#Mazarin flowing ember

[doyoubelievein-ghosts]

"There's only one way for a professional soldier to die. That's from the last bullet of the last battle of the last war." - George S. Patton

[doyoubelievein-ghosts]

[doyoubelievein-ghosts]

Mazarin Flowing Ember; Mercy

[doyoubelievein-ghosts]

Mazarin, Smiley & Smoke: Annals

Charm, the City of Ten Splendors. Court of Singers District. Eastern side of the river.

The Masters of Charm, three disowned bastards from three of the Great Families of Andrastus, have been at war with their sister city of Rose for a year now. The last three months of that war culminated into the present siege on the fair city of Charm; a grueling conflict of attrition as the Rose soldiers and their allies from the scoured wastes of Dar took the districts of the western bank week by week. Fighting the holdouts of the Charm army and the collection of mercenary companies that the Masters hired to hold the bridges connecting the halves of the city. 

Three companies for three bridges; and only one remained. The Legion, a band of sellswords from the far eastern lands, proved to be the latchkey for the entire siege. Holding out at the Pearl Gate's bridge fort and repelling attacks from all fronts. Now for the last month the enemy's settled on starving out the Legion while attempting to find ways to either repair the two other destroyed bridges or begin a siege camp on the other side. 

The citizens of Charm's western front eked out a life under siege; stealing and ransacking, murdering in cold blood and taking everything that could be eaten or sold to the black market.Things were different on the eastern bank of the river. Charm's affluent merchants and minor nobles always made their homes on the eastern side, and as a result the city's better conveniences were there as well. Better roads, schools and museums. The actual barracks for Charm's army was in the eastern side and most of the city's standing force were present, leaving all the fighting to their sellsword counterparts while licking their wounds. 

All things were truly quiet on the eastern side, save for the Court of Singers. When the medical triages were overflowing from designated sites, the Masters of Charm permitted the Court of Singers to be used as an extended field hospital. And now where once the city's finest actors and patrons of the arts lived and loved, the screams and groans of soldiers dying or pleading for life. While it was spacious to accommodate the injured, there weren't as nearly enough supplies to go around the injured. 

None of the army's officers were present, and neither were any of noble blood. Those injured benefitted from private physicians as provided by their families, leaving the grunt soldiers to live hour by hour on the passing hope that there'd be enough painkillers or clean bandages to go through the night.It made matters worse when the soldiers from Dar started tossing the dead from the initial battle into the river, polluting the city's major water source from use.

\\More often than not, the upper echelons of war reduced a battle to numbers. How many had survived? What was the number of the injured? How many were dead? Number after number, tally after tally. All to come to the single, most important number: how many bodies need to be replaced? Pawns across a vast game board, taking a square or losing one.\\

\\Having to consider the remains; those injured, rarely factored in.\\

\\He is a strange sight, this exceptionally tall individual with strange grey-blue skin, long cattle scooped ears and a curiously flat snout nose. Blues and pinks, and mint greens adorned him, with a large pack on his back. A tall, curved wooden staff topped with a gem as pink as his long, trailing hair kept pace with his step in a three legged gait. A single thin braid of white and red hair trailed down over his shoulder, mixed in with the pink, and a brooch sat clipped to his powder blue tunic. Angel wings surrounding a crying eye.\\

\\He doesn't hide his approach, nor does he call attention to his approach. Simply entering the Court of Singers with purpose and a kindly survey of the situation and the dying.\\

Mazarin's presence was an announcement of itself. Standing well over a head taller than most of the local populace of Charm, the man would have a tall surveillance of the situation that was in place. A sea of tents and pavilion structures were set up to house those in the midst of recovery in varying stages. Sectioned off by wooden walls and cloth barriers to prevent the sight of some more gristlier results from several surgeries. The operating rooms themselves seem to be taking place in the surrounding buildings of the Court's massive rotunda shape center; theaters and tap houses now repurposed for surgeons to amputate and sew up stomach lining with meager means.

Nurses and other sorts of medics were in a constant stream of movement between the tents and buildings. Eyes either worn or glazed over with the amount of work that was always tugging at them. Always a soldier crying for help; always an officer from the army to deliver supplies that were always short in some way or another. Starvation and dehydration would kill many more than those who fell by the initial battle.

It's currently in the afternoon too.

\\It wasn't an uncommon sight for him. An unfortunate fact that slipped through and was lost like smoke in the wind as he immediately made his way to the closest tents or buildings. Happy to pass out what little food and water he had in his own pack while looking for whomever seemed to be in charge of the area.\\

It's a strange sight this far out, but Mazarin's efforts are quickly realized. What food is given is gobbled up too quickly for it to be digested properly; water gulped down until they started coughing. Little blessings, but also blood in a pool full of piranha hungry for life.

His charitable acts get acknowledged soon by one of the nurses, who does get a supervisor wearing a network of chains and coins along her neck. 

A short woman with a shaved head and shrewd features, she approaches Mazarin and clasps her hands in front, looking over the tall stranger before settling a pale eye on the symbol he bore. She speaks, saying two different phrases in two different tongues before speaking one that Mazarin would recognize. "What brings you to our work here?"

\\No, it would do very little in the grand scheme perhaps. But a little went a long way as he'd come to learn. It might offer a moment's respite to hang on to hope for just a little while longer. He slows as the short woman comes to him, breaking into a slow, wide smile as she flipped through languages before coming to one he actually recognized. Leaning on the staff to lower down a few inches closer to her, large bovine almond eyes light up.\\ Ah.... I came... to see. \\A pause, while one long ear flutters with the glint of wooden swirled earrings.\\ If I could... offer you aid.

Her eyes narrowed again, peering at the man's accoutrement and gear before glancing again to the symbol. "I have seen this symbol before. Long ago. Heard stories of the healers from Barta."

Another scrutinizing glance to the man's face and all of its peculiarities. Either she knew what Mazarin was, or just accepted that all easterners were strange folk. She lifts a hand and indicates Mazarin to follow before turning to walk towards one of the tents to the farther side of the court. She speaks lowly, but manages to pitch her voice directly at the Panyar too. "We don't have much supplies, and even less for hope. Many will die here."

She opens the flap to one tent that is sectioned off into eights by cloth barriers. Tuns to the nearest one on the left that was occupied. The patient inside had a bandaged arm with what was obviously a nasty cut that was starting to turn colors on the skin. A sheen of sweat was already on the soldier's skin as she was under the influence of some painkilling drugs. The supervisor speaks on. "I hear stories, but anyone can wear a brand, or an amulet. Show me the truth in your hands."

\\Everything is brightly colored and whimsical. Pleasing to the senses with drifting designs.\\ Story... no more, my friend. \\His smile widened further, genuine and kind as the woman studied him over. She was odd, to him. Idle thoughts wondering why she'd shaved her head.\\ That is... the way. But... 

\\He paused again, attention drifting as he followed the woman as if he'd forgotten his train of thought. Time passing before he picked it up again as if he hadn't stopped at all.\\ Even a few saved... is important.

\\He stooped as she opened the flap, tilting his staff to let him enter the small space. Half crouching until he could straighten enough for comfort while looking down at the patient the woman was offering up as a test.\\ Completely understandable. 

\\Warm and gentle, as he hunched over the soldier, propping his staff up against the bed lightly so he could take the woman's arm in his large grasp.\\ You best... hm.. pay attention. \\He doesn't wait long for the medic to get in place, lightly cupping his long fingers around the bandages to remove them softly. Getting a better view of the injury itself before sliding his hand in a ghostly hover over the gash. Mumbling in a softly flowing litany of words to let the golden brush of feathery light to drip through the soldier's blood and muscle to purge the infection and knit the cut together once more.\\

\\As he does, the bare skin of his mirrored arm slashes open, oozing sluggishly as the nasty, putrid hues that had been on the soldier, blotch over his flesh instead.\\

The supervisor stood to the opposite side of the soldier's cot, eyes hawkishly on Mazarin's hands as. She was clearly surprised when he did not reach for the physician's kit in the room, performing a miraculous act before her eyes. A wound that might've claimed the soldier's arm and maimed her for life was no gone. Sun branded skin with the few scars she's accrued over her own natural life; not a hint to show that one of Asrika's followers had come to her today.

Looking to the wound now on Mazarin's hand, the supervisor thumbed over one of the many linked coins around her neck, thinking of what to say before the words finally came. "The nurse's quarters are full as they are here, but there is a house near the waterfront that may take you in." She looks around the tent, seeing no one around. "It is a noticeable place. Faded blue rooftop and a wall broken from the siege. Go there and tell them Quaithe sent you. A room and food will be given, and you may begin your work here tomorrow morning."

That will... be perfect. \\He gently set down the soldier's arm, placing it neatly back at her side while sweeping away the pus and blood crusted bandages.\\ I will... go there. And return in the morning. \\His arm must have ached, and surely the fever would be spreading through his body. He was all light though, reaching to take up his staff once more as he looked over the curious sprinkle of coins decorating her collar.\\ If you... do need me... sooner. \\Large eyes moved to his own arm, thoughtfully humming before continuing.\\ You... may ask... for Mazarin.

Quaithe nods, bending down to kneel besides the soldier to check her fever. Secured in the knowledge that she would live it seems, the supervisor rose up and opened the cloth partition for Mazarin; leading him back among the sea of tents towards the south western edge of the Court of Singers. Right on the end of it she would extend a hand and provide brief instructions for Mazarin to follow. They were of course all things that could be recognized from an outsider's eyes; the shape of some building, the color of a rooftop and the statue of some kind or another than actual streets and names.

Following the the directions Mazarin would find himself approaching to the only part of the eastern riverside that appeared to have taken damage during the siege's first few months. A few buildings had caught the stray projectile and now wore sloped rubble that had yet to be cleared away from the roads.

It was still bearable to look at compared to much of the western bank. While it hadn't been completely annihilated, Mazarin could be certain that over there were many more injured with much less means of taking care of themselves.

He'd eventually find the building in question facing the polluted river that had the odd body floating down the way. It was a lengthy walk, now coming closer to the cusp of evening as Mazarin finds the front of the home facing the street and river. There was only one person out in the front, a stern and grizzled looking bouncer sort of character with tattoos over his sagging jowls and pierced cheekbones.

\\Calm and serene as a lazily winding river, he waited for Quaithe to come to her conclusions with only the idle flick of his long ears to give movement to the otherwise still Panyar. When she rose, he followed her, moving at a slow pace that still managed to eat up distance with his long legs. He appeared to listen closely to the instructions, thanking her with a hand over his breast before moving on. Unfortunately... he finds himself a little lost after a wrong turn as he made his way to the building Quaithe had told him to go to. After precious minutes of backtracking and finding a statue the woman had mentioned, he gets back on the right track. Not that he seemed to have minded in the slightest the inconvenience; Mazarin was happy to let the wind blow him one way or another and see the sights of the side of town that had suffered far less than the other.\\

\\It's a little later in the evening than he had intended to get there, but the tall Panyar comes plodding up to the building after spending a minute watching the dead body float down the river.\\ Hello, friend. \\Mazarin smiles at the grizzled fellow benignly.\\

The man gives a surly look over of Mazarin before leaning to the side and spitting out a wob of brown colored phlegm. He gives a reply to Mazarin that the Panyar wouldn't pick up on. It sounded similar to one of the languages Quaithe had tried with him, but at a severely hampered accent.

Hmmmmm.... \\Still and humming in thought, Mazarin stood there for a lengthy minute. Blinking slowly, like a cow at pasture with all the time in the world.\\ Quaithe?

\\His head slowly turns one way and then the other to be sure he did have the right place.\\

Recognition flickers over the bouncer's face. Hooks a thumb to the door on his left side.

\\He breaks into his slow grin again, eyes crinkling before he turned to plod to the door and enter the building. Another press of his hand to his chest in a show of silent gratitude, the wound stretching with a hot reminder of its existence.\\

Having to stoop low underneath the doorway, Mazarin comes into a spacious home that might've been a merchant's manor or a minor noble's riverside getaway. Now it was a half hovel, half smelling refuge for many unwashed bodies that were in the space. Fifteen bodies in total, each having scars, tattoos, and piercings that were all varied but similar to the one man outside. 

There was the main room, a sweeping staircase to the second floor, and an open archway that lead to a dining room that had the shadow of people inside being thrown to the wall by a fireplace. Two figures were on the stair causes on the higher rungs, armed with cudgels and daggers strapped to their belts giving Mazarin a look over with hawkish eyes.

\\Stoop he does, ducking extra low on instinct of too many banged brows on doorframes. When he stepped in proper, he straightened as much as he could and leaned against his staff.\\ Hello, friends. 

\\Whether or not he registered their dirty, seedy appearances wasn't clear. His smile for them all just as genuine as it had been for Quaithe and any one else on the street he had come across on his meandering way over. He begins a new meandering path, this one slowly heading for the dining room area, hardly seeming to mind the hard stares. Water right off a duck's back feathers.\\

Eyes follow after Mazarin as he comes into the dining hall. There are several figures too, gathered around one end of the table and pouring over what seemed to be a map of some kind. They stopped, looking up to the tall figure that Mazarin projected even with his lack-a-daisy nature. They exchanges glances, and one straightens to stand up fully. A bald man with a snake tattooed around his head like a circlet.

The snake headed man also speaks in different languages until one rings true on Mazarin's ear. "Again, who the hell are you?"

\\Ambling into the dining hall, he cast a long look over the space with a leisurely turn of his head to find a spot to sit down where he could stretch his legs out comfortably. He'd just begun to head to a spot when the familiar language tickled in his ear and it flicked with a clicking of his wooden earrings. He peered down at the tattooed man.\\ 

Ah.... Forgive me. Hm. I didn't think... anyone spoke my... language. 

You may... call me... \\He stops in a gradual halt of his carrying voice, large eyes lighting on the map while blinking slowly.\\ Hmm.... Mazarin.

"Mazarin", The snake tattooed man said, exchanging a look between his cohorts before speaking in their own language. A few exchanges and the man nods to the Panyar's way. "If you're here then it's with Quaithe's instruction. Here about a room?"

And... you? \\Almost as if in afterthought with how long it takes for him to ask. Then he nodded, rustling his long pink hair with its strangely colored braid.\\ A room... and food. If... there's any. \\He placed his hand to his stomach, over the thin fabric of his tunic. Arm pulsing hotly with the motion while his eyes slitted down to a lean amber glint.\\ To spare.

He glances to a person over Mazarin's shoulder before speaking again. "Yeah, we'll get you set with a room and meal. Don't you worry, there's plenty enough to go around."

There's a whiff of air coming to Mazarin's ear before a heavy, studded cudgel hits the Panyar square in the temple. A moment later two burly armed men were grabbing for Mazarin's arms to arrest, digging knees to the back of Mazarin's knees to send them crashing to the stone floor.

\\His ear flicks at the whiff of air, head tilting as if to look behind him. The cudgel slams into the side of his face, sending spots of light flashing and winking across his vision while staggering under the blow with a loud grunt. An arm gets caught, shoulder dropping under the weight while he snapped his other wrist to flick the butt of his staff up with a hitch and then smash it down into the man's foot, right at the ankle to shatter the joint through whatever raggedy boot he might be wearing. A knee buckles, and he tries to dig his fingers into the shirt of the other man next to him, to drag him down with deceptive strength to topple one of them off balance on his way, to shake off one of them at least. Head ringing with a droning whine.\\

A thug curses a litany of swears right at Mazarin's ear as the staff hits the ankle with a meaty hit. The other one buckles, wrestling for footing underneath Mazarin's hard tugging and still holding onto Mazarin's arm. The third thug raised and struck the Panyar again with the cudgel as the other one raised a foot to kick against Mazarin's kneecap.

The snake tattooed man made a passing remark, which the two nearest replied with chortles. Another sentence, this one obviously a command, and the three thugs would wrestle and drag Mazarin from the dining hall and back to the main room where the other fifteen thugs were loitering about.

They all had daggers and cudgels at the ready, a few giving jeering calls to the latest prize of theirs brought back to view.

Then one of the thugs right in the doorway sprouted a red bloodied blade from her throat, spewing blood and choking on the steel before an awful twisting sound is heard, breaking bones and severing meat to decapitate the woman in a single move.

^With a hard boot to the headless woman's back, the blade's owner is revealed in the doorway, moving forward with a fluid pair of steps to twist the blade and lunge at the nearest thug.^

The thugs, now all turning at once to see this figure, behold five more coming in after the swordsman. All of them having a mixture of weapons intended for close quarters, dressed in plains clothes that had the sound of mail underneath the fabric.

The brief stupor falls away and the thugs turn to engage with these attackers.

Fuck them up! ^A sharp snarl comes from the man as he adds another coat of red to his blade.^

\\Blood trickled from the blow to his head, creeping down in a hot trail while his thoughts fuzzed and fizzled. As chaos erupted and the thugs leaped into action, he made a bid to get back to his feet slowly, like he'd forgotten his precarious situation. It's much more accidental than on purpose as he staggers from the wild flashes in his vision, straight into a thug next to him. The full brunt of his hefty weight slamming into the person to send them crashing off to one side.\\

The two thugs on Mazarin's arm leave off on the Panyar in favor of going to fight these invaders; which is proving to be a one sided affair as they have already dropped three thugs on the ground, entrails spilling outwards, and another with a severed hand.

The thug behind Mazarin remains close by, swinging a low blow to the Panyar's kneecap. Which doesn't help his fellow thug who gets thrown straight into the sword of one of these attackers.

\\His stomach growls, reminding him that he really just had wanted a decent meal and a place to sleep before he went to work tomorrow morning. Followed swiftly by the sharp pain in his knee, and a low grunt from Mazarin. Anger never rises, but he leveled a sad, disappointed stare on the thug that had struck him after fixing his stance to face the wavering man. He exhaled in a great gust, stooping to grab the man by his shirt front and get him onto his toes while squinting through the building headache.\\ They'll... kill you. 

\\His eyes narrowed even further at a spike of pain.\\ If you... don't stop. \\Another heavy, despondent sigh.\\

\\Most of his weight is resting on his good leg, favoring the one that had been struck.\\

The thug, obviously distressed that this giant cow looking man had yet to pass out after several hits, whips his head back to cash his forward against Mazarin's nose.

The sounds of the fight continue. Some thugs take off on their own to save their own hide after seeing one too many dead on the ground. The few that remained fought with some feral ruthlessness, using dirty tricks just like the attackers were. Two thugs shove an attacker to the wall, stabbing into the man's gut repeatedly before a pair of maces clobbered the thugs to more heaps of bleeding meat.

\\Mazarin shoves as the thug's head comes forward, pushing him away with surprising force. He's not exactly a quick man though, and the thug's brow smashes into his nose enough to crunch cartilage. Blood and snot erupt from his large nose, spluttered out over the thug's face when Maz shouted in a cry of pain. He went staggering back again, black winking in and out of his sight with a spiderweb crackling that nearly sucked him under.\\

\\His bad knee buckles and he hits the ground on it, another hard stab of pain up into his hip and ribs that steals air from his lungs.\\

The thug goes down, and the opportunity isn't wasted by one of the attackers who approaches and drops a piece of rope on the thug's chest.

-That same attacker, a shorter man with a white beard framing a dark leathery face hidden by a wide brimmed hat, contorted his fingers and growled out some phrases. The rope, coming alive it seemed like a snake, began to wrap and entangle around the downed thug's body. Cinching around the wrists and ankles.-

\\He blinks at the smarting watering of his eyes, trying to see what was happening.\\

By the time Mazarin's aware of it in the next moment, the fight's over. The eight of the thugs were on the ground, dead. Others having fled and being pursued by the other attackers. One of the attackers is still holding his bleeding guts as he slumped against the wall.

^And the other one wiped his blade on the back of a fallen thug, turning it over to inspect before calling out to the short fellow in the strange hat.^  That our man?

-Leans down to grab the thug's around before shaking his head.-

Sagging asscheeks,  ^Continues to clean off his blade before bringing it to rest on his shoulder.^

\\He gradually makes a phlegmy sound in the back of his throat, before hacking a bloodied loogie off to one side. An action that then made him wince, which made him do it again at the fine crackles of pain erupt over the delicate bones of his face from his broken nose. When the cycle ends, he slowly finds his feet, using a chair and his staff to help.\\ One... of you...

-Gives a kick to the thug's temple with a heavy boot before looking at the towering Panyar.-

\\He seems to forget he was speaking at all, meandering ever so slowly... more slowly than even before with his injuries, to the one slumped and holding his guts.\\

^The sword moves off his shoulder and lowers itself to press against Mazarin's chest. Not to impale, but to try and halt the Panyar.^ You ain't a local. Slave?

\\A gust of heavy air leaves him, like the great exhale of a weary beast.\\

\\Warm almond eyes settle on Smiley, head throbbing in a way that made the man's image warble on his edges.\\

Mercy. -The shorter man tuts, grabbing a hold of the thug and dragging him across the ground. One of the attackers goes over to help the older, white bearded man.-

\\He began to shake his head in answer, but thinks better on it when pain shoots through. Instead, he pats his brooch with a heavy hand when Smoke gives the word.\\ I will.... heal your friend.

^Looks to the pendant and then to Smoke. Doesn't seem to have much faith in the iconography, but the old soldier's words make Smiley remove the blade from Mazarin's chest.^ Alright then. Just keep in mind I got a big sharp stick in my hand.

Little men. \\With the sword's removal, he eases down nearer to the fallen man to check his wounds and assess what could be done physically, and what needed to be healed otherwise.\\

\\Minutes pass and he picks up on his earlier words.\\ Sharp sticks.

The man's guts were practically shredded. The thug's blades had been thin stilettos, piercing through the ringlets of the mail underneath and stabbed at least ten times. Death in minutes was a certainly as blood spilled between the armor and cloth and stained the man's lap.

\\It would likely be better to put the man out of his misery. But what was the point of his power if he couldn't save even the most far gone? \\

\\He rested his large hands around the man's guts, blood spilling through his fingers and staining his dull skin with a sheen of brilliant crimson.\\ You will... be alright. Soon. \\Gentle words, before he started to murmur, bowing his head. Long pink hair slipped away from his nape, exposing the branded sigil mirrored as a brooch on his tunic, while a soft, radiant light spilled into the fallen man. Pouring like liquid gold through the man's stomach, whittling away the injuries.\\

\\Just as fast as they vanished from the man, they formed on Mazarin. Spots of red blooming against the pale blue of his shirt, although stilted from just how much blood the other fellow had lost. Painful all the same, in a way that made his low rumbling words slow down more than before as a sheen of sweat beaded over his skin while he worked.\\

^He was sitting on his haunches adjacent to the Mercy, skeptical eyes on the soldier under his command and Mazarin as he supposedly worked a wonder...and, well, it was there. Right before Smiley. There might've been awe and reverence from a more holier man, but the look on his face went from skepticism to a cruel grin.^ Well, why don'tcha look at that? Looks like you get to disappoint a whore for another day now, Zec.

\\His ear flicks as Smiley speaks, withdrawing from the man after a time.

Zec was the one with open awe and gods damn surprise when he pawed his hand over the armor that was still bloodied, but no longer bleeding.

You shouldn't... be disappointing. \\A moment passes.\\ Whores. They work... hard.

^Gives a twisted smirk to Mazarin before speaking to the Zec.^ Right, go get yourself to the boat. Grab Jordie and Sisko to help Smoke with our captive, too. 

\\He thinks about getting up. But this is a comfortable spot for the time being. And maybe these men would leave soon, and he could rest and heal before anyone else showed up.\\

Everyone else loot what you can and get ready to move when I holler. ^Stands up, stretching his legs before sheathing his blade across his back scabbard.^ So, Mercy, you got a name and reason for walking into a slaver's den?

\\He doesn't answer for several heartbeats. Still moments where it could almost be believed he had passed right there. Then he inhales, moving around sluggishly to try and get at his pack, to remove supplies to wrap up his stomach at least because it did feel like his innards were going to spill out of all the little holes.\\ Mazarin.

I didn't.... know. Quaithe... said to come. \\His bloodied hand splays against his stomach. At least he didn't feel the hunger pangs anymore. A sad, sad sliver of acceptance.\\ Room and food. Was going to heal... the fighters. For her.

\\He appeared to be puzzled over the entire matter.\\

She's been suspected to part of a smuggling operation here in the city. Stealing medical supplies from the Court and sending it over to the enemy soldiers across the river.  ^Nudges a boot to a dead body, reaching down to grab a coin purse tied to the body's waist before pocketing it.^ And when supplies are short, well, people go missing in sieges all the time. Strangers especially. You were probably gonna be someone's prized toy healer for life.

\\He drifted back to the dying soldiers who had been so hungry for a bite to eat, or a sip of water.\\

\\His earnest features arrange into a dark scowl abruptly, amber pools heating up with a lightning flash of anger.\\ Will... \\He sighs, long and suffering.\\ Take care of her.

Wouldn't hedge my bets on finding her after this. But more luck to you all the same. ^Turns to look at his fellows and give a few and gestures.^ Was under orders to bring everyone I found here back with me for interrogations. Loose ends, smuggling secrets and all that shit. Zec'll march with us another day, and that's worth something. So what is you need here, big guy? I can play blind and just leave you to your devices, no mess otherwise. Need a way out of the city? Siege ain't ending anytime soon, and it's not going to get any prettier.

\\He passed a hand over his stomach, fabric sticking to his belly and sliding uncomfortably against his skin. This place wasn't safe, and he didn't know any other place that would be safer. Uninhibited by the blood on his fingers, he scratched his head while thinking. Who knew really, how long it would take him to recover. He swallowed thickly against a stinging sneeze threatening his broken nose before nodding slowly.\\ A way... out.

^He nods, then turns about to leave the building, gesturing for Mazarin to follow. When he's out, Smiley is raising his voice.^  Smoke! Get everyone and our prisoner back to Pearl Gate. I'll see you ugly fuckers there.

\\Gradual increments of movement have him following Smiley.\\

-The old man gives a gesture back and swats the arm of one woman nearby. They all clamber on board the small skiff and push off the river's edge, oaring back up river and going towards western side of the city.-

^Seeing them off, Smiley turns about and heads down the street, retracing the path that Marazin had taken to get to the slaver's den, but circling around the Court itself by some blocks.^ Mind a stupid obvious question?

\\He plods at a dawdling pace, limping on a bad knee with his head swimming hard enough at times to make him dizzy.\\ Might have... \\The thump of his staff intermittent with his heavy steps fills the gap for a time.\\ A stupid, obvious... answer.

What the shits is a Mercy doing out this far west of the world?

The wind... led me here. \\A loose and easy grin overtakes his large face. Pulling at his broken nose and he winces lightly before grumbling.\\ Why are you.... here? \\After a pause.\\

Work. If you want to get existential about it I'm here because I'm no good at anything else besides making other lives miserable. Reminds me that I've forgotten my manners yet again. ^He turns and snaps to attention, setting his heels together and putting a closed fist over his heart.^ Sergeant Smiley of the Legion. Hired on by the great three bastards to keep their gilded assholes from being properly fucked by their cousins across the river.

^Gives a dismissive snort and goes back to walking.^

No dawn... without the night. \\Comes his eventual answer, his lumbering steps coming to a halt when Smiley whirls around to give a proper introduction.\\ Well met. Sergeant Smiley of the Legion. I am... \\He might have forgotten already introducing himself, at least partially, with all the blows to his head. Because he gives his own again.\\ Mazarin Flowing Ember. Of... \\He comes to some lengthy thought that occupies his expression for a moment.\\ Hmmm.... 

\\Appearing to forget about it entirely a beat later.\\ You may use... Mazarin. Or Maz... as some do. \\Then he ambles again, doing his best to ignore the wild throbs of pain banging around his poor body.\\ Why... were you killing? The slavers.

Instead of... keeping the gilded assholes... from being... properly fucked by their cousins... across the river? \\Probably the longest set of words he's given by far.\\

'Cause if there's one thing this city's got down, it's seedy corruption and betrayal abound. And when the Masters can't trust the motives of those below, they trust those who's loyalty is to gold. Which is us. . ^He scowls at some inward thought. It wasn't going to be fun reporting this to the Marshal after the weeks they had put into its planning; but that's why he sent Smoke forward to get the disappointment already set up by the time Smiley got there for the tail end of it.^  

Shouldn't have been a butcher's scene, but that's how it goes sometimes. Slavers got deliveries and people at regular intervals on specific days. The odd day that someone else was sent there meant something had changed, and it couldn't be risked to let them go.

Farther eastwards they go to the parts of Charm that must not have seen conflict for some generations, pristine and empty as the streets were now that the evening was pulling on a vibrant set of colors over her mantled sky.

Passing through beautiful architecture and plazas, the two of them would begin to near the eastern gate that lead out of the city of Charm. And there they'd find where everyone else was at, supposedly. A massive set of double doors that spanned at least twenty feet upwards were closed, and the portcullis was being lowered.

The guards of Charm were forming a barrier to keep the crowd back from the gate as they pleaded for various reasons

So... it was my... fault? \\His large eyes thin to slits of pensive consideration, though he seemed to grow distracted by the lovely architecture for a time before they came upon the guarded gate.\\

No plan survives contact with the enemy. Hardly your fault in my book, ^Smiley's demeanor shifted lightly at the scene, then he moved forward to shove his way through.^

^Raises his voice in the local language to get something heard, and eventually does elbow a few rowdy members of the crowd.^

The crowd somewhat parts for Smiley, though Mazarin's towering presence would get noticed as he would see the teams of soldiers going about the gate to move wagons and carts in position.

Atop the city walls there were guards also in motion performing various tasks shouted by guard officers, marked by their plumed helms and green cloaks.

\\He lumbers along after Smiley, doing what he can to hide the worst of his bloodied clothes and injuries to prevent unnecessary concern or worry.\\ Hmmm...

What are they... doing? \\Most of the words escape him entirely, since he can't understand them.\\

Fuck if I know. Hold on, ^He reaches out a hand to grab the haft of one guard's spear as they were holding it out horizontally.^  Let us through. Legion business. What the fuck is going on?

There's clearly some difficulty for the guard to understand all of Smiley's words, but the Legion is recognized and he does angle the spear back for the sergeant and Mazarin to walk through. 

The guard also gives a glance to the portcullis as it was still inching towards the ground. In smattered Aldermani, the guard says. "Army! Horizon! March here. The Dar."

^His face deepens to a scowl at the mention of the Dar. Then Smiley goes jogging towards one of the switchback stairs that lead up to the wall's battlements.^

\\He scratches his head and continues to follow after Smiley.\\

The two of them ascend upwards to the battlements, joining the throng of guards moving about their stations. Moving rocks, buckets of water and oil. Spare spears to line in the archer parapets and long bolts for the mounted ballistae.

Right across the eastern horizon, like a sea of fire flies marching in unison than lazy patterns, was an army heading towards Charm. Slowly, but no doubt they would reach the city by the night and start their own siege woks. 

Red banners fluttered amongst the enemy army, which by a guesstimate lined somewhere near ten thousand soldiers.

^Shoving a few soldiers aside, Smiley comes up to the stone barrier and peers over. The scowl leaves his face, taking in the sight with a professional's eye.^ So much for those gilded assholes.

\\He surveyed the count, taking in a rough estimate before releasing a low, long whistle. By the Horned One, this was not a welcoming sight.\\

They are going to be.... properly fucked. \\Nods slowly.\\

If I had to hazard a fucking guess, the Dar will be intent on starving us out too. Set up a siege camp, cut off the city's last supply lines, and hasten our internal struggling. ^And then the city would tear itself apart from the base up.^

^Looks behind him, towards the faint outline of the western horizon before speaking again.^  Still keen on getting the hell out of here?

\\He chews on a thought for a time.\\

Are you? \\More absent than intent, this question. Gazing out over the distance.\\

I go where the Legion goes. We've gotten out of worse scraps before. ^Or so he was told, many times, by the Legion's annalist.^

^Then he looks up to Mazarin.^ Don't know how you feel about mercenaries, but the Legion takes all kinds. Even those who just want to tag along until something better comes by. Can hole up with us and die amongst strangers than guess whatever the fucking Dar'll do.

\\Whatever thought had been rolling through his brain like molasses came to some kind of conclusion by the way his expression cleared. Turning a grin down on Smiley before clapping his large hand down on the Sergeant's shoulder. A feeling like a block of stone coming down, as if the Panyar didn't know his own strength but still had tried to be gentle.\\ Providence.... it seems.

We will... keep each other, alive.

Do that fancy trick of yours on our wounded and I'm sure they'll be lining up to suck you off in gratitude and in hope. ^Giving a final sweep of the horizon, Smiley starts down the stairs and through the city.^

\\His ear flutters.\\

\\He then follows Smiley back down again.\\ That seems... not good for resting. And getting well again.

Seems like we're gonna have a talk about the virtues of fucking as medicine itself. ^Cruel topics, easy jokes to pass the time with. Smiley's got many more to give, making it seem like there wasn't a second full fledged army of troops on the horizon.^

Though both of them would have plenty of time to ponder on that thought. Going through the eastern side of the city and coming to the last bridge that connected the two halves of the city. Probably one of the last few times that bridge would be open before a siege within a siege occurs.

\\Mazarin seemed to find it amusing, if the easy grin on his face was anything to say by it. But then again, it always seemed to be there in perpetuity except for the brief instance of a scowl when he'd learned the truth.\\ Always interested... in medicine. 

\\They come up to the bridge, considering the implications of the spot with gravity. He trusted his Gods, but it felt like a test and one that might prove fatal.\\

Passing through the eastern bridge fort filled with the city guard, the pair of them would cross the long, old bridge that was once three of Charm's arteries connected. The other two had been destroyed, left with their standing pillars in the riverbed by order of the Masters of Charm. 

The mercenary companies trusted with defending those forts had all but crushed in the first engagements of the siege. The last holdouts had their bridge fort marked with standards, and in a few places, pikes with the severed heads of enemies between those standards. 

Soldiers patrolled the bridge fort's smaller walkways too, though a few sharp whistles from Smiley and the western bridge doors were opening. Yielding the way for Smiley to rejoin his fellows in the Legion, and for the Panyar Mercy to begin a long road of daring trials and tribulations.