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Who:Gaheris Rhade and whoever helps him out...
What: Rhade is running from Candlelighters after he's been found out.
Where: Right on the outskirts of Dog Fenn, coming in from Syriac Well.
When: Late in the evening. Date flexible to mun necessity.
Warnings & Notes: Blood. Violence likely. Always with the angst warning. Until his boneblades grow back they won't be readily visible.

This section of Baedal has gotten cool and crisp at the late hour. The families in Syriac Well are probably enjoying their sleep, or their firelit night in one another's company. No doubt a couple of tired parents are interrupted by children disturbed by sounds outside, or the folks themselves are left to stare at the ceiling at the sound of thumping or a heavy impact. At least one block will have something to talk about the next day, unfortunate though it was they would probably have entirely the wrong idea later.

The source of these noises hits the pavement with a roll, before continuing up the sidewalk toward more busy, populated areas. Somewhere that might have more signs of night life and decent lighting. He fumbles with a blood soaked hand to try to send off a message from his CiD- not even of himself at that moment. Recordings of a few conversations he'd been privvy to, because no one suspects boyish expressions and demure natures (that were excruciatingly against his instincts to emulate) to be anything but honest. The screen lights up a smear of red from his thumb.

These shoes are impractical and too loud. He puts the device in the pocket of his overcoat and begins to sprint, realizing that he couldn't abandon the wingtips like some sort of bizarre pastiche on a Grimm fairytale. He'll be just asking for the militia to hunt him down on some manufactured charge.

He's so close to Dog Fenn. He can smell the restaurants closing down for the night, and still hear the buzz of a few more people out. He doesn't stop running. In fact, he throws himself into it. Faster than any normal human, but not like a vampire. He still has to strain, feel the pounding of blood in his chest and his head grow dizzy. As long as he stays ahead, as long as they don't stop the message from going through, he'll have accomplished something.

He hurks at the feeling of sharp metal in his shoulder-blade. He will have to commend the man for having impeccable aim with that crossbow. He's barely made it past the first shop and he had to slip into an alley and pull that one free of his body, too.

Few people here knew Gaheris Rhade before he "vanished". He'd not made a point to be personable, and when he'd discovered what was happening in the city it had filled him with a sense of resentment. A reminder of what drove his people to subjugation over the humans. A reminder that the lives of his people were simply offered to the Magog, that they weren't entitled to compensation after the planets they brought life to were obliterated by the horrors of their invaders.

And then he had gotten his mind stuck on Dylan, on Dylan's face, and that last question to him.

Gaheris. What have you done?

And he'd vanished, he'd become another person, a Mr. Emory Morris (a poor boy with a home education and a fear of the unfamiliar city, needing his new employer to show him around and all the kinds of people that he needed to be wary of). A poster-boy smile and a chipper tone for all the old hands he worked around and impressive to the haughty ladies. And he remained that person until the nasty moment that finished his recording, where someone grabbed his arm and realized that the boneblades he'd sanded down were still there. They'd asked him what sort of freak he was. He said the proper insult was Uber, and it was after that final word that it cut off. That's the final thing Hasi would recieve.

Rhade does his level best to keep from leaving more blood than necessary. A trail will defeat the purpose of losing the men following him. He hangs onto the bolt with slick fingers because he'll need something to make a last stand with.

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Certainly training in four-inch high heels is a stupid idea on the outside, but to Cindy, it's a necessary adventure. One never knows how they'll be dressed in case of a sneak attack. Dressed in said shoes, tight jeans, and a plain t-shirt under a light jacket too thin for the actual weather, she's been jogging across Baedal and it's none too nice neighborhoods.

Cindy's barely breaking a sweat or out of breath due to her Fable nature and the only reason why she stops halfway down a block is the trail of red that begins at her feet. She smiles a little, in that knowing curious way, and begins following it with super-light almost inaudible steps. This'll be interesting.

The bolt isn't going to be enough, Rhade knows. There's a trash bin in the alley, and the lid from that will have to suffice as a shield. He grabs it in time to hear the two men coming (still at a distance, and is that a third? Is someone following them? Did something get a whiff of his injuries? Dog keen ears do not always help one's paranoia). Good thing? They won't want to come into one of the more well lit areas. Bad thing? The lighting pretty much shows the drips of blood, no matter what his efforts to keep from leaving a trail had been.

But there are only the two darkly dressed men chasing him, and Mr. Crossbow is out of bolts. He and his friend exchange glances, before the one with a knife starts down the alley as the other does a double check for ammunition, standing outside the alley with his back facing the way that Cindy would be coming.

He doesn't find any while there's sounds of scuffling, but his attention snaps up sharply. There's a metal clang and the fellow that braved the alley first is thrown out onto the street, moaning and holding his face with both hands. There is a ninety percent chance of a badly broken nose there.

Cindy hears the clang of metal against flesh-covered bone and cringes just a little. It's a recognizable sound, once she's caused and had herself. Five points to whoever bashed the other right there, though.

The trail leads her down an alley where she walks up behind the man with the empty crossbow. It takes Cindy all of five seconds to realize this is an unfair fight and far be it from her to walk away from it. She isn't an superhero or a savior of humans on a regular basis, but even this former princess has a soft spot for those in need. Good thing she brought her custom designed knife that she slips from her jacket's pocket and shoves directly into Mr. Crossbow's right temple, quick and easy, hook end catching on the edge of skull. One sharp tug and it's out, flinging bits of whoever this guy was on the pavement below.

Now what to do about Mr. Broken Nose there...

As least the man with the broken nose isn't entirely dumb. There's light. It's getting noisy. Some dog somewhere is starting to bark. He scrambles to his feet and runs back the way he came generally.

Rhade creeps back to the front of the alley, giving a wary eye to the now dead man that shot him. He doesn't know Cindy, or what particularly to say to her. Just because she killed his attacker, he's not positive she won't come after him. That's some excellent paranoia.

He watches her carefully as he approaches the dead man and slooowly reaches for the crossbow. Meaning no threat by it. He doesn't want to us it. He just wants it. "Are you not human either?"

Rhade, at the moment, pretty much looks like he shouldn't still even be standing.

She really should have finished off that guy before he got away. Oh well. If he knows what's good for him, he'll keep his mouth shut and his nose out of other people's business.

He can enjoy his paranoia. She's not here to kill him, though if he gets any closer to that crossbow, Cindy won't blink while slitting his throat. To save him his life and her the trouble, Cindy moves closer and sticks a foot out, catching the edge of the crossbow with her heel and dragging it towards her. There. That's better.

"In these shoes? Definitely a human." He won't know she's lying. Hopefully, she appears as a well-trained woman with a penchant for stilletos.

Damn. He decides not to mention who they were then. There's still a body there. He doesn't even know who to contact about getting rid of it.

He stays in that half hunched position while he tries to gather himself, giving up on reaching for the bow when she pulls it out of his reach. She's not killed him yet. She might be with the militia.

He'll just nod at her then. But he could name a good several Nietzschean women that would assassinate like winners in stilettos. Finally, he just asks, "What are you going to do?"

There's nothing here with her fingerprints on it so tracking who killed this Candlelighter will be hard. Good enough for Cindy. They don't know her and she doesn't know them. Let's keep it this way.

"To you? Nothing. Except I noticed your blood is all over my new shoes. Are you sure you have enough still in you to get up?" It's a hypothetical question. He looks a hot mess and there is no way Cindy is letting this guy walk all the way to the nearest help. "Unless you want to die here, that's fine with me althought that means I just wasted my time saving your ass."

She cocks her head to the side, waiting for him to reply in some fashion or another as she decides what the best mode of transportation is.

Edited 2011-12-06 02:58 (UTC)

"No," he says strangely firmly. Even if he looks like he could keel over. "I'm not letting them win. They won't kill me."

And he stands back up with a shudder, setting his jaw. And he adds a little dizzily. "I apologize for your shoes. They seem to be important to being human. Perhaps." He closes his eyes tight. The warrior-philosopher was not in a good enough state of mind to be particularly poetic. He did seem very much like he was ready to wonder off to try and walk for help, now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

"Yeah, sure, whatever." He can be big and bad as he wants to, but it looks like a strong breeze at any moment can come and knock him right over. Cindy rolls her eyes as his strongman act and moves closer to him, slowly but purposely. "This'll hurt, by the way."

She pauses for a moment and then continues, "My bad." Her fist makes firm but not deadly contact with his head and hopefully it's enough to put Rhade down for naptime.

The women in his culture were even more assertive than him, though his desire for them not to win isn't all that much about him losing.

He needs to make sure Hasi got that transmission.

Though that worry melts away into darkness as he's hit, and falls with the weight of a man that's a few pounds denser than he looks.

It's a good thing that it's late at night as Cindy strolls through the streets with an unconscious Rhade thrown over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Granted, it'll look weird any time of the day, but right now, it'll look extra special and suspicious now if the streets weren't empty. His blood is now on more than just her shoes and it's pretty annoying, but Cindy considers this as no good deed going unpunished.

Finally at her point of destitination, Cindy stops in front of an unremarkable door that blends in with the rest of the doors surrounding it, knocking on it with her free hand. Hopefully, the resident behind it is still awake.

Benevenuta's second floor flat isn't hard to find in the quiet neighbourhood and not only is she home but she's wide awake, having caught some of the dash through Syriac Well; maybe that's why she doesn't look entirely as surprised as she could when she answers the door, knotting a robe at her waist and stepping back so Cindy can haul him in.

"Down the hall on the left," she directs, because there are times when you screw around with explanations and times when you get to work first, "just let me lock this again and get a couple things. How bad is it?"

She'll have questions; she just has priorities.

With a nod, Cindy heads in the direction Benny (or Vanessza to her) points out and finds herself the makeshift triage room. The smell of antiseptic is strong, but that's the least important thing to Cindy right now. She hopes Benny's skill is as good as her word.

"An arrow and a couple stab wounds. At the very least." Cindy drops Rhade on the bed unceremoniously, but gently enough that he isn't jolted into having internal bleeding. "I don't think he's human."

He slowly comes to consciousness in a clean room, surrounded by the harsh scent of antisceptic. The side of his face has joined the rest of him in hurting, but the blood is clotting; he heals fast (not instantaneous regeneration, but fast).

He clumsily covers his nose with the back of his hand, eyes closing again almost as soon as they open. But he is doing his best to stay awake.

"Easy," is from just above him, a woman's voice, working on him with gloved hands and the steadiness of experience; she slows what she's doing when he starts moving, but only to make sure he's not going to panic and jostle her and open up a wound worse. In smooth, accented English she's calm and almost lulling-- "My name is Dr Vanessza Bernát. Cynthia brought you to my apartment, and I'm patching you up. I need you to keep holding still for me, sir."

He grunts, and holds still. He can hear her, but everything is muddy and muffled in his head, and when it's not muddy and muffled it's buried under a white noise of aching parts.

It's another minute or so before he speaks again. "I need to make sure-" a breath, and another attempt "-I had a message to deliver. I need to make sure it made it. I need to get in contact with..."

Oh. Stab wounds. He did not miss you.

"I understand." Benevenuta keeps her eyes on what she's doing, most concerned in the immediate with ensuring his safety and wellbeing; a secondary concern is whoever's after him tracing his steps here, but she's more than capable of taking care of herself. First things first. "How time sensitive is it? --I need you to be patient. Tell me if you need something for the pain."

"Extremely if they're following me." If they break in, and got his CiD while he was like that, he will be helpless to stop them. He needs to erase his message history (if the device will even allow him to).

He does slump more against the table though. "Nothing. Thank you." Polite, even in discomfort. "It heals quickly." But he wants to stay aware of how bad the injuries are, of his disadvantages.

"If you sent it by CiD, it will have gone through." And while she's not making any assumptions about his message content, she fleetingly wonders at the wisdom of using the network for anything where security is a priority; this isn't her first rodeo with a police state.

"All right-- this isn't as bad as it could be, especially if your body heals quickly, but you've lost a lot of blood and I'm not done with these sutures. You're going to need to rest here, at least tonight; you can contact who you need to when I'm finished."

He almost argues that it's not what he's worried about, but he doesn't. Instead, he just lays there and decides to wait it out. Talking too much could make them more of a party to something they might not want to be involved in. The Candlelighters are dangerous as it is. It's better in this case not to try too hard.

Maybe the one that got away didn't get a good look at anyone. He hopes so.

She keeps an eye on his face a moment longer, but accepts that silence for what it is and goes back to work quickly and quietly. (Everybody's got their little frustrations tonight. For instance, blood really doesn't come out of silk and this robe is never going to be the same.) The stab wounds are shallow enough that she's mostly worried about possibility of infection or a poisoned blade, but the arrow wound in his shoulder and the evidence he wrenched it out himself worries her a little more -- he could've done more damage pulling it out, if not left shards of the head in his body.

"This is going to hurt more," she warns him, but she tries to keep her examination of the wound itself as mercifully brief as she can manage without half-arsing it. When she's satisfied, she's back to cleaning, suturing and bandages, leaning back from him to blow stray hairs out of her eyes. It'd be better if she could do this in the hospital, if she had more resources, but there are a hell of a lot of reasons not to go to the hospital in any city and she's acquainted with most of them.

When she's done sometime later, rolling her gloves off and disposing of a few things in the medical waste bag, she scrutinizes him for a few minutes. "I'm going to get some fluids into you and keep you here at least overnight, but if you want to use your CiD, call anyone, please go ahead. Your shirt was a lost cause, but your shoes are at the end of the end of the bed." On the off-chance he's going to freak out if any of his belongings aren't where he can easily find them, she deems it prudent to point them out.

"Well, at least somebody's shoes are still useable."

That voice comes from a far corner of a room and a blonde sitting on a stool in said corner. She's filing the fingernails on her just washed hands, porcelain white and young skin clearly defying her true age. Cindy honestly looks like she's waiting for an appointment with the doctor for a regular checkup instead of watching the guy she dragged all the way here and dumped on Benny to work on.

"So, are you going to tell me who that guy I stabbed was or do I have to go and figure it out myself?" It's better he tells her, really. Her finding things out herself may lead to him getting a knife in his own head.

"It's not for me to say." Rhade could go down with his ship and his secrets if he needs to. That was one of the reasons he'd been chosen by the Drago-Kazov instigators with their plan. "If the person I'm calling tells you, then I don't care."

He groans as he moves, not really caring about the shoes but more for the coat he'd been wearing. Once nice, but soaked with blood too. The pockets had things he needed.

He drowsily grabs through the contents. A wallet, a fake ID. Doesn't matter anymore. He'll clip that and discard it. The (mostly ruined) clothes are scholarly, but the wraps around his forearms guarding filed down protrusions of some sort are leather. He squints for a moment. He has no idea what he owes. Instead, he drops a couple of pieces of gold (like one could find in the fog) on the nearest stand. "I'll tell you this much. They don't like xenians."

His CiD. He pulls it out and starts to delete his send history. He doesn't know where this is. "Speaking of which, can I contact someone in my cohort to retrieve me?"

Once he has the CiD, Benevenuta does several things things: pocket the gold, because questioning it when people pay her for something is unwise on several levels, take away the over-sheet that he'd bled on and steer him back down onto the bed itself.

"You can, but I'm keeping you here overnight to make sure you're not going to collapse when you leave in the morning," she says, with the kind of placid certainty that speaks to a confidence she can make him take care of himself if she's obliged to do so. It isn't threatening or forceful, just-- very sure. "If someone needs to come and check on you, we're in Syriac Well."

She supplies the address, absently. "And I need to wash up. Excuse me."

Cindy nods at Benny, both as a compliment to her skill and as the excusing she requested. She herself is staying right here in the room. She doesn't quite trust this guy, with his secretive ways and no desire to give her information on the men she saved his ass from. If he's going to send a message via the device, she's going to be obvious as hell and eavesdrop.

Turning back to Rhade, Cindy raises her eyebrows, a silent statement that she isn't going anywhere and he can just deal with it.

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