, he could even safely assume that she was also too benign. There was a reason why she was walking in the direction that she was going. If she wanted to leave town, she could've simply proceeded on past Metarie's place and headed straight for the Ofriyu Mar. However, she was going straight down the road.

Straight down the road. If you follow any roads in Marn, they usually lead you to one place: The Pearly Gates, aka the Justice Hall. Judging from Metarie's account, Ramrodulous actually saved her ass from going there and took her away. Everett didn't know whether it was simple common sense or not, but NO ONE wants to go back to the Justice Hall after they've been indicted on some sort of charge---at least, no in their right mind wants to anyway. After you've been admitted in there, there's no coming back. Judging from the way she reacted in Lucian's presence, she was shocked as shit to see him being alive coming out of that place---which was another puzzle for Everett to unwind, the "why" that they let him out of there. That was for another time, though.

"Hate to be buzzkill, babe," Everett said, loud enough to snap her out of her reverie. "But we gotta talk. I know damn well that you weren't going to the Justice Hall to try and bail his ass out.

"In fact, I'm willing to bet on the fact that you went over to the Justice Hall simply because you felt partially responsible for gods-know-something. Maybe it has something to do with the half-dead schmuck in the bathroom, or maybe it pertains to the charges that the Marnian government have branded you with." Everett held up two fingers. "You wanted to go there to die, and you tried to do it twice. Once when you found me walking along the straightaway to Metarie's, and once when you snuck out of the house. I was starting to get an idea when that bird of yours started hopping around and wigging out because of your absence; he was pretty damn flustered, almost as if he were chastising you for leaving. For a bird, he can convey himself quite nicely.

"I can also see that same, feckless expression on your face that reckless souls have when they feel that the weight of the world has crashed down around their ears and that everything is their fault. Shit, you probably even thought that the guy in the other room was a result of your supposed handiwork, didn't you? Fess up and start talking.

"And don't try to bullshit me," Everett concluded, knocking on the counter that she was leaning on lightly. "You can ask Metarie; if I'm good at anything, it's this shit." Everett then added, for good measure: "And besides, I only wanna help. There's some shit going on here. I don't know what it is, but it stinks, and it's involving somebody from higher-up. The Marnian government wouldn't be taking that much interest in you OR him if there wasn't something going on."

[Lanya Caliope]

She was deep in her thoughts when Everett's voice broke through, and the first response he received was raised eyebrows. Gradually her eyes refocused as she turned her head enough to see him as he spoke. As he continued, she turned herself so that she leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms lightly over her chest. A position of comfort rather than defense.

Though his words did prick at her, trying to provoke her and pull forth an emotional rise. He'd worked out enough on his own that she was tempted to tell him to just keep on thinking on his own. He'd done a suitable job thus far and she hardly wanted to interrupt whatever thought process had brought him to the correct conclusions. Instead, she raised one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. She felt a sigh working its way through her and resisted; she was not a petulant child, annoyed with being called out for doing something she'd believed right at the time. She was just tired.

"No," she began. Her tone was quiet and level; there was no inflection beyond that of a normal conversational voice.

"I did not want to die. I wanted to stop a certain pattern that has emerged around me. Those who try to protect me end up hurt or dead, and I am tired of the game."

She did not comment on his perception of Flame's intelligence; the bird was smart enough that even a fool could tell he had something beyond a robin's thoughts within his head.

Now a sigh did emerge as she dropped her hands to her sides, bracing them against the counter behind her and favoring her slightly injured knee. With her own clothes now draping against her figure, a certain degree of weight loss became apparent. Where the pants had clearly once been at the very least snug, they now draped awkwardly about her thighs, and the shirt itself may as well have been a cloak for how loosely it hung on her.

The sigh was resigned and even more tired than her appearance suggested. She met his eyes as her thoughts raced, but she wasn't considering a response for him. She was bracing herself for the inevitable question. The root cause of all of the problems and events that had occurred for the past two years. She knew she would need to relate the story again - the fourth time in as many days - and she did not look forward to it. Worse, she desperately wished it didn't have to be so, and felt guilty for wishing that just this once, she could skip that part.

Still, she would try.

"What did Metarie tell you?"

She wanted to know what she needed to fill in, rather than start at the beginning and work her way forward.

[Lucian]

The journey from the bedroom to the warm, humid room he found himself in was taxing in the extreme for Lucian, though as the stranger had carried him and set him down the gypsy had made absolutely no sign of his trial, actually managing to not collapse off of the awkward seat he had been placed on.

Exposing weakness was not something Lucian did, and he had shown more than enough to all parties here.

The stranger spoke directly to him, looking him in the eyes. It took him a moment to comprehend what the other man meant by "dangling junk," but he got the message.

Slight nod. Flicker of a grateful half-smile.

When the other man left, he reached up with his right arm and jerked at the bandage wrapped around his torso that had become partly unraveled, removing it completely, dropping the dirty and bloodied thing onto the floor. Lanya's cloak must have slipped from him while he had been carried into the house, so all that remained were the ragged remains of his trousers and the bandage still wrapped around his left hand.

Across from him was the vat of warm water, emanating wisps of steam and a soothing aroma that made Lucian feel even more drowsy. While the fogginess in his head had largely departed, but the remnants of the healer's drought continued to flow through his system.

Lucian looked down at himself, breathing shakily, smeared with blood and coated in grime and sweat. Scars, large and small were spread across his body in sporadic, criss-crossed groupings from hundreds of falls and scrapes that came with living in the uncharted wilderness. He ached in the deepest parts of him, and all of that was combined with a deep unrest that he, even in lieu of all that had passed, he could not shake.

An anger that was still buried, deep within. The other, as he had no other name for it, moved inside of his stomach then, a sensation like awareness and apprehension, but dimmed and weary. It, too, was exhausted.

But the vat of soothing warm water beckoned.

He began to sit up, and as he did so he caught a flash of motion in his peripheral vision, and when he looked he saw a haggard, sweat-streaked face staring back at him. Unkempt and ragged hair matted to its head, sharp features and eyes which, though sunken with weariness, were yet alive and animated.

He knew it to be his own face, though he had not seen a looking-glass since he was a young boy. He gently raised his right hand and brushed his throat with his fingertips, touching the fine white scars that were there. It was his face, but he almost did not recognize it.

Strange, to scarcely know one's own face.

The bath, the bath.

Gripping the counter next to him and pressuring himself off the wall, he fought to his feet with a terse groan, finding his balance and taking one small step toward the water-

He halfway collapsed, muscles abruptly giving and then catching, and he hurriedly allowed himself to fall onto his knees, grabbing the edge of the vat.

Gather your strength a moment. He assumed he had been left to bathe himself, and took his time.

[Metarie]

Metarie had intended to help Lucian. Everett stepped in quickly, though, and veritably man-handled Lucian into the bathroom, leaving Metarie to trail behind. A tired, yet bemused expression lit on her face as Everett talked to Lucian. Metarie was amused because Everett did not know that Lucian could not hear him and because of the content of Everett’s speech. The things that came out of Everett’s mouth often made her shake her head and wonder.

As Everett unceremoniously sat Lucian down upon the closed toilet, Metarie loitered on the periphery and then stepped back as Everett exited the bathroom. She was privy to the releasing of the bandages and Lucian’s viewing of himself in the looking glass. Metarie looked away during this moment of naked self-awareness. It was not until Lucien moved toward the bath and began to fall that she moved. Sheer determination – like Lucian’s – propelled her forward to interject herself between Lucian and the edge of the bathtub. She would not have him bashing his head open on her watch. Ignoring the complaint of her own body, Metarie would help Lucian to rise and waited until he would look at her.

“I will hold you up while you disrobe or I can help you to disrobe. Then, I will help you into the water.” There was no question as to whether she would assist or not, only a decision to be made as to how she would assist. Her expression was compassionate yet professional. If he thought he had been released from her care, he had been mistaken. As far as Metarie were concerned, until he was cleanly bandaged, well-fed, and well rested, Lucian was her responsibility. Metarie waited for Lucian to decide how he would be divested of the scraps of clothing that remained.