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| - It's safe to say that Milora Lomasa is looking her best - nicely groomed and pink with cheer, she is accompanied by a rather heavyset commoner woman and carrying what appears to be a shopping basket. It is full of a jar of spice, a box of tea leaves and a few seasonal pieces of fruit. She appears to be in good spirits, but calm as she speaks to her companion - even though she seems happy, the fact that there is something on her mind is apparent to the astute. Astute or not is open to debate, really, when you're discussing Kael. Even as Milora crosses the market crossroads, her commoner in tow, the freelander magus leans against the wall of the gong, hood down, the Mark generating no few looks and grumbles that remain ignored. It's worth mentioning the cut above his eye, the merry bruise in a dozen shades that gives the very definition of the idiom 'shiner' - though it doesn't seem to impair him overmuch. As for ignoring the looks? The fish might have something to do with it. Yes, a fish - speared on that odd wildlander's knife, headless, gutted, uncooked.. and apparently rather tasty. Slowly coming to a halt as she heads south, Milora finally stops not a large distance from Kael. 'Her commoner' seems to recoil, apparently overcome by a surplus of fear, disgust or snobbery by the way she retreats and watches from some yards away. Milora tilts her head as though confirming the identity of the young greying man before she inclines her chin. "Kael," she says gently, "are you eating a raw fish?" Kael blinks, looking up - and flashes Milora a merry smile, swallowing before offering the thing, actually holding it out for her to thieve a bite, if she cares to - ".. s' good. Y' want a bit? Caught 't m'self." Kael and Milora are near the tavern proper, the former leaning against the wall, the latter standing in easy conversational distance. The freelander-mage has the archtypical definition of a 'shiner', his right eye a merry riot of the various pallette of 'bruise', with a cut above that splash of colour. Debatable, however, is whether that's more interesting than the very dead, headless, gutted and raw fish that's skewered on his odd wildlander's knife, half eaten, he's offering to the noblewoman. Sharing dinner is only polite, after all. Wide-eyed, Milora seems a bit hesitant - but she bravely ventures forth and bends her neck, deftly removing a small mouthful of flesh and fat from the knife. That done, she chews and swallows almost shyly, attracting a few mildly outraged looks from a person or two who apparently thought that ladies in silk dresses shouldn't eat raw fish off of hunting knives. The taste seems far from bothering her, though, and she looks at Kael in surprise. "I would hardly eat it every day, but it is far from unpleasant." Taran steps out of the tavern, a folded letter in one hand and his haversack being settled into place across his non-Lute-bearing shoulder. The letter is given to a courier, along with a small pouch of coin and whispered instructions. And once the courier's away, he turns...offering the pair a smile and a bow of greeting. "Why, hello, my lady, master Firelight," he says. "I am not late, am I?" "y' see? Y' shoul' try venison th' same - th' blood 'n yer tongue is jus' right perfect." Kael offers Taran a smile and wave, taking another bite of dinner, and speaking around it - "What are y' late for?" "An evening look at my gardens," Milora says, smiling first at Kael and then at Taran. "We meant to have something of a picnic in the dusk. Kael, will you come down to Riverhold to join us?" She hesitates a moment, but she nods her head encouragingly. "Absolutely informal, I promise - some tea and some fruit and some conversation by the lilies. The flowers are Master Songbird's doing, you know - he brought some to me that are of beautiful quality, and they are so hardy. They are past their season now and still they look as well as ever." She turns to look at Taran with some teasing admiration. "I am amazed by your ability to deal in such delicate things without ever sacrificing your masculinity, Taran, and I am not being sarcastic. It's the mark of a truly charming man. Taran smiles a bit at that. "I am a man who makes his way in the world by singing and playing a lute, my lady," he replies, amused. "Were I going to worry overmuch about my masculinity, I am afraid I would have time for little else. It is there or it is not, say I, and of little matter to my craft either way." "... aye? I guess - s' nae a bad thing lookin' t' flowers." Kael grins.. flipping the remnants of that fish deftly into an offal barrel nearby, setting to wipe the blade on his breeches. "M' Meian 's about 'ere somewhere - y' mind one more, if sh' turns up? " He eyes Taran - ".. huh. All I seen is women swoonin' over ye 'n yer lute-playin' an' singin' - th' rest o' us shoul' be so lucky, aye?" He chuckles, standing up straight, returning the blade to its sheath. "Meian is explicitly invited. I like that little robin, you know, stutter and all. I want to get to know her better, and I do not mean to pretend that this get-together wasn't plotted with that partly in mind." Milora says this in a low voice before gesturing to the rather rotund commoner that was accompanying her. "Elsa, I will see you at Riverhold - you may shop for a while and enjoy yourself if you like, as you won't be desperately needed in the kitchen tonight." Elsa seems pleased with the opportunity to slip away from Kael and her evening duties. Milora, satisfied, nods. "Oh, but Kael, you act as though a girl has never glanced your way and as though such strong arms are good for industry alone. Shall we walk southward?" Taran shakes his head. "I regret, my lady, that I could not find her to invite her. And indeed, I have released her as my apprentice; she seems better suited to the life of a minstrel or priestess, and I must confess to being a poor teacher." He bows slightly. "I will quite understand, my lady, if you wish to rescind your invitation." Kael blinks at Taran's words... then winces. It's a vicious cycle, really - ".. released.." He frowns, but lets it pass... for now. "Huh." He simply follows along, absently running fingers through that hair of his, doing his best to put it in some semblance of order. There is a heavy pause on Milora’s part, and she inclines her head gently. "I apologize for my insensitivity. I cannot say that I am not slightly disappointed - not for my loss of a guest, as she is still quite welcome if she chooses to appear - I mean to speak to Elsa about finding her; I believe Elsa observed her at the Greening tournament - but for your loss of a student, Taran. I have no doubt that she will find fulfillment despite being deprived of your invaluable experience - but nevertheless. I really am sorry. Did you-" she stops, and closes her mouth serenely. "She has no need of my experience, my lady, if mine is not the path she will walk," Taran points out mildly. "No more need have you of my lore, than she, and for the same reasons." He shrugs, shaking his head. "She has found a life that suits her and brings her joy - wherefore should I grieve in that? But - you had a question for me?" Kael? For his part, he stays remarkably quiet, just tagging along with the pair, listening curiously. Milora's attention seems to be caught away, and rightly so. She turns her head towards the horizon that is quickly becoming marred; around her, villagers part and children scatter like cockroaches caught in light. "Sweet Light." Pallor and wide eyes, now. She thrusts a glance towards the south and inhales sharply with alarm. Taran seems, if anything, to be curious about the sudden appearance of such a troupe. "Trouble in the northeast indeed," he murmurs, and looks toward Milora. "By your invitation, my lady? Or his grace's?" One can't possibly miss the noise. Kael... blinks, frowns, and then quickly raises his hood - a procession of masques, and angry common folk; it cannot bode well. He growls out - "... oh, /shades/." The abrupt panic there is audible, and he casts about already, eying possible exits and escape routes that do not involve going through the middle of that ranging bunch. "Not by His Grace's," Milora replies, apparently shaken by confusion as she drops her basket, "and certainly not by mine." Kael's panic quite naturally does nothing to lesson her own and she frowns, apparently about to say something more before this sort of announcement reaches her ears. She is quiet then, and her gaze falls on Kael. It is almost neutral. Taran waits where he stands, and looks to Kael. "Not alone," he murmurs. "It would never be you; this I know. Go." Seemingly on cue, the clop of hooves from the well-worn trail that leads to the lands of Riverhold to the south sounds lightly in the warm night's air. It's from this direction that an armor-plated war horse, Palisade, as his equally lavishly attired rider - Norran Lomasa - arrive into East Leg's square. The Duke seems to be carrying an absently cheerful expression, even humming under his breath as Palisade trots northward. However, the angry mob easily shatters his reverie. Staring blankly at the scene, Norran reaches down to take up the half-pike lashed to the side of his horse in his left hand, his expression flickering from shock to anger to intent in mere moments. "YOU!" he booms, tugging carefully on the horse's reins to turn his flank to the crowd. "BY WHAT RIGHT DO YOU MARCH INTO MY TOWN?" he bellows, keeping Palisade light on his feet and ready to flee. .. Kael does move to go, he does. But it's Norran that stills him, of all people. Norran's shout makes him pause, eyes widening within that hood - ".. I did nae. Woul' nae." That's firm, as he looks between Milora and Taran. It's a bit helpless.. he's drawn a few more steps away, at the edge of flight, but not yet gone. “I know.” Milora’s voice is quiet and sincere, but there’s still that stony expression on her face. Norran’s entrance makes her close her eyes momentarily – she seems beyond embarrassment now. When she opens her eyes, she’s greeted with the sound of a woman crying out in pain – and then she winces. “Kael. Go!” Taran pales a little as the arrow strikes home, his hand tightening about his staff. "The sooner done, the sooner I can see to that woman," he says in a low tone. "The arrow in her leg might cripple her." The Duke gnashes his teeth as he witnesses an arrow launched, shaking his head quickly. "ENOUGH!" he calls again, riding Palisade about in a small circle. "I am Duke Norran Lomasa, Patriarch of House Lomasa, Knight-Errant of the Order of the Imperial Crown! If a crime has been comitted, the Watch will settle it. If you don't halt this nonsense, I shall have to put all of you in custody." So says one armored man atop a horse to an angry mob of forty people and six Scourges. "If you continue with your assault on /my/ township, the guard of Riverhold will march after you. Twenty strong. I bid you to see reason and avoid this slaughter!" The arrows. The Duke. The woman in blue... Kael closes his eyes, and, no, does not flee. Instead, he simply reaches up to lower that hood - "n' more runnin'." He shrugs, and looks to Taran - "Make sure Sahna gets 'er cloak back, aye?" And with a shaky smile.. he simply moves away from the pair, walking purposefully in the direction of the downed woman, calling in a voice that is at best uneven, "Y' stay down, Mistress - wi' help ye. y' are nae alone, aye?" "Oh, Kael." Milora moves to put a hand at Taran's elbow and brings her other hand to press the side of her face. Norran's shouts seem to leave her totally unpahsed, but those of the Arbiter do not. She lifts her head, furrowing her eyebrows. "Oh, Light, Norran. Stand down. Stand down." - But it's at a volume barely above a whisper. "We all have jobs to do, my lady," says Taran quietly. "See to yours, and I will see to mine." And with that he sets out to help Kael, as ..well, he's probably going to need it. "She is not leaving, good sirs, and I am not leaving," he says to the scourges in passing. "But I can treat her wound while you ask your questions." "You? Strike me down?! Just like a Scourge! All fire and no fury!" cries back the Duke, waving his half-pike threateningly at the Arbiter. "Could you even? Could you even /catch/ me? See if you can, I'll lead you in a merry chase straight. To. Your. Death. TO RIVERHOLD! Palisade, HYAH!" cries the young Duke once more, squeezing his horse's sides to get him moving quicker and into a strong gallop southward. The Duke's deep amethyst cloak billows out behind him as he attempts to gather speed. Not stopped by the crowd.. Kael heads for the woman, kneeling next to her, that bleached, silver-trimmed cloak pooling. "Easy - " He offers what comfort he can, murmering softly to her - "C'mon.. cannae tend t' ye here. Y' are safe - if I kin help ye, wi' nae let y' come t' harm, aye?" Even as he speaks, he does his best to help her up, to support her - to /carry/ her if he must, moving in the direction of that indicated wall. Should taran end up helping - he will offer no resistance. Nodding, Milora lets Taran part from her and moves forward, shouting something after Norran that’s largely lost in the din. Be fast, and do not be an idiot. The Arbiter is next in her line of focus; she moves that way because … well, she must have a reason. “Sir,” she says to him, glancing at the Marked people who are either hesitating or huddling, “I must know what will be done to determine the criminal. Have you any evidence that he is even still among these people?” Taran - for his part - moves quickly to Kael's side, helping with the arrow-punctured woman. "Now is not a good time for you to have a headache," he says quietly, unslinging his haversack to fish out his healer's kit once they're moved. "Can you help without Shadow?" At the outskirts of the town, coming up from the bottom of the hill, the skinny figure of a familiar girl comes into view. Meian seems to be trudging along, her eyes focused on the ground with a defeated slump in her shoulders... but as she nears, the chaos catches her attention, lifting her clearly marked face into sight. She simply blinks then, and -stares- in what seems to be total incomprehension. What can only be construed as a faint /cackling/ sounds from the cloud of dust left in Norran's wake. Doing his best to slow the thundering beast he rides, the horse whinnying in protest as he tries to turn about. "Is that /all/ you have, Arbiter?! Face me and prey not upon my defenseless subjects if you've the stones for it! Oh, my my, I don't imagine a Scourge would have any, would he?!" Whether or not his words reach the Scourges, apparently, has no bearing on his mind. Having drawn the Arbiter atleast a /little/ bit away from the crowd, Norran lowers his pike to his ready as he attempts to resume his charge on the assumed leader on the pack. Kael lowers the woman, when they reach said wall, and shakes his head. "I cannae - I trust 'er t' ye - but wi' try m' best when 's all done." He rests a hand on the woman's cheek. "wi' be a'right. I promise ye." The freelander-magus stands, turning to face the arbiter and the crowd, drawing himself up straight.. and blanching as Norran turns his horse. "... light.." "HAH! A brave one! Perhaps you'll be reunited with your testicles in /hell/, traitor-priest!" cackles the young Lomasa Duke. Emerald gaze hardened and his lips quirking a faint, amused grin, his reflective obsidian half-pike is brought to bear as Palisade roars down the road toward the Arbiter. The galloping pair is a blur of obsidian, steel and amethyst as they approach. Taran growls quietly, "If it comes to it, get everyone to run," he says, opening his kit. "Hold her steady, so I may get this arrow out." "Sir, he isn't a heretic! He's my -" Milora goes pale again, shaking her head furiously and falling forward towards the Arbiter and the Duke - and then turning around and urgently trying to get the attention of some other Scourge. There's just a moment's more hesitation, and then Meian charges up that hill towards Taran, Kael and the mass of Touched. Without bothering to waste time by asking for an explanation, she hurriedly calls out, "What can we -do-?" The girl keeps an eye out for any scourges who might be protesting her approach. Kael looks to Meian at that question.. then to the wounded woman, then to the battle shaping up - tightly, he says, simply - "help 'm." He waves a hand to Taran - "an' if 't comes down t' it? Get these folk t' /run/, aye?" Still he stands protectively there, wary of the nearby scourges and their questions, his eyes on the fight. Milora turns just as the Scourge she was irritating begins to advance on Meian, her eyes widening and her hands curling until her fingernails are digging into her palms. “Who – no!” She moves forward, streaming after the Scourges and attempting to get between them and the young girl/boy. “Stop, the both of you! Hastiness will get you nowhere – Sweet Light!” As his blow glances and sends the flying Arbiter to the ground, Norran's grin grows faintly at a decent enough success. The howls of the mob, however, cause his expression to harden as he stares off toward Meian's direction. "Shades," he mutters, tossing his half-pike to the ground and slowing Palisade so he can slip off his mount. "/Shades/," he grumbles, landing with a clatter and attempting to face the Arbiter as quickly as he can manage while reaching a hand over his shoulder to draw his claymore. "You were warned, Arbiter. Call off your men. I beg of you, do not bury them deeper in your hole," pleads Norran, his voice somewhat troubled as he moves to approach the man. Kael reacts.. badly, as the scourges level accusations, already moving to interpose himself, alongside Milora, if she gets there, between them and Mei - "Meian - lower yer hood, aye?" He raises his hands - "sh' is /nae/ th' one y' are lookin' for. Donnae make us hurt ye, aye?" Taran works as quickly as he dares, withdrawing the arrow from the Marked woman's leg. He checks the tip, turning it in the light to look for signs of poison before throwing it away and setting about cleaning the wound. "Hold still," he pleads quietly. "Hold silent as you can. I will be done soon." Meian quickly turns to those scourges, backing up just a step, and reaches up to rip away her cloak at its clasp, letting the black garment fall to the ground. A few moments with deft fingers and buckles, and the jerkin of her leather armor joins it, cast aside as soon as the girl can work it free from her thin body. And then she reaches to the neckline of her dress and pulls it down- not enough at all to be more indecent than evening gowns, but enough to reveal the scourges are *not* dealing with a boy. In her high, clear voice, she calls out, "I don't know who you're looking for, but if it's a him, you're looking in the wrong place. Let's try to keep this as pleasant as possible." Milora stands fast beside Kael, her hands up as though to create an invisible wall between her and the Scourges. “Please, enough of this. This is ridiculous – this is madness. Look at that creature – she could not possibly be the one you seek.” … With her face full of concern she turns, glances at Meian, and then turns quite calmly to face the Scourges again. “…As you can see.” Celeste gauntleted hand rests in the palm of a man dressed in silks of his station. Pink still tinging her fair cheeks, her attentions to the Seamel as the carriage leaves. "Your words are too kind, my lord...appreciated, but.." her voice dying on her lips at the gathered crowds. The Mikin seeming to forget the hand that rests in the palm of Lyddmull's. Lyddmull Seamel's grip on the Celeste's gauntleted hand tightens a hair, his eyes going hard as he surveys the scene before him. He somehow manages to untie the reins of Celeste's mount with his free hand before the carriage takes off. "What in the name of holy Light is this?" he asks of the air. “I tell you that she is no criminal!” Milora says hotly, sweat glistening on her brow as she glances towards the sword and then back towards the Scourge. “You will not use that weapon without thought, because violence is not an element of the Light. Please, observe the girl at a closer distance.” Her words are calm, but Milora looks far from serene. Again she faces Meian and gestures for the girl to close the distance between them. And Taran's hands continue to work - cleaning the wound, applying a healing salve, wrapping bandages around it. "Do not put too much weight on it," he warns quietly as he works. "Use a staff for support, or a cane, until master Firelight can see to you." ... and said Master Firelight's eyes flicker - the fight rolling, scourges offering blades.. quietly, and very controlled - the young mage focuses on that female scourge. "you are losin' yer crowd. An' yer about t' hae blood - /enough/ o' this. Get yers t'gether, get that crowd /gone/ - afore sommat gets hurt. Like ye, o' yer man there - 'es assaultin' th /Duke/. N' matter what one hae done - what y' make 'ere 's worse. How many wi' die?" Meian inhales slowly, taking a deep breath, and moves to maneuver herself to Milora's side... the neckline of her dress is still tugged down enough to make her gender unmistakable, if not enough to draw stares. In a voice that is forcibly level but pitched to carry, the girl addresses the Scourge, "As you can see, ma'am, I am no man- so whatever man you seek, I am not he. Before we fight any more... Can your people speak to all of the Touched calmly and without violence? If we can have a promise of safety, I'm sure everyone will submit to a few questions without further problems. But -everyone- needs to calm down for this to be possible." Before Norran can draw his claymore, the Arbiter manages to get in a decent attack. Dodging the worst of the blow, Norran manages to sidestep what he can before the mace lands at his side. A heavy *whuff* and a grunt comes from Norran as it clashes against his obsidian armor. Gritting his teeth, Norran attempts to finish drawing his claymore from the baldric on his back and simultaniously bring it down to his opponent's shoulder in one swift movement, obsidian-gauntleted hands gripping Retribution's hilt tightly as he counter-attacks against the Arbiter. Celeste's hand finally flies into action, reaching and grasping the mace at her hip. "I don't know what's going on, Lyddmull," she mummers to her companion. The golden and sea-green gaze turning to the masked scourges...and then to the fighting Lomasa. Her eyes moving slowly over the crowds, and finally resting to the line of shadow-touched and even to the the small gathering of friends. "What is going on?" She calls out in general, again turning to the scourges to seek an answer. Healer's work finally finished, Taran quickly puts away his healer's implements - the kit stashed away in his pack as he helps the woman to her feet...well, foot...and over to a friendly shoulder to lean on. That done, he walks a little way away - turning toward Celeste and her escort as he hears her voice. "Ah...the flock's all here," he sighs. "Would you like the short answer, or the long one?" Lyddmull Seamel moves quickly out of Celeste's way, an appreciative look in his eye at her reaction. Unarmed himself, he moves closer to the head of the horse who's reins he holds, attempting to calm the animal as his gaze goes back to the events taking place, anger flashing in his eyes. Snapping her head, Milora stares at Kael for a long moment – and then bites her lip, looking back at the sword-wielding Scourge as she moves to press Meian’s hand momentarily into hers. She nods as the woman moves away. “Kael, you are right. Before there is any progress, their lord and mine must stop this behaviour. Take your Meian.” She moves away, nearing the two men and giving them a short look from a safe distance. “If I may interject,” she calls at a good volume, “will we accomplish anything by this? Stop!” Norran blinks as the Arbiter launches himself skyward, his blade slicing at the air in vain. The man trying to position himself behind Norran, the Lomasa sweeps his leg to turn about while simultaneously ducking the blow. The mace fortunately glances off of Norran's pauldron, the Duke gripping the ricasso guard on his claymore in an attempt to deliver a half-sworded thrust to the Arbiter's abdomen. Although he seemed quite talkative moments ago, he's now quite focused on keeping his head while Retribution flies toward the Arbiter. Celeste looks towards the bard, frowning at the implied meaning. "I'm not sure what is going on at all...other than my friends seem to be in a fight in the middle of town," she remarks dryly. Her gaze turning back to the masked scourges. "By who's authority do you attack this man? If it is by Sun's Keep, take yourselves back to your *hallowed halls* to rot," snarls the former scourge. Her gaze darting back towards the fighting men again at the clashing of blade and mace. Kael murmers, softly - "Light save us all..." He calls to Milora and Meian, as the scourges move away - "can ye two start gettin' these folk out o' here?" He waves a calloused hand back at the Touched behind them - ".. please - 's no sense 'n more folks gettin' hurt. Get 'm gone." He paces forward already, keeping himself between the scourges, and their crowd control, and the touched still standing near that wall. "Nearly true," Taran concedes to Celeste. "They came seeking a Marked rapist, they said. All mages against the wall for questioning." He nods toward the woman he's spent the past little while bandaging. "She tried to run, and was shot in the leg." One hand waves in the direction of the Duke and the Arbiter. "His grace took high exception to anyone but himself dispensing justice on his lands, and they've been dancing about this entire time. So...not *quite* peaceful, but not particularly violent thus far. The questionings have proceeded without them." Meian blinks in evident surprise at that brief contact, but squeezes the hand she finds around her own slightly- and then, once Milora is gone, uses that hand to pull her dress back up over her meagre chest to something like modesty. Bending, she scoops up armor and cloak and hastily redons the two garments with quick fingers. "No, wait," Meian urges Kael, shaking her head. "If we r-rush everyone out, we're just going to ignite the situation! If they want to ask questions, let them ask questions." And the girl darts out among the touched, attempting to personally reassure them and convince them to cooperate with the inquiry of the scourges... all the while trying to keep an eye out to make sure things are indeed remaining peaceful but for the Arbiter and the Duke. Lyddmull Seamel glances from the scene to the horse beside him, then with a muttered oath, he swings himself aboard the steed that isn't his and urges her forward. "Hie!" he calls to the animal, quickly skirting the crowd to come nearer the other mounted noble, giving the 'Arbiter' a new target to consider. Galloping at full tilt on the Market Road, Aulus Kahar thunders into the crossroads of East Leg: to find himself confronting an unexpected scene. His steed rears, pulled tightly on the reins, the oiled-leather biting into his gloved hands as the charger reels to a halt with kicking legs. The angry mob is before the young noble, and he has trouble trying to comprehend the scene. Catching sight of the pending melee, and the Duke of Lomasa engaged against some unknown assailant, the young baron does what is probably most prudent: he unsheaths his shortsword, looking about the square for anyone who would do him harm. His horse winnies loudly, a bit startled. Taran looks over with interest at the claims of capture, nodding to himself. But it seems the crowd is getting to be a bit much for the bard. Quietly, sans fanfare...exit, stage right. Milora frowns, directing herself off to the side. “Celeste!” she cries, hoisting her skirts and moving at her best speed over to the woman. “Celeste – I mean my lady – we must do something. I just cannot – you! I mean, mistress.” Milora addresses the Scourge who had spoken to Celeste, frowning. “Please don’t turn away yet. Although my lord is at fault, no judgement can pass on your criminal if he who leads you if fighting or beaten – and slow justice is no justice at all, mistress, is it? Please, can nothing be done to stop this before more bad happens?” Her voice is grating and verging on desperate, her hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer – with her coarse hair falling around her face and shoulders, she looks positively disheveled at this point. "You're quite impressive, yourself," wheezes Norran, flashing a grin at the Arbiter as his claymore lands. With the mace now rushing toward his face, Norran grits his teeth as he pulls his claymore back to brace flat of the blade in his right hand. The mace's haft clashing against Retribution's steel blade sounds in the air, the young Duke returning both his hands to the claymore's hilt once the blow is deflect. Raising himself from his defensive position, Norran attempts to rise and deliver a similar attack to the side of the Arbiter's head. He moves calmly and decisively now that the Arbiter is infront of him rather than flying above his head, his movements a blur of steel and deep amethyst of his cloak. "If you do not act in the name of the Regent, then you are breaking the law...and you have /just/ attacked a Knight of the Empire. Release the man, and we will see that justice is found," snarls Celeste, whirling on the female scourge. Her hand hefting the mace lightly in her hand. "Trespassing is against Imperial Law, and that is what you are doing here...sister," she near spits the word to the ground. "You hold *no* authority here. Go back to your halls, and leave your *justice* there. If you have troubles with a man on these lands, then you should seek out the Duke of these lands and not in melee. It is not answered by drawing blade against unarmed people of Fastheld. Take your masked vigilantes and leave....*this* is not the Light's work, you have dwelled too long in darkness to see that." Atop Rampart, Lyddmull Seamel brings his 'stolen' mount along behind the Arbiter, his brow curled in concentration. Unarmed, he does the best he can. He yanks hard on the reins, causing Rampart's hindquarters to lurch towards the Arbiter, though whether knocking the man to the ground or saving from having his head opened could be quite open to interpretation. The baron looks frantically around the scene - chaotic as it is - trying to grasp his bearings. He seems undecided: to engage or not? The crowding mob would suggest that charging in, and slashing at the milling peasants, would most likely be an imprudent decision. Catching sight of Celeste, however, standing in the crowd talking to some woman he does not recognise, he cries, in a booming baritone, "Cousin, ho!" Spurred boots are touched to the horse's flanks, and Aulus' rushes toward her at a quick trot. "What is this nonsense? Am I needed? Who are these ruffians!" His sword is held out at his side, attempting to keep the mob at bay in case they should choose to rush him or his kinswoman. At all of this Meian helplessly winces, but chooses not to attempt to intervene in that situation between nobles and the single scourge- instead she turns to find the next nearest scourge, inquiring loudly so that her voice may carry over the din of combat, "If you have the suspect, may the rest of us be released? That woman needs help, and everyone here is scared. The extra people here are only complicating this. Please, let everyone go now you have your man." Her voice is somewhat plaintive, but still sustained by some sort of calm that keeps the plea from sounding desperate. Kael whirls at the sound of that capture, muttering bitterly - "Oh, first 't were a girl jus' because o' a black cloak..." He makes another decision, looking to meian, to the three scourges and their charge - and, straightening, he moves back in their direction, the nobles between the torches-and-pitchforks and the group of Touched. Furrowing her brow in frustration, Milora inhales deeply and brushes at one of her eyes with her fingertips, shaking her head as she looks at the Arbiter and the Duke. After casting a reproving look at Celeste and a forlorn look towards the Scourge who spoke over her, she moves to Palisade’s side and looks up expectantly at her Patriarch. “Norran, I’m sure you must be quite through.” "No," retorts Norran, quirking a brow toward the Arbiter as he rights himself and grips his claymore tightly, continuing to advance. "You have /no/ jurisdiction here. My duty is to uphold Imperial Law, and that man will be tried in the /proper/ jurisdiction by the /proper/ authorities. You are to surrender yourselves and that man /immediately/, or you will /die/. If you escape, I will ride to Riverhold and summon the guard to follow you until /Imperial/ law is settled. That is my duty as a Knight of the Imperial Crown, and I will die carrying it out if I must," snarls Norran, quickening his pace to lunge at the Arbiter once more, not relenting in the slightest as he attempts to close the gap now created. "No, sister...you are the heretic and murderers now....not even proud enough to show your face," snarls Celeste, taking a step towards the female scourge. "Go back to your *halls* and *rot*. Fastheld doesn't need your *tainted* Light and justice. *You* do not rule here," she growls...Each sentence bringing a rising pitch to the former scourge's voice. "Rapist or not, it is not for *you* to decide....now release the man to the custody of the Duke, or I swear by the *Light* itself I will bring it's glory to your *tainted* walls and watch them fall." Atop Rampart, Lyddmull Seamel frowns tightly as the Arbiter evades him and brings Rampart around again, silently urging her forward and around the man, trying to further impede his progress without getting within striking distance of the warrior's mace. With the Duke and the Viscountess both offering despite - Kael's frustration fades into a wide smile. "Fin'lly." With that, the freelander mage idly draws the knife at his belt - flipping the blade back against his forearm - offering one more time to Meian - "get 'em /out/ o' 'ere, m' heart. All o' these folk." A nod to the remaining touched, altering course yet again, this more purposeful, moving in the direction of the Seraphite-clad noblewoman - and the scourge in front of her. And at that, Meian does- not waiting for a reply from the scourges that seem distracted, she slips through crowds and across the area to reach the Shadow-touched... inhaling deeply, the girl offers up a high-pitched shout to cut through the chaos. "Come on, everyone! Now!" Darting along the edges of the crowd of mages, she repeats the command in a lower voice, gesturing down the street away from the scene of strife... attempting to lead the column to something resembling safety while the angry mob is distracted by the presentation of the suspect. Aulus Kahar desires to intercede in the fray, going so far as readying himself to charge the retreating Arbiter. His sword brandished, the young baron prepares to spur his animal at the man from behind - except it seems his earlier wound has started to bleed, and bleed it does, causing him to slide forward in the saddle in a fit of pain. Rather helpless, he clings to his steed whilst watching the scene unfold before him: unsure of its cause, or its outcome, but powerless to intervene. "Light give me strength!" he gasps, reaching down to his right side and touching at the bloody wound. He blinks in shock. "Damnable bandits. . . ." Further irritation crosses Milora's features, until her eye is caught by the form of the bound man disappearing into the crowd. A sound catches in her throat, almost like gagging, and she starts forward before stumbling and catching herself. Like a pack of hungry wolves the mob closes in on him, and Milora watches with a stark expression of horror on her face. At last, she turns to Norran and nods her head. "As you will," she tells him curtly, moving well out of the way before the blows commence again. "COWARD! ENOUGH OF THIS!" snarls the Lomasa, halting his pursuit as he glares at the retreating form. "What of the guard! Can they be /sleeping/ through this?" he mutters, glancing off toward the Scourge approaching the Seamel. "Perhaps you'll be easier. Step back!" A new target aquired, the Duke lunges at the Scourge accosting Lyddmull with his claymore. "Law finds you guilty of murder, scourge," Celeste spits the words. Her hand drawing back the mace and aiming a blow to the very mask that hides the woman's face. The former scourge's rage no longer held at bay as she strikes out. A flash of golden flashing before her eyes at the move of the blow...a beacon of gold and blue. Atop Rampart, Lyddmull Seamel snarls as he wheels Rampart around too late to stop the fleeing Arbiter. He glances up and spots the actions of the crowd. His eyes narrow and he digs his heels into the sides of the mount, driving her forward, bringing her to speed as quickly as possible so as to bring her to a gallop by the time he reaches his assailants, hoping to drive through them and on towards the crowd. "HAA!" he shouts at the top of his voice as he bears down on the armed men. His attempt at intervening expended what little energy he had - originally intended for a bed in a tavern after his encounter with the roadside bandits. Realising that no possibility exists for him to try and engage the scourges - or the teeming mob of bloodthirsty peasants - the young baron takes the wise course and pulls on his horse's reins with every ounce of strength he possesses. Turning the animal on its hind legs, he kicks her haunches with spurred heels in an effort to ride off and sound the alarum. Attempting to gallop off southward toward Riverhold Keep, the baron is able to cling to his horse for several moments before he loses strength and slides out of the sadde to collapse on the roadway with a loud thud! He groans on the ground as his horse trots on toward the south at full tilt, galloping toward the Keep regardless. In an odd twist of fate, his gold Kahar pendant snapped off during the fall and wrapped itself around the saddle pommel. Anauroch vanishes in a cloud of dusty smoke in the distance. With the shadow-touched safely dispersing, Meian rushes back along the road- catching sight of Aulus, sprawled in the roadway. Groaning softly to herself, the girl rushes for the fallen nobleman, muttering, "You're going to get trampled like this, my lord," and takes a quick survey of his state. Blood catching her eye, she bends down and seizes his armor in both hands... exerting her strength to try and drag him up onto the temple steps, well away from the press of the fight. "Surrender or die, Scourge!" snarls the Duke, the well-aimed blow not well-aimed enough to avoid his graceful sidestep of the blow. Raising Retribution up high, Norran brings the steel claymore down in a chop directed at his opponent's shoulder from the left. Groaning on the roadway, and gasping for breath from his fall from Anauroch, the Kahar moans pitifully: "Head to Riverhold Keep. . . Raise the guards. . . Tis but a scratch." His linen dressings do ooze blood, but the wound does not seem to be life-threatening. He attempts to draw himself to his feet, but collapses under the difficulty. The iron shortsword, clasped in his hand during the fall, is scattered several feet away from his grasp. "Sound. . . Sound the alarum, Mistress - Mistress Skygleam!" he cries out again, before swooning from the shock and force of his fall. The former scourge unable to maneuver from the masked woman's blade. The blade slides between the plates of seraphite and eliciting another snarl from the Mikin. Again she raises the mace to smack against the mask that hides the female scourge's face. "Back to the Void that birth you," she cries. Meian screams out over the fight, perhaps just hoping someone is listening, "The man! If someone can- save him, from the crowd!" Grunting from the effort, she herself seems dedicated to dragging Aulus still- once she reaches the temple's steps with his prone form, the girl lays the noble down, straightening. One last, desperate glance over the fight... and sprinting with all the speed her agile body permits, Meian sets off running for Riverhold Keep. Atop Rampart, Lyddmull Seamel's face contorts with pain as an arrow flashes up and embeds itself in his side a few inches below the right armpit. It is the spearthrust that really does him in, however. The blade slashes through his flimsy armor, biting deep into his right side. The force of the strike shoves him sideways off of the galloping horse. He hits the ground with a sickening thud, bouncing and skidding several yards before he finally comes to a stop, the arrow broken off near the head. Rolling over onto his back, the man struggles to gather some oxygen in his damaged lungs. Aulus Kahar eventually comes back to consciousness, blinking the haze from his eyes as the clouded blackness still sweeps through his brain. His thoughts are hazy; the last memories, attempting to ride south to Riverhold Keep to rouse the local guards. The next and last memory? Crashing from his horse in a tumble of cobblestones and muck. He lies prone on the marble steps of the Temple, his energy nearly spent, and glances around for his weapon. Unfortunately, Meian left it where he fell when she started dragging him toward the building. "What...? Oh, drat, it was not a nightmare," he murmurs, slowly raising an arm to rub his head and dented triangular felt hat. "Damn, filthy peasants, no respect for law..." the Kahar murmurs, trying to keep his grasp on consciousness. At first, there are two men coming from the south; the shorter one is on foot with a pulsing blue shield while the taller, lankier one is atop Haste. However, as they come into sight of East Leg, both of them get off, one tying Haste up a ways away from the city. Lucius Nepos draws an iron spear and wraps his finger through the throwing strap, while Wheat pulls out his bronze shortsword. They both move towards the city, still at a considerable distance. Although he manages to sidestep one of the Scourge's attacks, yet /another/ scourge descending upon Norran catches him offguard. Wincing visibly as his armor is rattled once more, Norran glances between all three of his opponents dejectedly. "Bastards," he snarls, shaking his head quickly as he grabs Retribution by the ricasso guard. Deciding it best, Norran attempts to weasel himself out of the situation and break into a full-out sprint toward the southeast, blade gripped tightly in his hand as he tries to retreat. Celeste growls as the scourge turns her back to strike at the marked mage. "I'm not done with you," she snarls...eyes flashing in near hatred. The Mikin moving to smack the woman in the back of the shoulder blades up near the neck even as she strikes out at Kael. For now the archer seems to go unnoticed to the former scourge in her rage against the female, masked scourge. The scourge's blade finds a mark on Kael - ruining yet another tunic and opening a nasty cut across his chest and down as he snarls in pain, moving back from the blade - trying to get out of range, and circling wide, watching for another opening, fixated on that fight... his free hand going to his chest, coming away bloody. Lyddmull Seamel slowly begins to regain some breath as he looks around, his arms moving weakly. He glances up and sees the archer targeting the Mikin. Fear comes into his eyes as he gathers himself only to find himself completely immobile. "CELESTE!!" he roars, or tries to as the call rattles in his throat, the arrow wound bubbling fiercely with the sharp exhalation. Perhaps he is mad, or has been knocked on the head too damn hard? Aulus presses himself to his feet, wheezing deeply, and starts to stagger toward his shortsword scattered on the cobbled roadway. He turns toward a nearby peasant, wrecking havoc whilst bent on terrorising the place, and slashes out at the man in a wide arc of his bade aimed at the man's throat. Staggering after the wild blow, he attempts to keep his composure and his footing. Within a few minutes of the combat, Lucius and Wheat are there. Preceding them are their shields - a glowing, blue seraphite drake formed into a defensive implement sided by a strong looking plywood tower shield. Lucius holds his spear back in a throwing position, while Wheat holds his sword as if to strike any enemy coming towards him, but they both stick side by side. "Hold." He says simply, before letting his throwing arm do the rest. Once his spear arcs through the air towards his nearest target, which is the archer, he withdraws a second spear. As the woman goes down, Kael's low snarl goes from angry to pained - looking up to Celeste as he .. well.. bleeds. "'t least I got 'er attention, aye?" He steps back, looking into the milling crowd, keeping that knife at the ready... and it's Lyddmull that draws his eye first, nearby and down, with an arrow still sticking from him. Without bothering to wait for a response, he is already moving, threading through the crowd in the direction of the downed nobleman. As the scourge goes down between her and the mage, Celeste turns at hearing the Arbiter's summons. Her eyes casting about to try and locate Rampart. The skidding of the arrow ricocheting off the feather that rests in the middle of the blue breastplate draws her golden and sea-green gaze. "By the Light," she cries out...the woman's actions only pausing for a moment before she's off and running to try and collect the reigns of her horse. "I swear by the Light, you will find yourself to the Void," she growls in her pursuit of the animal. As the Scourges retreat, others come to join the battlefield. In the forefront, sprinting still at what seems to be the very limit of her body's speed, the black-cloaked figure of Meian returns- bow fully drawn now and in her hands. Not far behind come the men of Riverhold Keep, twenty strong, armed and ready for battle- even if a few of them look perhaps recently awoken from sleep. Seeing the departure of the Scourges, Meian narrows her eyes angrily- and halts where she is, some distance away. "You -bastards-," the girl whispers... pulling an arrow from her quiver, nocking it with a snap, and aiming for just a moment before she lets that distant shot fly at the arbiter's fleeing back. Lyddmull Seamel sighs with relief as the arrow bounces off the glowing suit armor...and lets his head fall back on the ground. He grimaces up at Kael as he approaches. "You do not look so well, Master Firelight, are you hurt badly?" he asks. As some Scourges make their escape and he's not persued, Norran stares back toward the chaos. "How can we be so ill prepared," he mutters to himself, his expression brightening as he spots the spear flying in the air, grinning faintly over to Lucius. The sound of twenty men arriving from the south also don't escape his notice, the young Duke grinning brightly now as he raises his claymore toward them. "HAHA! Riverhold is here!" he cries toward the various mingling of East Leg's defenders, the angry mob of peasants and scourges. "Surrender now, and you'll not be harmed!" "Cut their route of escape off! Move! /MOVE/!" Lucius attempts to yell in his loudest command roar, pointing to the west as far as he can see over the tops of the crowd. He moves onto the next target, his archer having escaped with a spear sticking out. "Shadow spawned bitch." He mumbles to himself his green blue eyes doing a quick sweep of the area to find his next suitable target. Wheat smartly stays at his side, and the two of them move in almost perfect step with eachother, until Nepos has gotten close enough to the peasant hovering over Aulus Kahar. Without hesitation he chucks his steel spear at the man, its head glistening in the low torchlight. Even in his bloodied, bruised, and battered state, the poor beaten noble manages to easily side-step the peasant and lowers his shortsword in a furious downward chop at the man's exposed cranium. There is a bit of bloodlust creeping across his eyes - or it could be the gash from falling off his horse - but he cries out, furiously, "Damn, law-breaking, mutinous, ruffian, lynch-mob, murderous, swine-covered, /peasant/! I'll have your head on a platter!" Not noticing the careening spear flying in his direction, Aulus' sword still sweeps through the air in a flash of glinting iron. Finding horse and scourges too far to give chase, Celeste turns back to the unconscious form of the masked woman. "Let's see who you really are....sister," she spits the final words out as if the bile were rising in her throat again. "Norran, we captured one. Think we can stick her in those dungeons you were telling me about, your grace?" Her gauntleted hands falling to the unconscious woman to unmask her. Many of the rioting crowd come forward to surrender to the soldiers, but not the one hovering over Aulus. He's hit by a steel spear, and that just enrages his religious zeal as blood drips down his dirty form. He stabs down wildly at the noble, eyes almost bugged. As for the five scourges? They're booking it as fast as they can to the west, towards Wallwatch Wood. Kael kneels, wincing, next to the downed Seamel - ".. yer a brave sort - " He eyes the arrow - "m' fine. Wi' be fine, anyroad. Hae worse before." That tunic's bloodstain rapidly spreads, regardless - a calloused hand coming to rest on the noble's shoulder. ".. y' look a bit worse." He offers a pained, wry smile, ignoring the crowd. "Can y' stand?" Meian scowls as her arrow falls far short of the fleeing scourges, turning to survey the crowd and leaving the soldiers she led in entirely to their own devices or whatever orders those who know better might give... and spots Aulus in trouble again. Grimacing at the enraged peasant, the girl reluctantly nocks another arrow, aims it for the noble's enemy, and lets fly once more. Cursing as he misses the blow, Aulus groans as the spear-point is wedged inside his stomach. He looks at the man squarely, and groans, "I ... will ... have ... your ... head ..." Both of his ocean blue eyes roll up in his head, and he collapses to the ground in darkness: swooning once again from the blow. Lying prone on the ground, he is now at the mercy of the pig-herder. The young, wounded nobleman is in absolutely no position to argue with Kael's lack of protocol. He moves to try to support himself on his elbows, then shakes his head. "I don't think I will try just yet," he rasps, bubbles forming in the blood flowing around the arrowhead as he speaks. At this point there's nothing else to do but get into the fray. Lucius pulls out Dasbeck, his shining short sword's painted runes gleaming much as the steel spearpoint did moments ago. He bends his knees first and then springs up into a charge at the peasant. Wheat, not to be outdone, follows along with his own bronze shortsword. The two soldiers, armoured in varying forms of banded plate move at a very high speed, side by side with their weapons ready to meet the peasant. As he comes upon the man, Nepos reaches out to impale him. Wheat, arriving at nearly the same time does the same. Their two shortswords thrust in and out of first the man's midsection, and then his throat, causing him to collapse on the ground in the throws of his last breaths. "Take her to Riverhold and put her in a guest room. It's in the tower, so a lock and a guard shall suffice," answers Norran to Celeste, the Duke making his way toward his men. A couple of Riverhold's guard move to tend to the Duke, while an older guardsman amongst the group begins to divide the soldiers up. Several men tend to the surrendering rioters and begin to direct them toward the Constabulary, while the remaining men - eight or so - draw their shields and shortswords and begin to make their way between the various squabbles to end them with lethal force if necessary. The greying freelander-magus studies that wound thoughtfully, reaching down to touch the noble's chest near the arrow, his brow furrowing in concentration - a violet light skitters around the young man's fingers, never /quite/ solidifying. He shifts slightly - and he winces, shaking his head, muttering a low curse under his breath. Lyddmull Seamel grimaces as he tries in vain to see what Kael is doing, concern spreading across his face as the freelander seems to pain himself somehow. "Are you sure you are well?" he asks, blowing more bubbles with his nice little side-access airhole. "Light. I need help over here!" Lucius points elsewhere and says to Wheat, "Go and help collect the prisoners. Make sure the guards know who you are." Nepos's companion nods and stalks off, wiping his bloody sword off on the peasant's rags first. Lucius does this as well before Dasbeck is replaced in his scabbard. "This man is critically wounded." He says, kneeling down by Aulus. He looks around for anything of use, and then decides that the clothes of a dead man would make excellent bandages. Using these, he begins to apply pressure on the noble's various wounds and then wrap them. "Riverhold's Guard will keep Order in East Leg until other arrangements are made! Take the wounded to Riverhold's Barracks! Our healer will tend to them!" announces the Duke once he's done speaking with his subordinates, giving a nod southward as he breathes a deep sigh and makes his way to find his horse. As the scourge is taken away, Celeste staggers to her feet. Her hand lowering to a spot in the armor, the hand withdrawing tinged with red. "Right, you wondered what they would do cousin...and now we have our answer," she sighs heavily. Pivoting on her heel, her eyes catch sight of the unhorsed Seamel. "Oh Light... no, please no," she mutters. Her steps gaining ground to meet up with mage and man. "Master Firelight, can...can you help him?" The Mikin inquires, her gaze looking to the bubbling wound. Meian hangs that bow over her shoulder, and hastily responds to the calls for help... rushing down the street, calling piercingly, "Help! Help! A healer!" She doesn't hesitate to duck between the buildings either to repeat that cry, finally dredging up the old woman who serves as a healer for East Leg, hiding from the chaos within an alleyway. She nearly drags the woman over to Aulus and Lucius, saying urgently, "Ma'am, this man, he can't wait to be taken to Riverhold." Businesslike again already with the calm, the woman nods and bends to tend to the staunching of Aulus' bleeding.
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