Some Light-Hearted Wren Fun

[Derelict Draught]

"Careful there, your make up is a little runny."

The cart jolts to a stop several yards from the camp, the wheels catching on some object rooted deep in the muck cracking the axle free of the cart and leaving the body lying in the filth. A handful of the Knights ignore the carts distress and continue to the warmth of the fires within the camp abandoning the others to rescue the cart.

"Ask and she will deliver. Get ready."

The Knights divided, men erupt from the brush. Their garb blended well with the darkness surrounding them, allowing them to disappear as they pass through the shadows. Each footstep passed in utter silence, not even the sound of dripping water betrayed their approach.

The air seemed to weigh heavy as they approached, stretching a time span of less than a minute into an eternity. Then time froze. One of the men struggling with the cart's wheel steps back from his work, his eyes skirting across the mud spackled face. A halted scream escapes his throat in a soundless cry as his body slumps against the crippled cart before rejoining his blood below.

[Verdana]

Ha bloody ha, Shaygrin spat, the exposed muscles in her cheeks thrumming with each syllable.
Kindly restrain yourself until I've regained my own sense of humour. She was not in the mood to be made light of. The cart rocked along, and the more time passed, the more Shaygrin came to realise that she was well and truly snookered. Nothing short of a miracle could have gotten her our of her current plight.

Fortunately, the world is filled with everyday miracles.

A bush rustled. Something grunted. Glittering eyes peered through the undergrowth hungrily. The caravan began to pass them, trundling along on worn wheels. A cart drew closer. Bodies stiffened. There was a hushed conversation. The cart began to pass. The noises became more urgent. A hand shot out of the bushes. Something shiny tumbled into the muck. Not a moment too soon, for the cart's wheel passed over it not a moment afterwards.The wheel crunched.

The attack began.

Shaygrin rocked, struggling to balance with her hands shackled. She looked at Malberry, confused and instantly suspicious.
How did you know? she hissed, saliva mixing with blood and bubbling down her chin.
What in the name of the knife is going on?

A muted groan sounded, accompanied by a slithering thump. There was stillness. In the background, voices sounded. They seemed to be growing concerned.

Shaygrin opened her mouth to interrogate Malberry when the door of the cart swung open and all hell broke loose.

[Derelict Draught]

Chaos reigned.

The sound of clashing blades and screaming men filled the cart. Most of the wounded were unarmored assailants, stricken down by the better trained and equipped Knights. A few managed to conquer their Knight opponents and make for the cart before being stricken down. Malberry stared into the face of one such man now.

The man appeared fairly young, no more than a whelp at about 15 years of age. A thick black mud clings to his faces with highlights of red clinging to the patches. In his right hand the boy bore a worn hatchet with a warped blade. There was no doubting the garb and armament, the boy had been a simple farmer, no doubt called into action when the crisis arrived. That explained the knowledge of the land needed for this attack and the ease with which the Knights slaughtered them.

Both men remain silent as the boy diligently hacks at the wall around the shackles. Within minutes, a seeming eternity, the bindings are freed from the wall and the trio breaks from the cart. Once outside, the full situation appeared far more dismal. The attackers came in fair numbers, barely fewer than the camps population of 30. Their lack of training and armor cost them dearly though, roughly a dozen bodies lay strewn about the area while only two Knights lay dead. Even now however, the attack continued. The purpose screamed at Malberry's senses. He understood but he couldn't understand why.

Barring the instinct to aid his allies, Malberry grasps Shay's arm tightly, more to control himself than guide her and follow the boy's lead. He hadn't noticed in the cart but the boy suffered a terrible limp from a blade slicing his ACL, how the youth remained on his feet with such a wound baffled him.

Roughly an hour passed before the outpost finally appeared through a clearing, during the walk the two men refused to speak a word, each preoccupied with the matter at hand. Both succeeded in piecing the attack together, the sacrifice that every man sent had taken upon themselves. Learning that they were the only survivors did not come as a surprise because of it.

A young woman appeared to tend their wounds, diligently cleaning what could be cleaned naturally. As she did so Malberry watched her intently. Finally she reaches up to clean the wounds upon Malberry's shoulder, stopping when the man lashed out, capturing her wrist.

"Tante Mary?

The woman remains still in his grip, neither confirming nor denying his claim.

"Marietta Soldat. Ich würde das Gesicht wissen, das mich irgendwo erhoben hat. Was sind Sie?"

The woman's brow furrows as she looks up into Malberry's face. He couldn't know, could he?

"Yes, that is I. You call me aunt though. Who is your mother?"

A faint smile dances upon Malberry's lips as his suspicions are confirmed, he'd been right. Her question stole his victory away, bringing the absence forth from the void. His eyes drift to the floor as he thinks how best to answer, or if he even truly knew. His aunt had told him many years ago.

"I...Emillie Stahl."

The woman treating the boy's wound freezes, her back remaining to the others yet making no other telling movements as Marietta chimes in.

"I see. Then you are delusional. We would-"

Malberry's grip around the woman's wrist tightens to a point where his nails start to dig into her skin.

"You aren't human, otherwise the Guardians would not have protected you as long as they have. What manner are you?"

This time the other woman springs into action, her hand leaving a stinging imprint across Malberry's cheek.

"IF you are my child then I have done poorly raising you. We are Undine. And if your claim is true you are a rare child, I do not know if you are brought by man or God but you are gifted by blood in either nature. You'd do best to remember the sacrifice made for you though."

Malberry keeps his face turned from the woman as she awaits his response. None comes. Slowly, Malberry turns his head to face her once more, streaks left by a single pair of tears run the length of his face. For the first time in his functional memory he could see his mother's face. Smell the faint perfume lifting off her body. She was just as his aunt always described, possibly even more beautiful.

"Please, my Commander needs more than traditional aid, with your identity unveiled I ask you to employ what magics can be spared to heal her."

The two women roam off in discussion with each other, heading to some undisclosed area within the outpost.

"I always thought the Undine was just a story. If thats true, then the Curse of Eternity must be as well. I almost feel sorry for the Templar, seeing his work up close though..." A subtle shudder runs through him as the dread struggles to take hold but fails in light of his latest discovery. "I don't know everything but if you have any questions I'll tell you what I do know." His gaze turns to his Commander as the words slip over his lips. She still looked terrible but he wouldn't say anything along those lines, not until the Undine came back with whatever healer they mustered.

[Verdana]

When a vile liquid is eating into every sinew and nerve of one's face, one doesn't really think about much else. The liquid's steady progress had reached Shaygrin's nose, and as a result she wasn't too interested in anything happening around her. To keep herself from going completely mad, Shay calmly detached her mind from her body. Her body was very good at being on autopilot, and she trusted it, after all these years, to make basic decisions while she wasn't in it. Her body, she thought, was like an old pair of trousers. After a while, it had taken on a life of its own. If she'd been in her body, she would have laughed.

Laughing would not have been a good idea.

So, Shaygrin saw the muddy boy enter the caravan, but didn't really feel anything about it. She stared blankly as her mind wandered down Memory Lane. Her Memory Lane was very long and sort of twisted, so it didn't do well to walk after hours. She skimmed the surface as the boy hacked their manacles away from the wall. As the trio entered sunlight, Shaygrin remembered Bree, and when two were three. She remembered trips to the park as they passed a scene of utter madness. Malberry grasped Shay's arm, momentarily breaking her back into reality. She yelped. She'd been blocking it out so well, too. She resisted the urge to bite the boy or otherwise wound him, and did not shake him off. Instead, she slipped back into her head and allowed him to guide her.

It was easier, then. She didn't have to direct the body. She slipped into profound meditation. The pain wasn't gone. It still sang through her. It was just happening to something else. She knew that she was avoiding the matter, but it seemed better than confronting it. She had never been any good at healing. Vladdy had always helped her if something had gone seriously wrong, so she had never bothered to learn. She rather regretted it right then. Besides, she was running low on energy, and if she fixed her face, she'd never be able to get them home. She had to prioritise, as painful as it was.

After about an hour, an outpost appeared. Shaygrin reluctantly slipped back into her body. Nobody had missed her. The boys hadn't said anything during the walk. She shuddered once, and then stopped feeling sorry for herself. She was still alive. That's what was important. So she gritted her teeth and coped. A woman appeared, and started to dress Marcus's wounds. Shay did not resent being ignored. She understood. Marcus would not take very long to treat, and she was more of a challenge. So, she waited, hardly patiently, but observantly.

She noticed that Malberry was far too relaxed in a potentially hostile and unknown situation a moment before he addressed the young woman. Her eyes (or rather, the remaining eye) narrowed suspiciously. He knew what was going on. She backed away, feeling cornered, left out of the loop. She understood the pair's dialogue. Her mind translated things automatically. However, it didn't come easily, and this concerned her. She needed her face fixed, and soon.

She didn't want to admit it, but the only time at which she understood what was happening was when Marcus appealed for aid. She was impassive. Not that anyone could see her facial expressions. She didn't have much nose left, and her lips were going. She waited until the women had left, before snapping out a hand and latching onto Marcus's throat.

Tell me everything you know about this, she bubbled, her words almost lost. She spoke in the crude early German which Malberry and the woman had used, her mind not having snapped back to English.
Starting with Undine and Templar. What are they? Omit nothing.

[Derelict Draught]

A flash of movement followed by a sharp pressure. Instinct would have thrown him backwards yet oddly remained silent. Instead, he tilts his head slightly focusing his gaze on her one good eye.

"Water nymphs, or at least such are their closest mythical kin."

He pauses a moment to collect his thoughts on how to elaborate.

"By legend, they possess a magic which grants them eternal youth, forcing them to appear as nubile women. The energies are lost when they become with child though a faint wisp remains. They are known to conceive with man and immortal alike, allowing them to give birth to Gods themselves. A child brought on by man leads to the heroes of old, receiving unique gifts but falling short of immortality."

His eyes cast away at the mention of an undine child.

"There are few moments in which an Undine can call upon the magics beyond their preservation. Most commonly this happens when one is betrayed or under severe duress. Such as Ondine who cursed her cheating husband to an eternity of wakefulness lest he cease breathing in his sleep.

Templar is one such curse. He was either a priest or a knight during one of the purges. Legend has it that he himself discovered and murdered several Undine after...When one of the oldest Undine discovered this, she and others placed a curse on him, sacrificing their lives, trapping his soul in the mortal realm until the last of Undine blood ceased to be."

The muscles in Malberry's back tense as memory floods.

"He's still out there, in our time. That's why he's been after me. That's why he let Bree and I escape. He doesn't want the curse to end. He's found a way around it. The-"

An involuntary shudder racks his body.

"The undead. They are the key."

The two women reappear with a number of elderly men. Vines and leaves adorn the men's garb and staffs.

[Verdana]

Shaygrin listened to Malberry's explanation intently. For every statement he made, a handful of questions were raised in her head. However, Shayrin did not pepper him with inquiries. This was not because she was incurious. She desperately wanted to know. However, the 'holy water' had eaten through the muscles of her jaw, and was working on her tongue. Speech wasn't possible. So, she listened, and catalogued what she heard in the grand, dusty library (which had once been a neat filing cabinet but which had fallen apart and grown over time) of her mind, for later investigation.

Shay was an excellent listener.

She was merely 'interested' at the explanation of the undine (though she grew curious at Malberry's trouble describing the children of the creatures. Was he one? She suspected so. She would have to ask him later.) However, when he brought the conversation to her daughter, her baby, her eyes grew sharp. She tried to open her mouth, but it didn't work. She reached out...

But before she could do anything, a crowd had gathered. Shaygrin didn't have to see the men to know that they were healers. They reeked of their trade. Her metaphorical hackles rose. Shay did not like healers of any description. She supposed that her dislike reached back to their authority presence when she was a child, but the terror which irrationally filled her had far more to do with the fact that a group of human scientists had once dissected her. They had not bothered to take her consciousness. The scars remained.

She backed away, her eye widening. The other eye was a quietly-smouldering socket. A fight ensued. Shaygrin would like to say that she convinced herself that her fear was irrational, and allowed the healers to get to work like a mature and responsible adult. In reality, she fought them every step of the way, injuring two of the venerable old men in the process. To their everlasting credit, they were undeterred, and when they had caught her, and the magnanimity to heal her regardless of the fight she was putting up.

After quite some time and a lot of energy, Shaygrin stepped out of the group, muttering thanks and looking mutinously ashamed. Her face was whole and unblemished, except for the ordinary wrinkles of age. She stomped up to Malberry, and demanded,
Well? Do you have any other urgent business here, or can we leave? That was supposed to be a casual diversion and a valuable life lesson. I never reached my lesson. You will have to learn it elsewhere.

As it is, I'll never get us to your bloody ice-cream buffet now, and if you put one word of complaint in about it, I will cut out your tongue and make it into a finger puppet.

[Derelict Draught]

Malberry could hardly stop himself from laughing at the scene before him. The sight of his Commander retaliating against the old men was comical to say the least. Like a kid going to the doctor's office for a shot, there wouldn't be any pain but she behaved as though they intended to kill her.

The men worked quickly, both in subduing and treating her. Within minutes of the struggle starting the combatants were still, three injured rather than just one. The healing process took slightly longer as she continued to struggle against her aids before they finally released her, good as old. And a fresh threat marked the return to normalcy.

"I was really looking forward to that buffet too. Guess we'll just have to sneak across the street to the other hotel, theirs doesn't start for another few centuries though. Besides, I think you could use it, some blood and ice cream are a girl's best friends."

A curt bow dismisses himself from their saviors. "Whenever you're ready."

[Verdana]

Shay was not in the mood for humour. She was also not in the mood for formalities. Before Malberry had even finished giving her permission to leave (Hah! Him, giving permission to her! Ridiculous.) she had grabbed his arm and unceremoniously flitted them home. The ride, if possible, was more bumpy than the first journey. Shay was getting old, and she was tired and hungry and someone else's power was circling in her system. This felt rather like mistaking allergy medication for aspirin, and popping two strong pills. She felt as if her body didn't entirely belong to her.

She got them back, and she managed to do it in one piece, too. However, the journey was harrowing for her. She would not tell Malberry this, but she had almost lost his left leg in a lapse of concentration. When they solidified, it was in the middle of the Wren's new base city. Shaygrin was very good; she had managed to flit them below a bridge. As a result, there was nobody but a muttering homeless woman to see the two people pop out of mid-air.

Shay leaned against a graffiti'd pillar, ankle deep in refuse, breathing hard. She was old. She could no longer cope with adventure the way she used to. This was not an easy thing for her to accept, especially since if she had done as she was supposed to and stayed in her home world, taking over the family business, she would probably look, and feel, much younger than she did. It wasn't too late. She wasn't dead. She could go back. Perhaps she would, once she had groomed her two commanders to be up to the job. As it was, that job seemed more difficult than she had anticipated.

Retirement seemed a long way away.

She glanced at Marcus to make sure that he was alive, and then stumbled out from under the bridge. She looked around, squinting against the evening sunlight. The air yowled with tyres on tar. It reeked of humans and their transport. She dated the models of the cars screaming past her, and judged her timing to be 'about right'. She had no way to confirm this. Not checking to ensure that Malberry was behind her, she ambled across the road (almost getting run over by a careless driver; evidently, her city was right too) and checked a signpost. She cursed. Right city, wrong side. She'd hoped to be home for dinner, but she had lost her wallet in the kerfuffle and wasn't young enough to catch a ride.

She was lucky; she looked at the buildings in front of her and smelled something promising.

She grinned, a predator on the hunt, as she found what she was looking for.

She did not coddle Marcus. If he followed, he followed. She walked into the bar without hesitation. It was starting to fill with men coming off of work, but was nowhere near throbbing. Shay didn't mind this. She did not intend to stay very long. She ordered herself two double jiggers of whiskey (her time frame was wrong, but she didn't care), one for herself and one for Malberry. She'd decided that they needed them. She gulped hers down with a satisfied gasp, and then ambled over to a shot table, widening her eyes into a look of ignorant interest.

There was one in every bar: A small group of intent gamblers, spending their salaries in an attempt to supplement them. Shay drew up a chair, glancing at a newspaper as she did so. Seventeenth. She was nine days late. She wasn't too concerned about this. She'd managed a shift in time and space with a passenger. She should have been given a medal.

Carefully, she ingratiated herself into the group, and began to play the next round, using any change she could find in her pocket. She lost horrifically. The men let her play. They bought her drinks. They got more drunk. She did not. More men joined.

Then the real game began.

[Derelict Draught]

The world around him screeched as Malberry was sucked into the temporal plane. Each moment seemed to stretch for hours, especially the searing pain where he knew his left leg belonged. Abruptly the sensation he'd come to understand as 'flitting' ceased, sending him crashing into the muck.

He hadn't been ready for that, not that anything could really prepare him fully for the sensation of being ripped through time, but he did manage to roll out the impact and avoid spearing himself on an old pipe. The liquid smelled foul as it flushed up his nose and stung in his newly reopened wounds. For a moment he envied Shay, rather than a run of the mill patch job she'd received the full benefits of being magic, though he didn't personally care to have his own face melt off.

Not far from where he stood, a strange woman sat muttering to herself. The words were indistinguishable, neither consisting of legend nor purpose despite Malberry's attempt to grasp them. Footsteps in the refuse warned of Shay's departure and prevented any further evaluation of the strange woman as his feet carried him away, like a puppy being pulled by an invisible leash.

The Commander strolled across nearly causing an accident and undoubtedly giving the driver a heart attack, before disappearing into a small hole-in-the-wall bar. Things only seemed to spiral downward as the woman drank and flirted her way into a game of cards. With a sigh he takes a spot not far away yet still out distant enough to avoid association between the two.

[Verdana]

Shaygrin tracked Malberry in her peripheral vision. He had followed her, like a good lad, and sat away from the action, but in her direct line of sight. She kept a close eye on the lad, but he did not distract her. This was good. The tricky part of the game had begun.

Subtly, she began to win.

Not very much, not at first. Spurts of dumb luck, easily overlooked and quickly overshadowed by losses. However, she began to pick up speed, slowly but surely. Her win-to-loss ratio began to favour the former, and before any of the men knew what was happening, Shaygrin had pocketed a good half of the money in play.

She should have stopped there. The men were none the wiser, and she had more than enough money to get both herself and Malberry home. However, Shaygrin was a natural-born swindler. She had been raised by pirates, and as a result, she had been drinking and stealing the money of fools before she had grown all of her adult teeth. She was very, very good. It was in her blood. The concept of leaving the job unfinished was shameful. Besides which, the alcohol in her system made her daring. She told herself that she deserved to win.

So she began to win more.

The men started to see what was going on. They grew resentful, and then they grew downright angry. Shaygrin didn't notice, at first. By the time she felt the change of pace in conversation, it was too late.

The men asked for their money back. Shaygrin refused. She had won the money, fair and square. They accused her of cheating. She denied all accusations (although hr methods of winning certainly hadn't been honest). They pleaded. They threatened. Shaygrin was unmoving. The money was hers, and she was keeping it. Tempers roared. Men sulked. However, Shaygrin may still have managed to escape unscathed.

Then she picked up a drink.

Coincidentally, the drink belonged to a man who needed it. He had been paid his last wages that day, after being fired. His wife had left him for her old university sweetheart, who had fathered the baby the man had adored and thought to be his son. His house was going to be repossessed by the bank. He had only been able to afford one tankard of beer, and he had needed that tankard. For the man, having his salary stolen and his drink snatched on top of it, it was one straw too many.

The camel's back broke. He threw a punch.

It would have taken a lot more than a handful of drinks to slow Shay's reflexes. She caught his fist, and in age-old tradition, used his momentum to throw him over herself and into a table. He crashed into the wood and lay against it, groaning. The bar went silent. The robbed men were motionless. In their drink-addled brains, cogs turned. The woman had defended herself with relative ease. She was strong.

Therefore, their next action was justified.

They converged on her with a desire to dole out pain scrawled over their faces.