Kla Verun

Kla Verun

The Man In Red
Easy money.

That's what Jereth had been promised by the slick-dressed elf in the back of the North Star Inn, a quick and simple trip to score a hefty handful of coin, enough to last him for months. He had been sniffing for a quick score for weeks in every bar and tavern in North Ilica that hadn't shown him the boot yet, Sure, he'd thought it odd when this pasty sharp-ear was waiting for him with a job offer, no questions asked, but all he'd tasked him to do was drive a wagon full of who-knows-what three towns over. They weren't even in a particularly bad part of the region, when it came to bandits on the road. How hard could it possibly be?

To a peasant born on the dankest side of the alley, it was his M.O; A way to get coin while doing as little as possible. As the wheels turned against the dirt road leading into the town of Halneby, still dark and soft from last nights torrential downpour that had left most of the settlement out picking up debris from the street, Jereth felt confident enough kicking back and resting his feet on ass of the horse pulling him forward. His destination was just on the other side of town, and everybody was too busy cleaning up after the storm to pay some rag-wearing human any mind.

With a deep breath of the morning air filling his lungs and a yellow, gap-toothed grin. Jereth tucked his dirty hands behind his matted black hair and relished these last moments he spent as a poor man, already filling his mind with fantasies of what he'd do with the riches he was set to collect. A beautiful blonde woman, a lavish mansion in the hills to the south? Wait, no Jereth, start small. A lavish manor. Then, he'd buy the biggest, most expensive...


You'd think everybody would be too busy cleaning up after the storm to pay any mind to Kla Verun, yet he'd lost track of the sideways glances he'd collected since he'd arrived in Halneby the night prior. One would think the Devahni were some extinct people, how they gawk and point fingers when they think he cannot see. The only solace he'd found was in the comfort of his room in the tavern, however dingy and musty it was, it was leagues ahead of the straw mats he'd grown up on.

A shame then, that this tavern, along with the entire town, was about to come under attack.

Standing naked before the standing mirror by the door of his room, Kla took deep inhalations, tightly closing his eyes and shooting them open once more. Double vision. He suffered from it every morning; waving mirages clawed at the edges of his sight, phantoms of what he truly saw, playing with his mind.

"Merely a side effect, my boy." His father had assured him, "Breathe, meditate, and your senses will return to you."

Everything was a side effect, he'd learned, when you had Shroud Stones sewn into your back. As if repaying Kla for the thought, they burned like hot coals on his flesh, causing his pointed front teeth to gnash together as he seethed, his vision snapping back and his hands landing on either side of the mirror to support himself.

He needed the dust, but Kla knew there would be none until his assignment today was complete. The Deva would have to manage the pain, long enough to save this piddly little borough from it's untimely doom. But he couldn't do it alone.

Kla finished painting his skin for the day the red lines on face illustrating well his agitation, and carefully clothed himself, less than eager to offer any of the same agitation to the stones. Throwing on a coat of scarlet, Verun hid the pain radiating from his back beneath a face of steel and quickly exited his room to descend the stairs to the main room of the tavern. Immediately the stench of cheap breakfast wafted through the air, mixing quite poorly with the scent of old booze baked into the walls to make his nose curl.

Luckily, there was too much effort going towards storm repairs for many people to get drunk this early in the morning. Those who were in the tavern were eating meals, either readying themselves to join the effort, or preparing to leave before they were asked to. Good. That meant his chances at finding able-bodied help were much higher, albeit still low.

The tavern-maiden had reluctantly and meekly started shuffling Kla's way, but a curt glare was enough to deter her. She hadn't particularly wanted to serve the moody-looking Devahni in the first place. Reaching into his coat, Verun retrieved a rather hefty sack from his belt and stepped toward a table situated in the middle of the room. Bringing an arm down, he carelessly swept the food and drink of the patrons occupying said table to the floor with a clatter, and tossed the heavy bag where their meals had once sat.

Gold spilled from it's mouth. A lot of gold.

"Listen well, because I don't intend on repeating myself!" Verun called out loud enough to speak over whatever conversation had continued on past the initial commotion. "This podunk little town of yours is about to be razed. All of you will lose your homes, your belongings, and quite possibly your lives." Some looked at him as though he were insane, others murmured to those around them, and some ignored him entirely. Still, he had their attention, as was his intent. "I'm in need of hands to try and prevent this razing from occurring. And I'm paying well. If you're weak, stupid, or insufferable, you need not apply."

Scooping his money back up off the table, Kla tucked it away once more and headed for the door of the tavern.

"If you're interested. Meet me out front in... I'd give it five minutes."
 
Trevor blinked. It made no sense. Blinked again, hoping the drink might explain it better than his ears had. But nothing came. Only thing that looked back at him over the rim of the mug was the realization of how little liquid was left. “The fuck’s wrong with the hornguy?” he muttered to himself. Over time, he developed a working theory that people with big heads often had very short tempers. And horns did make your head bigger. Literally so.

Gold on the table. Righteous fury. Some line about the town being razed. People razed towns all the time. But it wasn’t adding up. The good ones didn’t give you five minutes’ notice. Mind spinning like the coin in his pocket, he couldn’t accept this as reasonable. The red guy was gone outside in a flash. Followed by chairs scraping, he winced at the sound and drank. He was good at drinking. He was getting better at minding his own business.

“Come on, Jerry!” A battlecry if there ever was one.

“Ain’t no one razing my town!” Another one accepted.

“We can take anyone dumb enough to try!” A third one made for an echo.

They followed the red guy out. He imagined them as stupid. Insufferable perhaps. Didn’t look weak tho. Two for three was still something.

Five minutes, eh? He would make the best of it. Finished his drink quick and headed to the bar for another.

Something wasn’t right here. And he would make sure to meet it in the proper state of mind.

Another!
 
Matvi looked over the wagon, its wheels caked in mud. One hand rubbed at his jaw. "Well, this ain't good," he surmised. Half the barrels of booze he had been transporting had been split open by a stray lightning bolt.

"Count yourself lucky, The Sailor only wanted your drink," Old Lem... comforted?

A laugh. "Next time, might he take me instead, and save me the headache of having to recoup the losses,"

Old Lem grinned a three tooth grin. "Still got the Old Raven barrel though,"

Matvi's eyes flit to the oaken keg. The great raven that was scorched onto its top, marred the more by the lightning flash. A hint of pride in a show of teeth. "Small blessings and all that," he laughed. "The Sailor has poor taste,"

A rumble of thunder clapped across the sky. Matvi jumped, eyes up and wide to the grey clouds that rolled across the sky, his hands shot up, as if they would be any use against a god.

Old Lem laughed, whistling through the gaps of his teeth. "Careful now,"

A slam open of the White Cat's door. Footsteps, commotion.

Come on Jerry!

Matvi eased up as he turned toward it. Hands lowered to his side. He Watched the procession of rabble stomp out, boots squish in the muck as they tailed a man in red.

"Now what is this?" he asked.

Old Lem shrugged, his hands on his cane. "Jerry gets worked up about damn near anything,"

But it was more the way the shroud bent around the red cloak. Pulled. "Curious," the medicant sounded.
 
He'd given them five minutes in the hopes that whatever rabble he could cobble together could at the very least wipe the stupor from their eyes before stumbling out the front door. The brawny locals that rode the tail of his coat almost immediately looked to be at least partially inebriated, and completely incapable of assisting him in a way that didn't involve blindly throwing fists.

Verun stared the three of them down, the ice in his gaze a stark contrast to the ember-red color they bore. It was about all he could do to fight his gut instinct to knock their heads together. No, that wouldn't do him any favors with finding more volunteers. With arms crossed over his chest, Kla let out a sigh.

"Fine. It's a start. There's several crates stacked behind the White Cat. You'll find weapons and armor, but don't take more than you need."

He'd find some way to make them useful, but this wouldn't work unless he could find somebody with half a brain for actual planning. The situation was a sight more serious than he'd made it sound, and he'd already made it sound quite dire.

Then, a tingle on the back of his neck, the tiny white hairs on Kla's nape standing on end as he felt that familiar sensation. There were eyes on him. Sharp, quick-witted eyes. Verun didn't turn to meet them. They were either curious, interested, or hostile. He could handle all three.

A sharp pain in his back caused him to wince, shifting his shoulders to work out the sudden tension in his muscles. Wherever that wagon was, he hoped to the Gods whoever was driving it knew what he was sitting on top of.


Jereth was starting to think maybe he should have been more curious as to what exactly he was hauling. Near the edge of town, a hooded figure, dressed a lot like the sharp ear that had given him the job, flagged him down an alley between two seemingly derelict buildings. Turning down the dark, narrow byway, he found himself greeted by no less that six more of the strange men.

"H-hey fellas! Got the goods, just like I promised! Suppose it's time for me to take my cut and move on, eh?"

The hooded ones looked at eachother quiet murmurs filling the air between them before the one who'd led Jareth down the alleyway stepped forward and lowered the cloth covering their face. The streetwise peasant should have known better than to let himself be surrounded in a place like this, but only when he saw what lie beneath that hood did he realize just the trouble he was in.


A scream, bloodcurdling and full of terror. Then, an explosion. Even from the White Cat, Kla could hear it in the distance. A quiet swear left his lips.

"Really going to make me do everything myself, are they?"

@Matvi Iramene @Trevor
 
The explosion didn’t rattle the walls. Passed through them instead. Enough to stir the ale within the mug, and the spirit within Trevor. Paused mid drink as the scene woke up around him. Hovered it for a moment before taking a healthy swig. It would be a while before he could return to it.

Stood up slowly. That wasn’t thunder. He knew thunder. Perhaps the hornguy was onto something. Letting go of the drink took longer than he’d like. Thoughts of taking it as a companion heavy on his mind. But no. This was looking to be serious work. He would need some level of sense about him.

The scream still bothered him.

Headed for the door without a word.


*​


Outside, Jerry was mid boast, swinging a dull axe in a wide motion. About to decapitate a ghost looked like.
Koren laughed merrily, gripping the spear like a broom.
Mark checking his hair in the borrowed shortsword when the boom hit.

All three froze.

“Um…” Jerry blinked.

“We gotta go!” Koren shouted, even though no one asked.

Mark dropped the sword. Picked it up. Dropped it again.

None of them moved toward the sound. Not yet.
 
The tavern-goers looked wide eyed and confused. Struck by the horrible sound in the distance.

"Well," Matvi interjected, looking off into the distance where the explosion had boomed and the smoke rose. Cold with their calm, he turned his eyes toward the lot. "Sense in having some fear," he strolled over to the newly armored men, his own sword, buckler there on his swords-belt. Fastened in the interim between the wagon and their side. "Not so much in letting it freeze you up though,"

Jerry blinked once more.

Koren shiverred in his boots.

Mark grabbed up his sword. "You, what do you know about this?"

Matvi smirked. "Know well enough when I see trouble, and the needs to stop it," his eyes looked to the one in red. "You seem to know what you are doing, lead on then, I'll try and keep these three alive," for as long as he could, anyway.

Jerry gulped. Pushed out a breath, and let out a cry like a rooster come morning.

Matvi stared at him a long moment. Nod. "Right,"

"That's the spirit, Jerry!"
 
Verun had been hoping for more time before he had to put things into motion, but that explosion marked the end of his alloted preparation period. The reaction from the surrounding townsfolk was less panic and more confusion; bystanders milling about as if expecting someone to come and explain what that awful sound in the distance was. The Deva pursed his lips as he moved quickly to join his rag-tag group of volunteers.

The next explosion would be closer, and there would be much panic.

"You go nowhere until I say you do." He barked sternly toward the enthusiastic one, though none of them seemed to overeager to jump into the fray. They knew how to properly armor up, at least. Given where he'd found them, Kla had felt some doubts about that. There was a fourth with them, one who hadn't come from the tavern. Offering Matvi a brief once-over, he gave a huff.

It was the closest he'd come to expressing approval. This one seemed sharper than the others, perhaps the operative he needed. Turning back toward the other three, he continued. "You march toward the sound and they'll be waiting for you. It's what they expect." Their chances were slim enough without running headlong into a trap. "Now gather your wits for a damned moment, will you? Don't piss yourself before I've had a chance to explain what's happening."

More footsteps came from the door of the White Cat, one more soul looking to throw his arms into the effort. A mundane looking one, unremarkable in all respects, but... he seemed to have himself more put together than the other bar patrons. Kla's expression didn't shift as he gestured Trevor toward the weapons and armor.

"Listen close. That explosion you just heard is intended to be the first of many. A group of malcontents has smuggled in a supply of particularly volatile ore, and they intend on planting it throughout the city." There were, perhaps a few finer details he was leaving out, but that was for the best. "Our job, is to make sure they aren't able to do that."

No doubt they were outnumbered and out-trained, but they had one advantage. Loathe as he was to admit it, these locals were the key to success.

"I need to know which buildings hold the most significance in this city. Where do people gather, besides the bar?" If anybody would know, lifelong residents looking to defend their home would. To Matvi, Kla turned and furrowed his pale, painted brow. "You, you're different. I can feel the Shroud with you. Know your basic spells well enough?"

@Matvi Iramene @Trevor
 
Jerry found the armed man next to him soothing, so he tried to copy his ease the only way he knew how:
“People do be gatherin’ at Gemma’s,” A wide grin, cut short, because Mark was already mid motion to slap some sense into his buddy.
“Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout her like dat!”
The escalation cut short by Koren, who was surprisingly the calmest:
“Market square and grain store’re important spots. Most people not drinkin’ ‘ll be out.” He shrugged, hand waving over all of them and the people lining the streets further out.

Trevor’s eyes went to the bunched up gear at the Hornguy’s gesture. Not like he really needed weapons or armor.
Oh, that’s a good one! He grabbed a knife and slotted it under his belt. Once they were out of this mess, he could clean fish with that – his old blade was becoming dull. With his back to the group, he pulled the thrice unstolen coin and allowed luck to be spent. Luck hated accumulation anyway, but she had no issue with momentum. It was but a thought to direct her to the three dumb boys. It was nowhere near enough for long and happy lives – but it would give them each a second chance at some point. When they needed it most. The coin fell from his hand as if it singed. Fell on its edge and held the stance.
Because of course it fucking did.

Halenby was screwed – he surprised himself that he remembered the town’s name – with luck this spread out, there was nothing to stop the accumulations of misfortune about to befall them.

And if he had to take a lot again, so be it.

Let all the roofs on this street forever remain poorly thatched and leaking.
Let caravans break their wheels at this door every week.
Let the foundations crack and the soil sag.
But let them live.

If it came to it, he’d spend all she gave him. Every bit. Just not yet. Not unless the dying started.
He had not absorbed this much ambient fortune in years. Last time he did, he was taking lives.
Felt like he was barely touching the ground. Invincible, almost. Tiny needles on his skin, as air itself refused to touch him. Still didn’t trust the red one. Something off about the timing and the calm. But that was a problem for later. If there was a later.

If she allowed, he would use it to save some today.

“Just get me close to the spots, and I’ll know. Got a nose for these things.” Voice stronger than his frame had any right to hold. His back straightened; pace steady as he took his place in the group.

He was still a skinny ginger, but Luck remembered him as she spun the heavy shroud around him.
 
"Well," Matvi said as he mulled over all he had heard. "That certainly is a lot," he said with a lopsided grin. None the less pearling despite the dread of the hour.

The one in red turned his eyes on Matvi. The Knight Sworn narrowed his eyes and keeled his attention beneath a raised brow. "I know a bit of the weave work, aye," A small nod as his eyes studied the man in red. Sensitive one, wasn't he. Even with all those threads pulling into him.

The curiosities continued to unravel.

A bit of banter from the local lads, one cooler than the rest, managed to pluck something potent from the drought. "Six of us," Matvi slipped in to the weave of words once the last man came about. Not a terribly good number. Even though. Round. Power in that. "Granery would make a good place to start,"

Nothing like a bit of dust and build up to help a fire spread the faster. He looked out to the smoke rising on the horizon, saw how the people gawked at it too. Some hurried toward it, others ran away.

Looked to their de-facto leader. Gave him a nod. Time to move.
 
And Six they were.

None of the men particularly stood out to Kla as the picture of valor, strength or bravery, but he was beginning to get the notion that perhaps he shouldn't be so quick to judge. Those nagging preconceptions, the prejudices of his father spoke so loudly into his ears that he fought not to dismiss them solely for their humanity alone.

If only such pickiness were feasible.

"The Granary and the Market..." He repeated, consulting his own mental map of Havenby in his mind. The Market Square was near the center of town; Their explosive-wielding friends wouldn't make it there without drawing eyes, not until they had the place panicking. Crimson eyes meeting Matvi's, Verun nodded in agreement. "We can try to cut them off at the grain store, I agree."

The time for dawdling about was done, more people were going to die if they didn't get a move on. Gesturing briefly toward Trevor, he ushered him forward first. "You can guide our path then. I'll give you more details on the way."


Most of the Granary workers had been given the day off to aide with the storm repairs-- The storehouses themselves had actually taken the brunt of it like a champ; a testament to both their sturdy construction, and the benefit to being situated rather close to the walls. Few souls lingered to question what that strange smoke that wafted from those walls was now, nor did they have mind to wonder about the black cart that now slowly pulled up beside the main storehouse.

Anybody able-bodied enough to intervene in such things was in the center of town, picking up scrap wood and sifting through debris. Even they may have thought twice about accosting the gaggle of robed figures that quickly and deftly opened the back of the wagon, each retrieving an individual item. They looked to be no more than indistinguishable lumps wrapped in paper and tied with tweed, but the figures carried them as if they were gold.

Quietly the packages were placed on the ground, near the walls of surrounding buildings, along the sides of the more well travelled roads, and hidden away in nooks and alleys. Then, like clockwork, the figures closed their cart, and the wheels began to turn once more, continuing towards the center of town.


"We're dealing with a nasty lot. Call themselves the Voiceless." Putting Trevor at the head of the group had proved wise; the man either truly did 'have a nose' for such things, or he was very familiar with the city. Either way, Kla directed the most of his attention towards their surroundings.

He had the gist of what they were up against, but this wouldn't be the first time he'd gone against the Voiceless. They were sneaky, good at improvising... "Mostly elves, a few humans. They've been pulling this stunt on smaller settlements for months." Verun looked forward, to that rising smoke plume near the wall. "First explosions rock key buildings and residential homes, then they rush in while everybody is panicking. Ters and Rorthall have already been left with nothing."

"Trevor," Thankfully, they'd found a brief moment to introduce themselves to one another as they walked. "When you see what you think we're looking for, don't get too close. They'll have placed a hex on it." Turning to Matvi, he continued, "My relationship with the shroud is less subtle in nature... I'm no cursebreaker, Matvi. Can you help?"

@Trevor
@Matvi Iramene
 
“Come up, Jerry. I’ll need your help.” And to Jerry’s credit, he moved to Trevor with speed uncanny for a man that scared.
“You’ll get us to the grain store.” A hand on the other man’s shoulder. “No need to worry. I’m but a step behind.”
Because Trevor wasn’t suited to be the man in front. He was the small guy in his shadow, making sure they lived to drink about it later.
“Left here.” As they took to the streets, his voice took on a bite.
“Thought we were...”
“We are.” A grim nod to the accumulation of wrong right of them. “Eventually.”

Kla, as he now knew the man, had been behind them somewhere. Boots too precise for a man supposedly improvising. Matvi moved quieter, measured. And for a moment he was glad Jerry wasn’t all he had. He didn’t like leading, so he was happy there was always a Jerry who’d crave the hero stuff.
“Not that street.” Louder this time. “Take the next right.”
Jerry hesitated. “Why not.”
“Roofline’s wrong.” Shoulders shrugging the weight of lies. “You’ll learn to notice.”
It wasn’t the roofline. It was the air and the way it twitched. The luck had yet to settle there. And as long as he held her breath, so would he.
“You got this Jerry. Real hero stuff.” He mixed honey with guidance as they moved. Men who could see themselves saving the world would find it harder to bolt.
Just past the next corner, a shutter snapped loose from a building not ten paces behind them, slamming down onto the cobbles. Startled shouts. Someone fell. Maybe broke something. But they would be alright, as soon as the group passed.
“Left, Jerry.” Kept walking.

Luck was tight around them now. Too tight. There’d be more cracks soon. More noise just out of reach. He wasn’t saving lives for free. She’d made that clear long ago.

The group shifted and Koren caught on quicker than Jerry, eyes scanning the buildings. Mark didn’t say much, but Trevor knew the look of a man who was five seconds from bolting at the first sign of disaster. His left hand kept twitching towards the coins, as if it needed checking. But that was just weakness. The tension in his gut had already told him that it wouldn’t be long now.

He'd never heard of the Voiceless. That was by design. The kind of names whispered in backrooms. The doors he’d learned to walk past. He dealt in odds, not causes. And at the mention of Rorthall, they shifted further. He had heard of them. Stayed a winter there once, years back. Good people. Their names wouldn’t matter to anyone now, but he would remember. And if she let him walk the right line, this would be the night that saw the Voiceless truly silent. He held onto that thought with a quiet confidence of a man who knew how to rig a deck.

The scales needed tipping. And Luck, for once, seemed to be watching the same road he was.

As Matvi and Kla pulled up closer, he gave a nod to the Deva. Hexes. That was knowledge too intimate to claim passing familiarity. He hoped Kla lived through this. The itch in his palm sharpened. The coin was no longer asking. It was warning. They were close.

His head turned towards Matvi. “Feel anything shifting?”

Because Trevor did. He just didn’t know where the break would come.
 
"Voiceless," Matvi laughed a little at that one. Too close to home for his comfort. "Why is it they always pride themselves in what they take," he muttered the stray thought as their band moved about the peremiter of the silo. All edge and sharp eyes as they stalked.

Well, if you could call the way Jerry moved edge or stalk. Man was more bumble and klutz if you asked the medicant. And he was glad no one had.

A crack and break. Matvi watched the townsfolk hurry to help their fellow. Would that he could go and lend his aid. Not now. His eyes went forward.

"I can," Matvi responded as they moved. "Assuming we aren't dealing with an Eld of a Ring Tower," bitter as medicine, the dark humor in his voice. The way the shroud bent around their lot. Hummed quiet and dissonant in his ears. Satyavati's quill too full of ink in moments like this. He focused on his breath. Let his nose do the thinking.

Piss. Dirt. Smoke. Mold. Moss. Something like a storm. He pointed his nose in that direction. Eyes scanning. Nothing but old stone, and newer brick. He cocked a brow.

Feel anything shifting?

A moment of pause from the medicant. Feet came still, and he signaled they halt. "Might be," he looked to Trevor, to Kla, to the young men of the town. "Wait here," he said to them, and moved toward the cold warp and pull of something.

The scent of spoil grew stronger in his nose. Undercut by that sharpness that came after a lightning strike. The air splitting, as if to make room for the bolt to fire down from the clouds gathered overhead. Matvi let his breath fall free from his lips. Felt the pores of his skin run with pin pricks. Cold sank in. A stench filled his nose and coated his tongue with the pull of his next breath.

Why hello, the knight of dusk thought as he came still before the curses' veil. Hand outstretched before the package, he reached a hand out, and felt the strange fibers there against his own shroud. Shut his eyes, and dipped into the darkness of his own mind with the push of air out from his lungs.

Whispers, like false wind, tickled the drum of his ear. Words he could hardly make sense of. Phrases there betwixt the gibberish of memories spread in ash of hair. Fears harnessed in tears. Agonies writ in blood.

Within the waters of his mind, he could see them gathered there before him. Echoes of who and what they had once belonged to. An ear to listen. Arms to hold the huddled afeared sure. A green field to let the pain give way to what came next. Curses wrought with the suffering of those once living, undone.

Matvi drew in a new breath but a moment later. The foul order lessened. The cold needles pulled out form his skin. The veil of woven hex undone. Its threads cast back to the threads of shroud that shift and pulled about this place.

"Alright," he called over his shoulder as he let his hand fall, and felt the shroud push and pull as it tried to find new balance. Some of the vileness of the work, taken in by the Medicant. "I've undone it," he assured them. "Well, unraveled it," he corrected himself. "Come too close, and you might catch some of the haint still lingering about," he shook his head. Pulled out a shroud stone from his belt bag.

A sphere, clear as the coldest lake ice there in the palm of his hand. He brought it up to his lips and whispered words there unto it. It caught light. Blue as the sky come summer. He bent low, and rolled it across the ground. It tinked and clinked, and stopped. Pulsed like the beat of a heart. Steady and sure.

"Should be good now," he said, turned back to Kla, motioned him toward the odd bundle the sphere stopped beside.
 
Even the jaded mind of the young Devahni was now implored to admit that many of his prejudices towards these men had been too hasty. Human though they were, and unremarkable in appearance, they each had their own spark within them. What exactly the group he'd discarded as helpless drunkards were going off of to find that which they sought escaped Kla, but they performed admirably and with precision in deftly narrowing their search.

Verun merely watched, expression unchanging. The plights of these people ought not matter to him-- His presence was that of selfishness and self-preservation, and the coin he'd offered them only a fraction of a much bigger pool meant to fund an effort far more expansive than he'd made them privy to.

As he watched Matvi sniff out the first neatly wrapped bundle, wedged indeed so inconspicuously that the common eye would travel over it without a second thought, Kla's brow knit tightly. "It's as I suspected. That is definitely what we're seeking." Yet none of the Voiceless were to be found. Were they too slow? Or were they lying in wait, like serpents in the grass, waiting to bite at their ankles the moment their focus waned?

"Be careful not to exert any physical force on it, Matvi." Came a stern warning as the Medicant did his work. "Handling the material packed within is my domain." To watch the man work was a bizarrely fascinating spectacle; Kla had only been taught to use the power of the Shroud with the gauche force of a weapon or crude tool. Powerful though he was, to see the very might he wielded so proudly used with the subtle precision of a scalpel was nearly humbling. The looming threat of an ambush was the only nag on his mind to keep him from truly absorbing the display.

Once the hex had been rendered inert, Kla stepped forward at Matvi's assurance, though his crimson gaze lingered on the stone he carried warily. It's presence alone caused his back to burn, the nerves along his spine screaming out in a muffled cry, restrained only by the Deva's teeth on his tongue as he knelt before the bundle and carefully began to unwrap it.

Loosing the tie and sliding the fabric away, Verun's gloved hands wrapped around what seemed a glowing bundle of ore, and he displayed it to the others as he rose back to his feet. "This mineral doesn't even have a name yet, but it's quite possibly the most explosive material one can find outside the realm of alchemy." He had no time to delve into the specifics, or how this strange rock was connected to the equally strange group seeking to cause bedlam, but they needed to at least be aware of what not to do.

"It's volatile enough to detonate under even minute pressure, and living beings can't come into contact with it for long before suffering... troublesome effects." Gently, Kla tucked the mineral under his arm. "I am inoculated from these effects, but I strongly recommend you not test your own immunity."

That was enough class for now. Time was running forward, and he doubted their opposition had stopped moving. "The Market next, then. Expect opposition this time." His gaze scanned from Matvi, to Trevor and Jerry, and beyond. "They weren't here waiting, which means they're already ahead of us. Once they realize this thing didn't detonate, they'll know we're coming."

Doubtful they'd even make it to the Market in time to prevent deaths, but they could mitigate the damage. As Verun readied to follow Jerry and Trevor's lead once more, distant shouts carried from where the townsfolk had been injured. Where there had been one wounded there were now several, civilians writhing in the dirt underneath pinning arrows fired from a single black wagon, covered and fitted with slots for archers to fire from the back. Some fled, some took cover, other could only watch as the vehicle rolled wildly down the road, pulled by a maddened stallion as those within fired indiscriminately.

"They're onto us, stalling us-- Shite!" Kla dropped to a knee and shielded the mineral, narrowly missed by an arrow. "We try fighting them and the Market will be rubble by the time we arrive! Move! Into the alleyways!"

@Matvi Iramene @Trevor
 
The arrow hissed over Kla and dug deep into Trevor’s forearm. Sticking out on both ends. Had his arm not been halfway up to wipe tired from his eyes, it would’ve been worse. Lucky, that. He blinked like it belonged to someone else. A dry grunt escaped him, eyes watering at the edges. It hadn’t happened in a long time – being injured. He’d forgotten the exact sound blood made when it was his hitting the street.

Arrow took the wrong path. Too clean. That one had been meant for the Deva. He looked back at Kla and almost voiced it. You’re welcome. But there was no time for bullshit. The wagon screeched with purpose, a chorus of wood and steel. Archers moving about, gutting the town, bolt at a time.

“Get up, Horns.” His voice grew stern, as he allowed his wounded arm to slide down to a resting position at his side. More than blood leeched down, swirling around their feet. “Get up and throw it.” He didn’t even realize when the knife moved from his waist to his hand, but it now pointed towards the approaching wagon. If they felt confident enough to shoot at the exploding lump from that distance, then surely the blowback wouldn’t hit the group. “Right at ‘em. It’ll hit.” Unfortunately, that’s as far as his certainty went. It would hit. What happened afterwards, only Luck knew – and she was tightlipped today.

Blood and noise. The pain. It all felt familiar, and it required little thought. Without waiting to see whether Kla would do as asked, he was already turning around. His healthy hand grabbed Koren by the collar, leaning the taller man down so Trevor could look him in the eye. “Koren.” Blood dropped from him like sweat. “Two lefts and a right. That’s the Market. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Repeat it back.”
“Left, left, right.”
“Good. Run. Get them clear of the square.” Hints of fortune singed at his fingers, itched under nails, as they were given. “You’ve got more luck than sense right now. And that’s good enough!” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement, and simply moved his eyes to Jerry.

He could see Mark behind, already halfway down the bend, legs pumping in panic. Leaving them behind the dust. That was fine. Someone had to ring the alarm bell early. Or die trying.

“You. Fall in behind me. And keep close. Real close.” Pain morphing his voice softer than he wanted. Where were all the tougher men he served under? Trevor couldn’t possibly be it. “You’re carrying more than I can waste.” And Jerry, gods bless him, didn’t argue. Moved in line, heart of a rabbit.

He had nothing but a nod for Matvi. The man would probably pull some shroudshit again, and he didn’t need Trevor on his case about it.

“Let’s move.” He said. Because someone had to.

And Luck, she was watching.
 
And she could keep on watching, for all the good it would do them.

Matvi grit his teeth his, stance bladed as he shuffled back with hops and steps, buckler raised as the bolts hissed by. His eyes flit left, right, up and down. Looked toward shadows and those places where rain and piss clung long with the absence of the sun's touch. Cold spots. Dank and moss ridden, mold raddled. It would have to do.

Exhale fell frigid from his lungs. wisps of gossamer thread spun from his mouth, like countless little caterpillars fallen from a tree made to flow on unseen currents. A bolt sliced his cheek. A second pinged hard to glance off his buckler.

Luck. Some part of him felt.

The threads of shroud were pulled tight by practiced hands. Fingers curled into palm as wrist twist. The floor misted with a freezing cold that snapped to his hands. The strands of magic twined, cast out as so many lines of fate. Cracked and shimmered into glacial silks. Bolts snared there in the strands. Flashed with ice and crystals that turned them lousy in flight.

Cover laid behind them, he turned and ran after the crew.
 
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