It never ceased to amaze Him, that wherever he went, whatever he did, people were always basically the same. Always hierarchical, always passing resources up the pyramids of power, to support the organisers, those who had made a claim on those resources. Most people accepted that was the way things would be, and got on with their lives, consistently working, one way or another, to perpetuate the circumstances, even when they were clearly suffering for it.

The traveller himself had come from just such a society. Indeed, he had been one of those who had enjoyed the benefits of such a system, purely through accident of birth. And he was not about to complain. After all, his social status had opened doors of access. It had enable him to get a first-class education, to use those resources as a means of seeing more of the world than the toilers in the fields would ever conceive of.

Truth be told, he had to acknowledge that without such a system, there was no way his eyes would have been opened to the flaws within it, had he been born of cruder stock.

That was his paradox. He wanted to elevate the human condition, but he knew damned-well that if he had not been born from privilege, he would never have had such lofty goals. It used to frustrate him as a younger man. These days, it merely made him smile with an amused twinkle in his eye. Just one of the many eternal comedies of life he had come to terms with, over the years.

“Here. This tea will revitalise your boy. I have sealed the wound with a spell, but he needs to rest for the next couple of days, or the wound will re-open. The muscles need to complete their regrowth in the right position, or his hand will be deformed. That means, keep the splint tight. Do you understand?” He did not wait for an answer from the boy's wide-eyed mother. Instead, the traveller stood up and strode over to the next bed. A pale young man with hollow eyes and sallow skin looked blankly up at him.

“Malnourished. Give this boy broth and plenty of warm water. And mix some of this powder in with the water.” He handed the nurse a paper sachet, shooing her away while he went to the next cot and then the next.

An hour later and he was standing outside the charity, staring up at an overcast sky. First spatterings of rain touching his face. Leaning back, the man closed his eyes, extracting a small delight as needles of cold from sky soothed the tension that he felt. Suffering still touched him these days, but more the general concept of suffering. Now, individuals in pain blurred together in his thoughts. Only the work mattered now. Professional pride.

He rubbed his temples. Odd that something like that should still matter to him, after all this time. Time to go home.

When the ruffians grabbed him, he made no effort to resist. They just wanted drugs, maybe some money. It wasn't his first robbery after all. He knew the drill.

But as they dragged him into an alley and the blade came out, he noticed a methodical quietness about the three men. They were better-fed than your usual mugger, less desperation in the eyes. Something wasn't right here.

“Okay, do it here. Make it look good, tovarisch,” said one of the men to his comrades. That was when the traveller realised this was not going to be a robbery at all.

The rain still felt foreign to Samira, yet it was something she was slowly coming to enjoy.  It didn't rain like this very often in Mamlak, rain there mostly came in great storms that swept in from the west.  Here, the rain seemed to come often in the form of a gentle drizzle.  That was another word that was new and strange to her, though Samira was enjoying the intricacies of the Wyllmochvarian tongue.  And it was from one of her lessons in language that she was walking home from when she saw a man being pulled into an alleyway.  By three others. 

She stood for a few moments, torn.  She was but a woman, who could barely conjure the smallest of flames.  It wasn't any of her business, and she would only be getting herself hurt.  But Samira had been the helpless one once, with no one to stand up for her.  And she had sworn that she would keep that from happening to others if she could.  "Hey!  Leave him alone.  Not too fair, three on one," she called out.  Her voice still carried a strong accent from across the seas, and Samira hoped it might confuse the attackers for long enough so that the man might escape.

The woman yelling in a foreign accent was enough of a distraction for the men. There were three of them. One holding the knife ready at hip height. Probably so that he would be able to stab below the breast bone and up into the heart in a single motion. The other two held Him up against a wall, one on each arm. All three of them clearly knew what they were doing. Professional murderers. They reminded him of a woman he had once known, a lifetime ago.

But they were easily distracted. A sign they were nervous. Someone had warned them about him. Someone who knew him. But how could that have been possible? What enemy could have followed him all the way here?

No time. The distraction would only be momentary. With superhuman strength, he breathed in, exhaled and twisted his wrists so that his outstretched arms now grasped the faces of the two who were holding him back. As skin came into contact with skin, he breathed in their essences through the pores of his palms, taking their strength and making it his own. Faces withering, each man's grasp instantly slackened. With newfound energy, the victim became the victor, bringing his arms together so that the head of each man slammed into the other with a dull cracking sound. Letting go of their emaciated faces, he allowed them to slump to the ground.

The third man with the knife had turned with a quick motion, bringing round the blade, but he had to step to one side when it became clear that his view of the healer's torso was obscured by the weakened bodies of his comrades as they were swung together in an embrace that ended in a sudden, violent action.

By the time the men had hit the slick cracked flagstones, it was over. The one they called Him had taken the remainder of their power, condensing it into an incandescent ball of superheated air that he let fly from his hands. There followed a dull thump, a strangled cry and the licking of white hot flames around the would-be-killer's torso. He fell back, sprawling on the wet ground. An enormous smoking cavity melted into his chest. The bottom half of his face was gone and the aroma of burnt meat was enough to make Him salivate. He fell back against the wall, repelled by the smell and spat onto the ground, face twisted in disgust. He had never enjoyed killing. Somehow, using a spell to do so made him feel as though he had taken something pure and sullied it.

The papery whispering groan from one of the men distracted Him and he looked over to see where blood from a head wound was mingling with a puddle, directly beneath him. Eyes darting over to the other man, he saw that one was silent. A slow rising and falling of his chest indicated he still lived. Him smiled grimly, leaning against the wall with one hand, then fixed the woman with a grateful smile.

“You saved me from certain death. I thank you.” He looked back at the corpse and winced. “To think that I heal the stricken. This…this is…” The older man averted his gaze. “I'm sorry. Sorry you had to see that.”

When she had thought to provide a distraction, Samira hadn't quite gotten to what she would actually do.  But that was taken out of her hands, it seemed that the stranger only needed a distraction to act.  He looked human enough, though she could sense some kind of energy coming from him.  It was a strange effect of the ritual she had been through, being close to magic tended to make her skin prickle in a particular manner.  It was clear that he was used to a fight though, and Samira found herself frozen.  There wasn't much she could do anyway, and not much that she needed to do anyway.  None the less, she found herself staring at the man with a hole in his chest.

"You defend yourself.  They meant to kill you.  There is no crime in that," she said after a few moments.  He was a healer… perhaps he could help her more than the mages?  But Samira wasn't going to ask that of a stranger, not just yet.  She had no reason to trust him just now.  Keeping some distance, Samira moved further into the alleyway, not wishing to draw more attention.  "But would they attack a healer?  Are shaman not sacred here?  I thought it offensive to harm your kind anywhere.  There is no honor in harming the menders," she said, sounding a bit puzzled.  The only thing that made sense was that there were other things at play here, things she could not see yet.

Crouching close to the man who yet breathed, Samira studied him for a moment.  He had a wiry build, telling her that is was likely he knew his profession well.  "This one lives.  For now.  Will you let him continue to breathe?  Perhaps he knows something that could help you understand," she suggested.  What the healer did next would determine her own actions. 

The healer leaned forward, rest his hands upon his knees, suddenly overcome by a creeping tiredness. It was always this way of late. Every time he was forced to expend energy in any form he would be overcome by exhaustion. It was his body, of course. Energy was what supported him now, for he was old and his body was slowly dying. The irony, he grimaced, summoning the power of his will and straightening up so that he now towered over the woman, albeit unsteadily. Old bones creaked in sockets, and yet he had the appearance of a man on the threshold of middle age.

Saying nothing, he cast his eye over the two living men. One was on the threshold. If he did not receive medical attention within the next hour, he would certainly die. The other was making sounds. According to the old man's cursory assessment, he would survive. Clearly he possessed the thicker skull. He would do.

The healer placed a palm flat against the wall behind him, muttering a silent incantation. Brickwork crumbled almost imperceptibly under his touch. It wasn't much, but it would support him for now. Feeling stronger, he stepped away from the wall, leaving a faint indentation where a hand had been a moment before.

Squatting over the silent man, the one known as Him placed a palm against his chest and closed his eyes. He did not have enough energy to donate, but with appropriate action, perhaps the man's own energy could be re-purposed? Yes, a kidney, a section of the man's spleen, that appendix…extracting the life from them and transferring it to the crack in his skull, sealing up cerebral tissues, smoothing out fluid pressure. It would be enough. Not enough to fully heal him of course. He would wake with a splitting headache, plenty of bruising and swelling around the tendons, but he would recover in time. A shift of focus and it was done. The unconscious man would have to avoid alcoholic excess now that one of his kidneys had atrophied, but that was not Him's problem.

“He will live,” Him opened his eyes and looked up at the woman while removing his palm from the man's chest. “I take no pleasure in the death of others, even if they mean me harm.”

He stood, still a little shaky. “But this other, I would like to know who means me harm, and why.” An idle tap with the toe of his boot against the ribs of the man, who grunted in response. But I think questioning him out here could be dangerous. There might be others looking for these men. I would question him. Hm. He appears to be recovering. Perhaps if I weaken him enough so that he could walk with assistance?” He threw Samira a questioning look. “But where should I take him? I do not want to show him my home's location. That could expose me to even greater danger.”

She was quiet for the time being, only watching the man.  There was something strange about him, something that Samira couldn't put a finger on.  He moved like an old man, but his face showed something else.  Very curious.  "You are a good man, healing one that meant you harm.  I would guess you could have left him to die, and it would not have been seen," she murmured, glancing behind.  The streets were quiet tonight, which was a good thing.  Samira couldn't quite make out what she had gotten into, but she had a feeling that she would have to see it through.

It only made sense that he would have to know who would mean harm on him.  "When they fail to return, I am certain someone else might come for you too.  Information, it is a valuable thing.  I might know a place…  But I have a question for you first," Samira said.  There was something bothersome to her, and she wanted to know just who he was.  At least as much as he would tell her.  "Have you a name?  Mine is Samira, I am a stranger here.  But I know a few things about this city.  If I can trust you, I will help," she said.  Samira was taking a chance, and a part of her was glad.  She was coming out of the shell she had built up.

A door opened, further up the alley, and someone threw their kitchen refuse out.  People would be coming through here in later hours to scavenge through those scraps, and she knew that now was the best time to move someone without being too noticed.  "there's a place I study, in the corner of a garden.  I like how quiet it is.  We could take him there," she suggested.  It was out of the way, and not many people even knew about it.  Perhaps that would suffice.

He looked up at the woman, studying her, as though trying to come to a decision. Then he looked at the man who was to be his prisoner. For a moment he felt that old familiar hunger. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass. By the time Samira had finished with her question, the hunger was gone. He returned the questioning gaze with one of his own, but the question in his thoughts was not directed at the woman.


“I had a name once, long ago. But that name was a lie.” He began to lift the man with surprising ease for one of his years. With a little encouragement, the would-be-assassin was coaxed to his feet where he stared blearily at the ground, only partly conscious. If I were to speak that name, it would place you in great danger. I suspect someone out there knows that name. That is why these men were sent to end my life.”


Slapping his prisoner across the face, the man stirred and groaned. “You will walk with us. If you do not, I will return you to the state you were in, moments ago. Do you understand?”


The man nodded feebly, clinging to his larger captor for balance. His eyes rolled and he stumbled, but he was kept from falling. Placing one foot in front of the other, the thug demonstrated he was capable of walking. “Good. Now, come with us and you will live.”


“I am grateful for your assistance, Samira. I am known to many as 'Him'. But if it is easier, you can call me Naye.” The man staggered while 'Naye' helped him along, managing not to stumble under his weight. For an older man he was surprisingly strong. “Now, let us find this garden.”

They studied each other before giving answers, and that was something that gave Samira a measure of comfort.  To study before reacting was something that she had learned after many hard lessons.  Her brows furrowed for a moment about his mention of his name, it was a strange thing for her to hear.  But she decided to not question it at this time.  After all, it seemed that this man was trying to protect her, after a fashion.

Naye.  That name was strange to her ears, but it was likely hers was as well.  "Come, it is not too far.  With the time, you should not draw too much attention.  I imagine they will think him to be drunk," Samira said before she led the way.  It was a quiet walk, and only a few people glanced their way.  The garden was only a few minutes walk, but quite a few twists and turns were required to get there.  Around this corner, across the square to that alleyway, and through a small forest of tall grass.  The sound of running water drifted through the evening to their ears as well.

When they arrived, it was as quiet as she had promised.  There was a small fountain running near by, and Samira could only figure that there was magic powering it.  Her reasoning was that she had never seen algae growing on the stone, and the water was always cold and sweet.  She retrieved a cup she had hidden in an alcove of stones, and took a long drink.  Refilling the cup, she offered it to Naye.  "This place reminds me a little of home.  I think that's why I like it.  When the winds blow through the grass, it sounds like the city I grew up in," she said, sounding wistful.  It was not very likely she would ever see Mamlak again.

Ryail Morrigan watched the incident unfolding from an alcove further up the ally. unnoticed by the tall man or the woman as he had wrapped the shadows around himself like a silken clock made of the night itself. Ryail loved walking with the shadows hidden from all but the most observant. 

he had not been in the city long, the old man who's cart he had hitched a ride on the day before had not as yet provided him with any help, though he had left the fool alive in hopes that he might as yet prove useful.

now he walked the city streets by night wrapped in shadow learning what he could about this place that would be his new home.

he did not understand why the tall man, Naye he had called himself, had allowed the fools to capture him. it was clear to anyone with eyes that he could have prevented the attack should he have chosen to. Ryail watched as the tall man healed the injuries of the worse for wear of the two living attackers and stooped to pick up the other with the help of the woman Samira and then move away out of the ally.

he waited a moment to be sure he would not be seen then approached the bodies, one dead and one nearly so. still wrapped in the shadowy clock of the night. he was amazed at the strength of Naye. the living mans face was deformed and the dead mans chest still smocked faintly the smell of cooked meat tickling his nose and filling him with the desire to eat.

he then looked at the wall, where Naye had placed his hand to steady himself. the hand print was clearly imprinted into the brick like the touch of age or decay perhaps had stricken only that one spot. Ryail did not understand how the stone could have been affected in that manner but his curiosity was peeked, and he decided he would follow the pair and learn what he could before introducing himself should that seem wise.

he looked down once more at the bodies. such a waste of blank canvas, his mind was already rearranging the dead flesh into patterns, pealing back the skin and muscle to reveal the bones not yet polished and animated. he sighed inwardly it was not yet time for art he had no accommodations or tools of the trade as of yet with which to ply his craft. still that did not mean this little adventure had to be completely without enjoyment.

reaching out with his mind he gathered up the darkness, it coalesced into shadowy tendrils that he extended with his will to encircle the neck of the still breathing man. carful not to push to hard lest he leave betraying marks behind he closed the airways of the unconscious thug and slowly chocked the life from the man.

the tall man was a healer by his own words, yet he was also a dealer in death. he had used both of these skills on this fool, an exercise in power that Ryail could respect but it seemed such a waste not to exercise his own power when the opportunity was so conveniently presented to him.

the deed done he took a deep breath and smiled, this fool was not a good man either so he felt no qualms about what he had done. turning in the direction of were the two had traveled Ryail found a shadowy path and began to follow after. it took awhile he was not really a tracker but he found them sitting next to a small spring Samira had just retrieved a cup and filled it from the spring.

little more then a shadow of the night Ryail Morrigan settled down quietly a short distance away and waited to see what the failed assassin had to say.