RP:Deadbeat

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

After the previous agreement for Thistle to contact Ranok by use of a magical bottle, Thistle hadn't used it. Not until a job for Deaglan had given her cause to use Thonmet's secrets as currency for that particular hunt. Thistle thought she'd have more time before Thonmet found out about that little indiscretion, but after narrowly escaping the trap he'd laid out for her, she found her hands tied, back to the wall.

Her only choice was to use the bottle, and Ranok's help, to make it out of Thonmet's territory alive.

Night in the Slums

Thistle had never stooped to stealing. It wasn't in her. So the paper that she used to stuff into the little glass bottle that had miraculously survived life with her thus far was taken from what wasn't wanted. A scrap of newspaper from the roadside, a book thrown away, a notice or note left old and disused. On the cleanest part she'd drawn a map, crude at best, and stuffed it in. She was hunched up in a bad part of town, but then again that was the part she knew best, wasn't it? Crammed in tight in a broken wall, the ground soft and sunken, and she'd tumbled into it with men on her heels, men who she no longer knew where they'd gone. Pissing off Thonmet had been a calculated risk, one she'd reaped in spades and still hadn't recovered from. Breathed in rock dust and bug crap, breathed out breath that smelled like alcoholic fumes. Hadn't stopped since the cave. Hadn't stopped moving, breathing, drinking, or getting herself into more and more trouble. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, a dribble of something potent having sluiced down when she tipped its carrying bottle back. She kept watch on the street beyond her hole from the dark. The alley was narrow beyond, cramped, stinking of piss and worse. It went between two buildings that'd seen better days, all rough and torn up. Rather like her deel. Rather like her face.

Ranok was still but only a man. Bound by the limitations of the singular, which is to say: there was only one of him. Agreements be damned, he couldn't drop everything and dash off to the city (though he had a few ideas on how to solve that particular issue). So it would be some time before Thistle was able to see him. A response came, written in a scrawling mess, that curtly foretold the wait of several hours. Hopefully she wasn't in that much trouble. Eventually, though, he would be able to come. Booted feet scuff through the trash and dirt that Cenril had forgotten. That wasn't much minded as he'd tread through far worse then just dirt and dried feces. Finding the location wasn't easy. The slums of Cenril were shifting and changing, as hovels caught fire, were torn down, or more were piled in. A map was functionally useless, and the locals could barely be trusted not to try to leave you falling headfirst into the ocean or ravine. still, he managed. Pacing in front of the alley, hardly pleased at needing to go digging into the filth, he tries another tactic, first, "Gurl. Hy em here" Echos off the old stone threw his voice around a little, though the city soon ate them.

Thistle had never learned to read. But she waited, because she had nothing else to do. Had to wait anyways, didn't she, to make sure there weren't no tails hanging around corkscrew to flush her out given enough time. She hadn't replaced any of her weapons, which meant all she had was her wits and her speed and the clenching heat of her gut demanding that she live. But the burning wore off, dimmed, and she'd found herself dozing in her Thistle-sized little hole, startling herself awake with writhing dreams and tired-brain induced hallucinations. At first she thought Ranok's voice was a hallucination too, but as she set one bleary eye out the dim light, and saw his dark outline -- hard to disguise that height, that silhouette -- she knew her salvation had finally arrived. Hah. She peeled herself out, the bottle clattering off her lap and away into the darkness. Just another piece of empty, filthy trash, really. When she reached her height she was lean, thin, bony, all kinds of hard for his inspection. "Yeah?" she said, like his words had needed disputing. "Let's move." Without waiting she was moving to the end of the alley, the one that was the way she'd come in the first place. It butted up against a shack, less sturdy than the ones made of wood or stone, even old as they were, but it still made for cover. It still blocked off the damp trail that passed between, turned it into a web of trails like shattered glass before another building walled them all off entirely. She skirted around the ramshackle housing, ducked into a wider side street. This one would fit Ranok without him needing to turn sideways -- wasn't that a generous thought on her part. "I have an in. Cleaning bloodstains. Pissed off another contact. Needed an escort." She looked up to the second story and the blacked out windows. The shutters were all warped past usefulness, or torn completely out. The windows were empty, dark holes. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to get to them in time." Her jaw was clenched. It hurt. She wished she had more booze.

Ranok doesn't bother to hide his distaste. Thistle looked to him like she'd crawled around Cenril's underbelly in more then just one way. The reek of alcohol was obvious to him, as well, though he wasn't sure if she'd just spilled some on her or had drunk it. He'd follow her up until the point where they stood before the dark, shuttered building. There'd been some real piles of crap that he'd seen before, and not all of them were from a distance, but this one rated pretty high. He could almost feel the infectious diseases trying to spread from the debris on the ground around it. But his eyes were soon on Thistle. "Hyu're drunk. Hyu're gun into de onknown und hyu're drunk on zum cheap ass rice viskey. By de gotts, gurl. Drunk on de battlefield hain't henny vay to be." Now there was certainty. An aura of the smell was wafting off her, able to be caught even through the stench of noble Cenril itself. Spittle hits the ground as he makes his feelings on the matter known further with a single, "Feh." Stalking a ways towards the house, gazing upwards, though he was careful not to flash his face too obviously, "Vatever. Noddink to do now. Get you chances ruined, hyu fool uf a gurl, und it's not on my head, here. Ve'll make it, or make dem regret dat dey deed not giff us de opportunity." Head turns towards Thistle, "Tell me vat dis escort iz for, vere to, und how long."

Thistle snorted low laughter, the sound caught somewhere between scornful and dark amusement. "Never stopped me before, and I've no intention to fight. Just keep walking. You're just my discouragement, that's all. This is Thonmet's territory. Deal went south. Used his name maybe, maybe for something I wasn't supposed to." She turned her head, grinned at him. The ivory of her teeth gleamed in the darkness, gave her a reckless quality to go with her heedless drunkenness. It said something that the alcohol was necessary for her to function at that time. Thistle wasn't going to be looking at it too closely. "I just need out of it. Before they catch me. Lost my weapons, haven't gotten the coin to replace them. Ah, here," she moved to go right around the building, the byway beyond something like a street for the riffraff who moved along it. Certainly nothing any respectful citizen would be caught using. It smelled like wet dog, puke and crap. Not that it was much different than any other street deep in the bowels of the city, where they were, but the wet dog was new. There was a place that served dog, nearby. "Not much further. I was almost out when they caught up. You coming?"

Ranok blasts air through his nostrils, "If Hy'm not gunna be killink dese pipple, it's best not to schow my face. Hy tink dat perheps Draeta kould perform dis task betta den Hy, tough it might be...a liddle too practical for de situation." It would take a little to retrieve its body, though. Time they might not have, which naturally made him cross. Rushing ahead with no plans or backup always made him cranky. But what didn't? "If hyu buy more time, Hy kan send hyu in vith a kold machine. Intimidation doesn' vork on it. Not dat it vorks on me, eidder. You kall." At least he'd offer.

Thistle flapped her right hand at him as she peered down the street. "Draeta? Machine? Walk. It's dark. I don't need these people; the job it was on is done. Through. They're a small group and I won't feel it so long as I stay out. They're already hesitating. If you look like a hen they won't stay back. They don't like meddling with people they don't know and you look," her lip curled as she eyed him in the dark, taking in the long sweep of him with a flick of her gaze, "important." Except the way she said it didn't sound like she thought he was important. But she'd already made known her surly opinion of the world. And for that, she was showing him her back. A compliment, really. Probably. She wasn't posturing, at least.

Ranok waves it. To call Draeta a machine was technically incorrect. But it was simple, neat, tidy. People could understand something that moved, as compared to...whatever it was that the intelligence could called. Even he wasn't completely sure. The insult, real, implied, meant, or unsaid, whatever it was, was ignored. There were more important things to get to. He walked. If he was to play the part of muscle, so be it. Wasn't exactly the first time. The only changes he made to himself was to tuck the hat away, inside the duster - somehow, take a ragged strip of cloth and tie it tight around his head to press the ears close to his face, and two fingers to the street to rub what he sincerely hoped was just dirt onto his face. The duster was already worn enough, it was just the finishing touch. "Moff." was all that was said in regards to whether he was ready or not.

They moved. The maze of the backstreets and halfhearted alleys was navigated by Thistle as she slunk through them like a weasel. She'd stop every so often, look around, wait, listen. She functioned remarkably well, drunk. It was like it wasn't her first time, like she made a habit of carousing with her life on the line -- given her general appearance, it was as easy as calling her gutter-trash. She wasn't talking about it as they hit shadows and slid over puddles. A couple times she had to put her feet wide to avoid the runnels down the middle of the alleys, and she did it with long practice. Only once did she turn, sour stink on her breath still strong to go with that hard set to her eyes. "Almost there. Gonna rat that bastard out for the things he's done. Sell it. Quick though, has to be --oh. Horses well, Azin?" Her attention shifted off Ranok, touched off something behind him before she looked up to check for windows. Put her back to the wall, one fist going to her hip, cocky. There was a man behind Ranok, hands loose at his sides and nothing in them. "Thought I smelled you," he said, mild, and the dim reflection of light off his eyes shifted as they moved to observe Ranok. "You're new."

Ranok followed along well enough. His own feet didn't know the streets as well as Thistle's did, but his stride was long, and he kept his footing, even in the muck. The lack of conversation wasn't bad, either. Sure as hell was no talking from him. The wrap around his ears irritated him, putting a pressure on them. The things wanted freedom, to twitch. That made him irritable. It also muffled his hearing, dulled the senses in a way he didn't like. Which was why there was a man standing behind him that shouldn't have been. A balisong was in Ranok's hand, quite suddenly, flicking open and closed with clicks as the blade was whirled with dexterity. Adopting his best no-nonsense expression, his words were enuciated with a careful measure of hidden malice, almost a growl, "And you're observant. Point?"

Thistle pressed her back to the wall, feeling the empty spot where her bow would've been. She would sell the information about all the little sweet hidden caches and shipment information she'd gleaned, and then buy herself a new bow. Yeah. Not that it was like her to hide behind people, but she was weaponless. Not stupid. Ranok was going to let her have it later, she was sure, long as they made it out. Two more men blocked the path that would've gotten them clear, and she tilted her head. Frustrated, she wondered how they'd snuck past her, around her, without her noticing them. Had they been watching this street? Guessed which way she'd've gone? No. Put men on all the streets. That'd mean there'd be no reinforcements for these. "Gonna take this into Vitus' territory, Azin? Huh?" She shifted her stance a little. Still had her fists to her, and maybe she didn't have the mass for it, but she wouldn't go down easy. Really didn't have the mass for it; Thistle was small enough that going down usually meant it was over for her, but she could feel the second-sight pulsing at her, waiting for use. A distraction, at least. "You'd have to get there, first. Thonmet doesn't appreciate being used for a dupe." Thistle let her head turn, slow, to Ranok. Pointed thing, that look, that confidence to the tilt of her head that begged the question of what Ranok was worth to them. He was a big man. They were big too, but not in the way Ranok was. Wide, yeah, but not as tall, not with the reach, not with the armor. "I don't appreciate being used for bait," she snarled back. There it was. The whole reason she'd been willing to cut them off. Pride, again. "How good're your boys tonight, Azin?" Azin was frowning in the dark, eyes pinned to Ranok, the one that was unknown. He made some signal, and was gone back the other way. Reinforcements, was Thistle's guess. The two men nearest to Thistle came forward all caution on cat-silent feet. Thistle backed up, grinning fecklessly at them. "Whoops," she said, sliding behind Ranok.

Ranok wasn't much paying attention to the exchange, not directly. Names he didn't know, posturing, threats, blah blah blah. Probably important, but he was keeping track of the positions of bodies, keeping pace with the threat. There might have been only three, but that meant that they were outnumbered. And, honestly, he didn't consider Thistle anything more then a liability. Fists? Her fists were a joke, with a punchline made of...something incredibly frail. At the moment, he wasn't wasting much energy on punning or creating vivid euphamisms. As Azin departs, and those two men step forward, so does Ranok. The intimidation didn't seem to work, which was indicative of either stupidity, good training, or bravado. Probably at least two. As they didn't stop coming, things were forced to get brutal quite quickly. Balisong flicks up, he spares a moment to be glad that Thistle moved her worthless ass out of his way, and then he throws the weapon. Those things were not meant to be thrown, all floppy unless held, which made it easy to conceal and dazzling to wield, but that wasn't the point. A Have an object thrown at your face, you had certain instincts, one of which was to protect the face, which gave Ranok more then enough time to pounce onto the other guy. Metal fist flails forward, meeting flesh in impact hard enough to crack something. Then the other guy was on him, arms reaching out with something that glittered in the light. Without hesitation, left hand reaches down to grapple with the hand that wielded the weapon, Ranok's right coming up to meet a fist. There was a battle of wills and strength for a moment, the grunts of air expelled from lungs as effort was similarly expended. Dirty blows aplenty, on the abdomen and groin. Ranok had protection. The other man did not, which allowed him to fare as well as could be expected. A shadow rises, the other man, blood all over his face, had a pipe. Down it comes, at the only thing not protected; that being Ranok's cranium. The smith's leg lashes out, the man he grappled with twists in pain, and the pipe hits the wrong head. Down he goes. Blood spewed as the pipe wielding man spat out curses and raised the thing again, but Ranok's fist was buried in his midsection, pounding the air out. Armored knee comes up and finishes the job, leaving both men rolling on the ground and bleeding. After this, Ranok aims a particularly special scowl at Thistle, wiping blood from his knuckles. In the dark, it was hard to tell if it was his or not.

Thistle wished she had another drink. Wished she had more time to admire the fighting going on before her, and maybe someone to make a bet with. She'd've put it on Ranok, all right. The sound of bone breaking was all she needed, and she was turning away from him and the position he'd taken, sidling on to the end of the dirt path they'd been on to keep watch the other way. Watch for Azin, his men or one of the other stupid idiots Thonmet kept for cronies. They were making a lot of noise behind her, she thought, an awful lot of noise for keeping things nice and quiet and not-a-problem. She stopped then, thinking hard: she knew most of the street-political borders in this particular ghetto, had targeted them for the reason that most of them were still smallfish compared to the groups that held the main streets in the heart of the city. And that could be a problem, she thought, if Azin hadn't gone to get more of his men, but one of the groups that bordered Thonmet. She sucked at a piece of gristle that'd been caught between her teeth all day, throwing one glance behind in time to see a pipe hitting a head not Ranok's, and that was enough. She admired the scene, the sheer bloodiness of it all pleasing considering Ranok was still standing. Ranok's twist, the faint light catching the curve of his lips had her smirking in reply. She crouched, still smirking to herself, turned away from him. "Wait your turn," she said in reply to that look, because tonight's violence would be heaped on her head, too. Didn't matter that Ranok'd done it -- he was with her, and she was known to Thonmet as a troublemaker. She sat there, fingers splaying over the ground, and stilled her mind. Lessons with Daisy had gotten her somewhere, hadn't they? Given her something useful, beyond her too-often broken body. She felt for the wild spores, the ones that were carniverous, and started to build a web of them across the mouth of the road. Dangerous thing to do, right there, because whoever crossed them, breathed them, would be earning themselves a nasty lung infection that would turn fatal in hours if they didn't receive medical help. She told the spores to stay, encouraged it to last for awhile, and the air took on a faint shimmer, a haze. She stood up and stumbled. Touched a hand to her forehead, feeling the first faint stirrings of ill control, of tangles of magic and damage. Pushed her tongue against her teeth, turned around, and walked up to Ranok so she could smell the blood on him like he could the booze on her. Looked up the mountain of his body, stiff and stubborn just like her. "It'll be the longer way. They'll be hunting, now. I'll set traps where I can, but I'm. . .still learning." She turned left when she would've turned right. "They might have a shifter or two. It'll be bad if they catch us."

Ranok cracks his knuckles, then, a weird contortion of the fingers of his left hand. They did something strange, an odd dance, but all was fine. Just checking to be sure he didn't hit hard enough to bend a spar in his own hand. Whether those men would be getting up yet, well. Non lethality was a tricky thing. Hadn't gone too far, intentionally tried to kill them, but holding back in street fights usually ends you up shanked. Time would tell, though, oddly, Ranok looked like he pitied those two prone forms before he turned away. All they'd done was pick the wrong fight, as far as he knew. Then all pity and mercy was carefully filed away, the soldier standing front again. Enemies down. Moving on. "SCHtart settink traps und dey von' need to track us. Dey'll chust follow de trail. A hundred vays to de odder side uf dis, mostly trough buildinks. Hy vouldn' vaste de energy. Let's moff." Stooping, he picks up his discarded balisong, flicking it closed and pressing it into her hand silently. Hope she didn't try to be tricky with it, as beginners were liable to lop off important bits, but it was a weapon, and it was quite sharp. "As long as ve take dem in schmall groups, Hy don' need to resort to higher power. If Hy begin pushink uff vaves schtrong enough to disrupt nails in dese buildinks, it'll hall kome krashink down. Und de armor hain't onlimited."

Thistle looked from the balisong to Ranok, and scowled. "They don't need to track anyways. Of course I'm headed to Vitus' territory. He's the only one Thonmet can't lean on for tonight, and the only one they won't piss off by taking it to there. There's three good routes through the streets there. Others are. . ." she didn't look at Ranok. Some places even she wouldn't go, and there was some nastiness hidden in back ways. "Quickest way out. And I don't know how to use this." She waved the balisong, grin having long gone. The traps would thin pursuers to her mind, but she didn't want to argue. Didn't have the time, and didn't feel like bashing heads with him, knowing how stupid he could be about particulars. She was walking, heading for door number two. The map in her head was zooming back and forth, thinking of who had what territory, who claimed the buildings, who had what operation going on inside what building, which might have things going on with or near them that would get her in trouble with larger powers. Choices, choices. The look she shot back over her shoulder at Ranok claimed the city as hers, and the navigation as hers. He was her muscle, tonight. And she would do her Souls-taken damndest to see them through it, with as little fighting as she could. "C'mon," she growled, picking up her pace to a trot balanced on the balls of her feet.

Ranok cast his eyes up, looking at the rooflines and slants. They looked a bit rotted, to him. Not sure footing. Which actually matter, given that he was considering cutting the knot, so to speak, rather then cut through infested buildings. Unhappily, he decides that risking putting as much weight as him and Thistle slamming into it on deceleration curves was...a little too high. "On foot ve go, den." Laying traps or not, they were only as good as whether people fell into them or not. Personally, he'd just take the next street over. Leaning out to check the road, a hand yanks off the band over his ears. It felt good to have them freed again. A glance back to Thistle, as she waves the balisong knife, "Den Hy'll giff hyu you first lesson. SCHtick pointy end into odder man. De rest iz pick up as hyu go." No one seemed to be there, so he moves forward with the girl, not even bothering to try to look inconspicuous. A man as large as he pretty much couldn't do it.

Thistle flopped the two handles, looked dubiously at the short blade. "Case you didn't notice I need more reach," fitted them into her palm, made a face at its awkward feel, "and this is. . .is there a reason for this?" She was aiming the handles at him, out the back of her hand as they moved. Pointless banter, meant to restore a portion of her nerves. Meant to -- weight took her down with a grunt and a squeal and a hissed word that would've been foul even for a sailor. If the roof was a wan bet at best for her and Ranok, it wasn't so for the light-footed cat shifter currently front paws claws deep in her pectoral muscles, the rest of its long body off her. Thistle got her legs up, kicked out at the belly even as she was pulling her right arm up -- left shoulder getting wounded, again and sonofalamecow it hurt -- and plunged the knife into some portion of the cat. She couldn't see it. Heard it hiss, felt its jaws worrying into her shoulder as it got a good taste of her. But it wasn't the only one. A wolf trotted into the alley -- big guy, had to be breaking 170, 180 pounds -- where they'd been headed. Head low, tail low, teeth bared and growling with its dancing yellow eyes. Its gaze was locked onto Ranok, and it stalked forward with the promise of a good hunter. Not that Thistle could see. If she had seen she would have cried foul, because that was the direction of Vitus' territory and he'd no reason to let Rats hunt. But the cat was more important, puma, whatever it was. The second time she stabbed it was more promising, because it bunched up and hopped away from her, and she was rolling up weight on her right side. Blood slicked her arm, shoulder burning worse than taking a knife cut. She swore again, hefting the little pinprick Ranok'd given her. Watched the cat, back to Ranok, noticing blood at its lower jaw and at the loose ruff of skin at its throat. Not high enough. Damn it. But she'd punctured its mouth, the little rutting shifter get, and it hadn't liked that. It came forward, body low, and she put herself to the wall. No more pouncing her, oh no.

Ranok supposes that this is what Thistle meant by shifters. Not very low key, in his opinion. Sure, a cat or a stray dog wouldn't get a second glance pretty much anywhere, but a puma or a wolf was a different story. It seems that it was business time already again. Thistle had already gone down in a flurry of claws and fur, so he couldn't exactly ask how many more of these there were. Poor ground. With so little room to move around. There wasn't much concern for himself, truly. Teeth didn't fare so well against anything but flesh, and metal was what mainly compromised Ranok's form, save for the throat. Blood was in the air, far too much of it. "De fool gurl." was what was growled as he turned away from the beast. Without Thistle, this was all pretty much pointless. So a change of tactics, then. Duster snaps as Ranok whirls onto the wolf, wherever it was, and his left hand had snapped up. The mechanics of the arm had engaged, pulling apart slightly to create passage for the lenses that were sliding into place vertically, from their formerly horizontal position. This included the palm, which glows bright as a lance of heat issues forth, the compressed sunlight focused finely to produce something quite painful. A magnifying could set things on fire in moments, and Ranok was pushing a lot more stored sunlight then that size of one, right into the wolf's face. It wouldn't kill, but he doubted anyone with fur liked being hit with a lance of heat that would flash heat even stone. And then he was whirling again, hand smoothly going back into its normal state as he forms a fist to bull aside the puma cat thing if it got in his way. The primary objective was Thistle. Once he got to her, there was no time wasted. One hand would smack the balisong out of her hand to the ground, the other would wrap tightly around her and heave her up, no matter how much she squirmed. Like as not, she wouldn't for long, because the ground would suddenly slip out from under them both as Ranok leaps, using both his boots and the dropped balisong as an anchor to push against magnetically. To the rooftops they'd go, after all. He was just hoping they wouldn't immediately go back to the ground by crashing through whatever they landed on.

"Crap," Thistle said in the way a person does when they know they've mucked it up pretty good. No armor. Laughable weapon. The two were definitely part of the Rats, oho had she pissed off Thonmet good to get them put into play. Then again, Thonmet knew she'd be selling him out soon as she got to a good spot for it. She heard the wolf scream, whine, whatever it was was probably one of the ugliest sounds that could come out of an animal's mouth. Then Ranok was there. "Oh no -- " oh yes. Dizzy, ground bouncing around beneath her, she could only think that if her purse was big enough for what she was selling she would get herself a proper set of leathers. She hated being bounced around. The only time she didn't mind when she was on the back of a horse, and that was not -- she heard a crunching noise. Watched a section of roof collapse behind them, as Ranok moved. Repeated those few words as the cat jumped up behind them. Those two were crazy as any addicted buggers could be, kept leashed tight. When they were out hunting the streets went empty. Southeast side, in the slums, they were the only reason the Rats had as large a swathe of territory they did. Only because they were addled in the head that it wasn't bigger. Not that it mattered. If Vitus was letting them hunt from his ground, they were screwed. They had to get dockside, where the bigger fish took over. "Head to the docks," she said loudly, hair in her face, pain and bloodloss making her feel stupid. Could she heal it, she wondered? Could she use the lessons she'd learned with Daisy to close it off before she lost too much blood? She'd be better off doing that then jouncing along like a sack of rice. She closed her eyes and tried to find her happy place, heard the scream of a hunting cat. Or not. She opened her eyes in time to see the thing almost lose its footing on a section of roof Ranok had helpfully loosened. The wolf wasn't visible. She closed her eyes again, seeking deep for that coil of burning heat, seeking some semblance of balance. She tried. By the Souls, she tried.

Ranok nearly tripped and fell, that being the end of it. One of the springs from his boot jutted out and crunched through, couldn't retract. His momentum tore it free, but something twanged and snagged. Well, there went that boot spring for now. They were very lucky that the tension storage runic battery didn't go. With as much energy as it harnessed, it could blow Ranok's leg clean off if it went the wrong way. But he was cursing Thistle again, in a few languages himself. Somehow, he managed to deliver a scathing lecture while he was moving. As the spring was broken, he couldn't leap like Spring Heeled Jack without throwing an anchor to push off of, and frankly, the roof was as untrustworthy as it was. Shifting Thistle into a fireman's carry, she'd have a good view of what was chasing them, as well as the tails of Ranok's duster flapping in her eyes, as he moved. Fleet of foot was not what the smith was, but he could manage a standard rooftop chase, thhough not forever. Luckily, that wasn't the plan. The first bit of even somewhat sturdy and flat rooftop he landed on, he'd immediately drop Thistle like a sack of potatoes, whirling to meet the puma head on, drawing the metal baton at his hip as he did so.

Thistle was trying very, very hard to concentrate on her magic, on getting herself in a good way, but Ranok was talking at her. "Shut up," she said, all rough edges and harsh tones. Which was when he dropped her. She made a noise, saw the cat and looked at Ranok's back. It bit at her deep to be facing so many backs, so many warriors taking their skill to an enemy for her. Well, lah-de-dah, she was working on it, rut it all. She could only do so much half starved and two years out of training. Still had her head. Closing her eyes, she dove for the coil, for calm, for a meditative break from her anxiety and slamming heart. She was nervous, shaking, blood loss making her light-headed and faint. Not so bad, she thought. Not too much. Just pain. Focus. She didn't know how to heal. She'd done a few things she couldn't explain, had learned that overstretching meant making things worse later. Much worse. But she thought, maybe, maybe she could get the bleeding to stop, keep the wound good. If she just -- her magic slid into her wound, and she felt the clotting like she'd touched it herself. Light and pain lanced through her head as her magic snarled tight around her, and she fell facefirst to the rooftop. Ten seconds she was unconscious, ten seconds and agony. Long enough for two more of Azin's men to catch up with them, below.

Ranok already told her a lot that she'd done wrong. Being untrained, drunk, self starved. It was part of the litany he'd laid onto her as he moved, though now he was fighting again. The baton swings, transforming into an axe, cutting hairs off the puma that had come close. Just needed an opening, but it was all claws and teeth, though tooth wouldn't fare well against ghroundium when it smashed into them. A swing, a bite deep into muscle, painful but not mortal, and he yanks the weapon free as blood arcs from the edge of his blade. Smashing a booted foot into the shifter, he aimed to kick it right off the roof and right into the men assembling below. "Hyu didn' tell me dat hyu'd pissed uff de entire gotts forsaken kity, hyu schtupeed gurl! Hy kan' fight every sinkle tug dey hef! Hy'm schtill chust a man." As little as he liked limitations. Hooking the axe into the holster, he wastes little time in drawing his projectile weapon. Just a man, but a man that was very well armed. Fingers manipulate the weapon, drawing out the stock securing it, pushing a spring clip of the sharp, inches long metal darts into the top. A prime of the lever action, and the runes that operated the thing glowed blue. Moving to the edge of the building, little time was wasted in firing down projectiles on the heads of the men below.

Thistle was pulling herself back upright to more of Ranok's yammering. She made a face. Her head, Souls, aie, what a mess. There were plenty of men in the slums. The cat twisted, used one for a landing pad instinctually before it wobbled, disappeared. Most of them weren't dangerous. Thistle had secrets, and that made her dangerous in a whole other way. The man downed by the cat was taken out, the other went diving for cover. Thistle wished, again, she'd spent more time with Daisy. Magical means took less time than the rebuilding of muscle, but no less training for all of that. Chagrin. Was that what she felt alongside the dawning horror that yet again she was likely to get herself killed? She looked around, attempting to ignore the slicing pain behind her eyes, through her head, under her cheekbone, and saw the building that marked better territory. Two blocks over. Two blocks. "There," she pointed, getting back up to her feet. She tucked her left hand into her sash to keep the shoulder still as possible. Her own blood made it slippery, wet, and that in turn made her giddy. "We make it past there, we're free. Why d'you think I called you? Emergency. Thonmet got pissy scared. I know too much." Slips, promises, payments, purchases, deliveries. Thistle had never learned to read, oh no, but she had a fan-friggin-tastic memory. And she'd built trust up like a little cringing runt all dewey eyed and ready to worship at Thonmet's feet. She'd do it again, if she had to, no matter it hurt. She shook her head, blinking. Distracted. That's what she was. She looked over, and said, "At least two more Azin'll be fetching. Rats won't put out any more than the shifters. Was the wolf mobile? Cat'll be looking for him. They don't like hunting alone." Wasn't that a joke. "You want to get -- " down, she'd been about to say, but the roof decided for them. It collapsed.

Ranok stuffs an emptied spring clip into a pocket, didn't matter which. They were irritating to make, and thus worth keeping around. Whether he'd hit anyone didn't really much matter. It was suppression that did, as in, sending them scrambling. "Ve might hef to redefine de terms uf our agreement if hyu insist on draggink me into zumddink as fooleesh as dis." Mirabelle clacks as the bolts were fed hold and one slotted in to be fired. "Zumddink tells me dat if he vants hyu dead dis bad, zum imaginary line hain't gunna do krap." Then the roof was groaning. It took a moment to register just what was happening, and by then it was too late, as his feet were slipping. He'd managed a step before he lost his footing, and all he could do was keep the death grip on his weapon as he slid. It wasn't so bad, only a floor. And then two, when that one gave out, too. Could have been worse. Though tell that to the wrenching pain in his gut and leg. Ah, there was a sliver of rotting wood in each. They were yanked out forthwith and little complaint. He'd had worse. "Gurl, hyu best not hef died on me." A hand reaches up and grasps something, yanking himself up. Mirabelle was checked as he waited out a response.

Thistle hadn't died, as it turned out. Bugger for them, they'd bested a roof. She gurgled something that might have been a giggle in another life. She wouldn't hear the end of it. Wouldn't. Tried to remember what she'd been about to say before the roof collapsed. Remembered. "It's the territory. He won't cross it. His group is too small." Not enough good weapons, or armor. They were smugglers, traffickers. Not meant for warring, for dealing, and she was just a lowborn runt Thonmet intended to bring to heel before she had a chance to do him any damage. She'd called Ranok, instead. He had been the one who'd insisted. Not her. And maybe that would have been in her eyes as she looked at him, but they were all blurry with pain. She blinked to clear it, put her right hand to her shoulder. It was leaking again. Souls take it. Getting her feet under her was a task, but she managed it, looked around. Stone separated them from the street now, but she wasn't planning on -- four frightened eyes stared at her from the corner. It would be occupied. She wondered if they'd killed someone with their fall. Her stomach twisted at the thought. Not her responsiblity. It wasn't. There was a wreck of a door, and Thistle kept her eyes pinned to the little girls as she limped to it, wrestled with it. Took the bar keeping it shut off, and pulled it open. "Hide," she said, stiff and raw, to the girls before she was out. The building was made up of several rooms. Perhaps in its heyday it had been an inn, or an apartment building. Now it was a ruinous memory, useful to the denizens of the slums only in its ability to keep them mostly dry, and questionably safe. Knowing the men with power in the area, she wouldn't have been surprised to find out there was a certain fee exacted for that dubious safety. She limped down a narrow hallway, looking for the exit, leaving bloody marks on the walls as she passed them, touched them for support. Like she'd asked for any of this, rot it all.

Ranok was a mess himself, though a fair deal less bloody on the limbs. Blood oozed from the wounds he had, but there wasn't much time to bind them. There were rents in his duster, great tears, but it was mostly whole. Red streaked the otherwise perfect white of the metal plate. But best of all, Mirabelle was operational still. Say what you would about him, Ranok knew how to build good stuff. Limping to the stairs, he makes his way out of the building. Opposite of Thistle, there was no one to encounter. The plan was in shambles, that much was certain. A lot of this would have been avoided if she'd told him, if she'd trusted him. There was a gang that wanted her dead. There was so much he could have done to prevent this, even as simple as hiring a sellsword. Stupid. The pain made him want to smoke, but he trusted absolutely no flame in this desolate place. Like to go up in flames. Not a bad idea, if not for the people living in the slums that would die. Finally he'd manage to find Thistle, somewhere on the bottom floor. Dark eyes were full of things he could say, but he didn't, this time. She'd likely know what he was going to say. Instead, he grabs her on the nonwounded shoulder, "Hy don' even vant to tink uf vat filth kravled into doze vounds uf yous. But if hyu don' get patched up soon, hyu're like to pass out uf blood loss. Hy'm gunna karry hyu." It wasn't a suggestion.

Somehow, despite the frequency with which it seemed she was getting herself wounded and carried, it wasn't any easier. Her brows went up and she turned her head just so to look at him. He had made the fall better than she, she thought, but then again he'd his armor to block his skin from getting torn and bruised. She'd had cloth. There'd be hell to pay if her binder was ruined. She couldn't afford to lose it too, not then. Decided she didn't want to look. "I can heal it," she said, swallowing the taunt that had risen. Didn't want to get into it with him like she had with the talking wall with a sword. Ranok at least talked to her like she was a person, not a lump of flesh he had to protect. Ranok, at least, had a temper she could understand. Mostly. Sort of. "Just get to the building. Get past it. You hurt?" She saw the blood on the plate. It was a calculated risk to bring someone into her crap, always was. No one seemed to ever escape it unscathed, and considering what she did was for the sake of her own and no one else, it felt a little unbalanced to her. Honor debts. She stared at him hard then, still blinking, let her mouth firm up. "Let's go. Head straight out, you'll hit a channel. It's nasty, but you can follow it east, and it'll throw off anyone can smell us. Alright?" She wanted alcohol. Wanted kumis. Wanted a fire and a crew and a blanket and a yurt and a good horse. Don't always get what we want, do we now?

Ranok also had more layers to cover what wounds he did have. That helped a bit, too. "Hy'm larger den hyu und Hy'm a liddle tougher, too. My primary kvuncern iz preventink hyu from dyink. If hyu pass out, Hy'm gettink us out. Kall it incentiff to schtay avake." Without her, he lost a primary source of information, and no way was he flying blind. "Hyu betta be right about dis territory tink, else Hy might hef to break out heavy ordnance." That meant things that weren't polite to people in areas. Not precise at all. Messy. With a sigh, he holds up Mirabelle. "Dis trigger fires de veapon. Dis lever frees de klip. If a bolt jams, jiggle dis a bunch. Vatch my back." With his leg as it was, he couldn't move fast. And keeping moving was more important then throwing down like he did with the puma. With obvious reluctance, he'd press his beloved weapon into Thistle's hands. Ten shots, semi auto. Mirabelle wouldn't jam normally, but he shuddered to think what gunk was in the channel. With much further ado, he'd scoop Thistle up as he said, bridal carry. She could hang over his shoulder to watch his back. The ride was going to be bumpy, but such as it was.

Thistle stared at the weapon. Opened her mouth to protest when he'd picked her up and her teeth closed over her tongue. She made a choking sound, followed by a squeal from deep in her throat. Her eyes went suddenly teary, and she swore at Ranok through the pain, clutching at his Souls-cursed weapon through it all. He hadn't told her he wasn't hurt. Souls take it. Souls take him. If he was injured as she was, then it didn't make sense for him to carry her. Thistle would argue it later. Bickering over the finer points of things was as good a way to get them killed as any in their current predicament, and that brought a rush of dejavu with it as she kept watch for the both of them, tense and silent. She didn't like his weapon. She didn't like his smell. She didn't like the way he carried her. Of course, she didn't like being carried so that wasn't particularly on him, but since he was doing the carrying it was rutting close enough. They hit the sloppy channel, the low point in the immediate area where the runoff from frequent rains tended to wind up. During dry spells it was something like a road, albeit a foul smelling one that never quite completely dried, but during wet times like the present it was a slurry of liquid. At its deepest point it would reach Ranok's knees. Thistle didn't want to think about what was in it, and what she was asking him to do by walking its length. Not many would, truthfully. The sides were slippery, and there wouldn't be a whole lot of purchase on the banks of either side of it. There were a few planks of old wood crossing it every so often, and it was narrow enough that the agile could just hop over it. Thistle had hopped over it and many like it over the years, just getting by. Never walked along it. Didn't know any who had. She hoped that was enough. She kept an eye behind Ranok as he walked, to the sides, up on the tops of buildings. Peered dubiously at the few clustered shambles of rougher dwellings. No one looked back. No one seemed to be stalking. She did have one thing to comment on though, finally, now that her tongue and head were throbbing and her body was trembling and sweaty. "What's wrong with your ears?" Not terribly delicate, was Thistle.

Ranok was stubborn in his own way, stoic in another. But it would be hard to argue that he was the stronger of the two when he wasn't suffering from (apparent) bloodloss. She could dislike anything she wanted, but the truth was the truth. Alone, she'd slow them down even more. Slogging through the turgid water, stuff scampering that he didn't really want to think about. As the footing was treacherous, the going was slow. Unidentifiable sluge was at the bottom of the channel. After this, he'd need a good wash. "Uf hall de tinks to ask, dat's de vun qvestion? Hyu hefn' even told me you name yet, gurl, und hyu're gonna get personal vith me?" He sounded incredulous that she would. Though he would, finally, say, "Magical accident. Hy don' like to talk about it."

Thistle was watching for him, because he had to do the walking for her. That didn't stop her from gritting her teeth, from inhaling sharply through her nose and exhaling hard as if she was a furnace and her mouth was the natural exit for all that heat. Hot air, yeah, that was what she had left to her. What other questions there were to ask, Thistle didn't know. It had seemed an obvious one to her, and given her general state of malaise she thought she deserved a little leeway. For once. From someone. "Personal? That's hardly personal. I wouldn't take you for a -- nngh," Had he jolted her on purpose, or was that his natural gait? She took time from watching the widely spaced openings between buildings to give him a surely deserved glare. "Wouldn't take you for a shy filly," she muttered, the completion of the words giving her some faint satisfaction that didn't do anything to curb the burning desire to smack him in the face with his ridiculously complicated weapon.

Ranok twists his expression into one of displeasure, "Und yet hyu do not uffer so much as a name schtill. Hy'm killink for hyu und hyu don' even hef de decency to do dat for me. SCHtop fidgetink." He wasn't shaking her around intentionally, but he wasn't taking care to make sure that her ride was extra comfy. The footing in the muck he was walking through wasn't sure and he couldn't even see the bottom of the thing. Somehow, he was sure that Thistle would take the rough ride over toppling headfirst into the stuff if he tripped. Obviously, though, her wish for leeway while giving none wasn't helping his mood much either. Her remark goes undignified by a response from him, as well.

Exasperation. "Call me Tai." The desire to ask him if names were really so important was on her tongue, and the fact that it was shocked her into silence. Of course they were. It wasn't his or anyone else's fault that she'd given herself to the Souls, taken on the caste. It wasn't his fault that she was who she was, and he was who he was. That didn't mean, however, that she was inclined to give him any leeway. They were questionable allies out of convenience, out of some need to -- honor debt or whatever it was for him. It still gave her pause, whether he was killing for her or not. Lots of people killed for others in Cenril, be it for power or domination. How was this much different? Were his hands so clean? She'd already buried hers up to the elbows, and she suspected she'd go in further. Whatever it took. "You have my honor," she said, stiff in voice and stiff all over, glare going back out to the dark funnel of water and the buildings. Whatever her honor was even worth, any more. Her sense of smell was almost numb from what Ranok walked in, her eyes stinging with it. She watched, and tried not to brush her throbbing tongue against any of her teeth.

Ranok casts a glance to the girl, pausing a moment to hoist her up a little better and readjust his grip, "Hy kan kall hyu dat but zumddink tells me dat hain't you name. But if dat's hall hyu'll gimmee." Water sloshes around his feet as they constantly progress. When she speaks about her honor, he exclaims, "See! Dat. Dat's vat Hy'm talkink about. Hy kan literally feel hyu schtiffen. You body iz rigeed. Look, Tai," though he said it with a stressing that was quite deliberately skeptical, "ve hall hef our secrets. Talk to me about trust issues. But Hy'll tell hyu vun tink. Hyu keep treatink me like a tool, Hy'll lose patience. Hy vas treated as an instrument in my early life und Hy've hed enough uf it. Hy'm doink dis by choice. Hy'm killink und hermink pipple on you say so for de sake uf you sisters, und hyu treat me vorse den hyu vould a horse. Und yet hyu trust you life far more to me den hyu vould a horse. A horse vouldn' hef to make a konscious choice on vedder to betray hyu or not."

Thistle was unused to being questioned about the throwaway syllables, only parts of names given to animals and never people, and she almost found herself bristling at it. Again. She kept her mouth shut that time, and struggled not to tell him to shut his mouth before she put his whatever-it-was in there to give him something to chew on. But she didn't. Even if she only understood most of the words, she knew enough of his complaint. She kept her mouth firmly -- Souls take it! "What do you want from me? Trust? You don't earn it in a day. Anyone can smile and nod and give charity, and it takes all of two seconds to turn it around and plant one in solid. And don't tell me crap about what you do or don't do. It should be funny, shouldn't it? Everyone wants to talk, wants to make a big rutting pile over how kind and noble and changed they are, instead of shutting their rutting mouths and working it. Words are a dime a dozen and I don't have to share with you any more than -- " Her mouth was open, but she'd stopped talking. She lifted Mirabelle, aimed it, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Her head whipped around, looking down the disgusting channel to the edge of Vitus' territory. Twenty paces? Fewer? They were so rutting close. She was jiggling what Ranok had told her to jiggle, shaking the odd weapon as if that might help. There were two men down the alley, though neither had a bow and both were as constrained by the dangerous channel as Ranok was. She tried the trigger again. "I'm jiggling!" she hissed, her unfamiliarity with the weapon delivering a whole new pitch of panic to her voice.

Ranok grits his teeth, "Trust hes levels, hyu tvit uf a gurl. Hyu don' need to hend avay de keys to de front door to let dem schleep de night. By de gotts, saff you life tvice und help you sisters und dis iz schtill vat Hy get." And people called him paranoid. It would amuse him if he wasn't knee deep in literal crap at the moment. Mirabelle's clicking got his attention and his head snaps over, catching a glimpse of the men...though his worry was for the weapon and not them. Mirabelle was precious enough to him that if Thistle dropped it, he would have dropped her to look through the muck for it. "If hyu broke her..." he says warningly. As much as he wanted to wrench it from her hands and check that it was okay, he could only do it with one. "SCHtop shekink her so much! Pull back de prime, dat katch tink, und make sure de safety lock iz uff! It's de svitch by de trigger." He could lance more sunlight, but it was sort of a precious resource. It took a lot of sun to compress in order to make it an instantly harmful weapon. Enough light could melt rock, but it took effort. Fires or warmth was a lot easier.

Words. She understood them individually, but in relation to the weapon she was completely, utterly at a loss. At least the men couldn't catch up through the muck -- and then they disappeared back into the side alleys. They'd run around the buildings, probably pop up ahead of Ranok. That was a problem. "Keep walking, we're almost there. Tell me again, do what? They're going around." She hated being helpless, feeling helpless. Hated being stuck with things she didn't understand, and a thick-headed man on top of it to boot who had offered to work with her and not at her suggestion. No. Later. Focus.

Ranok tries to pick up the pace, but it was hard going. The muck and his injured leg weren't helping any, and now he was trying to keep an eye out for people raining projectiles down on them from the banks. With no cover, such a thing would be very, very bad. As well, attempting to translate the somewhat complicated workings of his weapon to Thistle, "Hyu need to make sure de bolt iz loaded. De prime. It's de hendled pull katch at de top uf de veapon, like a door schlide. Pull it back. Make sure de safety lock iz uff, too, or else hyu kan' fire. It's a lock dial near de trigger. Look karefully."

Bolt. "Bolt? Prime?" Door slide? Thistle's mouth was open, her hands shaking now without intent to shake the weapon. She found something and pulled at it, but it didn't move. She pulled harder, and it made a metallic scree of noise as it went back. She let it go, fingers just hovering there. She only rutting cared if she'd broken it in that she didn't have a real rutting weapon to hand. The men would be running through the side streets now. They didn't have time for Thistle to learn. "Put me down, and take care of it." Oh, her deel. The thought flickered in at the back of her mind, and she almost whimpered at the thought of having to get the crap in the small gutter out of it. "I don't know how much time we have, and I have no rutting idea what you're talking about."

Ranok looks grim, "Best heng on nize und tight, den. Gimmee dat." Rather then dumping her on the ground, he opts to hoist her into a potato sack carry and reaches back to grab Mirabelle back. The sack carry wouldn't be exactly painless, given her wounds, but given the choice was 'swim in the muck', maybe she might actually be grateful for once. Once Mirabelle was in his hands, he grimaces at the jam. But he could fix it. Skillful hands apply their work, working free the bolt that Thistle had jammed. One of the mechanisms was broken internally, the prime, and the bolt that was originally loaded was all bent out of shape. That was tossed into the water. Luckily, the prime wasn't absolutely necessary...it just made the weapon fire much slower. Ranok was forced to manually load the next projectile, though the one he plugs in wasn't a bolt...it looked like a white rock of some sort. Aiming Mirabelle one handed, the end of the weapon twitching with his breath and blood flow, he asks, "Vich halleyvay are dey gunna pop up out uf?"

Air was forced out of Thistle's mouth in a most undignified manner. Ranok was right about her in some ways: didn't really matter how genteel he was about anything, she'd wind up finding something in it to dislike him all the more for. At the present, she was swearing and hissing as fresh pain settled into familiar aches, but that too passed and then she was replying to him without thought. Pain was good for some things, sometimes. Like making her forget how little she liked working with him. Or anyone, to be completely fair. Except old memories -- rutting Souls, her brain wouldn't shut up. "The one ahead of us, before the building I showed you. They'll want to cut us off. From the -- the right." She had to take a breath every few words, the angle awkward. But she did try to be still. Fouling his aim would get neither of them anywhere.

Ranok picked the projectile he did because it was his favorite sort, when he could get away with it: indescriminate. Aiming at the alleyway in question, a pause. He exhales to be as steady as possible, and then fires. Mirabelle kicks in his grip and the hissing sound goes as the projectile goes free. Stone chips as the thing nearly goes too wide into the alleyway but it ricochetts in. Near immediately there was an effect. The air shudders slightly as concussion rolls out, and a flash of light and a spray of crystal shards is similarly ricochetted through the alley. The projectile was crystallized magic, of the pure sort. In sort, just energy, and quite energetic at that. While there was no fire and flame like in powder based explosives it was no less effective. The push was enough to knock any man off his feet and the spray of shards, while not deadly unless the crystal was a direct hit, was painful as all hell. Anyone in the alley would wish they weren't. Ranok tosses Mirabelle into the air and catches her by her midsection, using the other hand to prop Thistle up, "Now ve go."

Thistle grunted, the sound low and accompanied by a whoosh of air. They went. This time, they had no interruptions; Azin had few men still to throw at them and Thistle doubted either of the shifters would come after her. They passed the building that marked another's territory, and Thistle said, "Go left, get into an alley. We should be, should be safe. From Thonmet. Not too good to linger here long either." Her words were muffled, but even still the exhaustion following the excitement was evident there. She needed to get her shoulder tended to, make sure she didn't have splinters lodged in her skin. She needed to sleep. She needed to just be left alone, for a day, two days. Hah. There was only herself to blame, for all of it.

Ranok was glad as hell to be out of the muck, though the damage was done. "My boots. Ruined. Sigh. Und dey vere broken in, too." Slop was dripped everywhere and his lower torso was caked. A bath was very much in order. He very well may never feel clean again. A likely spot was picked to set Thistle down, though, to give her a rest, "So ve've reached you hefn dat hyu pushed so herd for. Now vat?" A keen eye examined Thistle, "Hyu hain't gunna hold up much longer. Und Hy need to tend my vounds. Hy schudder to tink vat vas in de vater. Infection iz serious business. Hyu'd best hef yous looked at, too. Look at hall dat blood." Not that he looked much better. Streamers were dribbled down where blood had leaked through his armor, unusually bright and lively...at least where it wasn't mixed with an assortment of sawdust, dirt, or what else.

Thistle didn't see the blood, she was too busy wiping at sweat on her forehead with her right arm. She didn't try to get up, not then, because she was just plain tired. There was a sneaking desire to tell Ranok to go back where he came from, but he did deserve a bit more than that. Too much to think about, when all Thistle wanted was a hole somewhere in safe territory to crawl into. She thought longingly of the Inn, where she'd spent several lovely and restful nights, and then the man who'd pissed off a gang that had then blamed her for it, and chased her out of that whole area. She'd been avoiding nice places ever since, even if all she could offer for board was hard work. Daydreams, nightmares: it all rolled together. "Head back north, I guess. Get somewhere." Was she almost sober? That was a pity. "Safe, I mean. I'll tell you my progress." Time to get up, then. She pushed herself, stiffened her legs and used the mostly steady wall of a stone building to get all the way up. It wasn't so much that she'd lost too much blood; as she looked at the wound she saw neat punctures not too badly torn, and the bleeding had slowed to an ooze. It was the exhaustion, her empty stomach, her need for sleep in the wake of being up too long and then battered on top of things. "It'll be fine 'till we get somewhere safer. Away from the docks. Merchant Street? Yeah. At least up around there."

Ranok sees if he could field repair Mirabelle. Or at least make sure there was no further jamming. The weapon was tinkered with some moments, listening and letting Thistle have her rest. The man was more experienced in exhaustion, long days and sleepless nights while waiting for an enemy to come but didn't always do so. That didn't mean he wasn't tired, he was just better at coping, maintaining, and hiding it. Little things like what he was doing was nearly meditative, restoring. A good way to recooperate the mind. "So hyu schtill hef no plan. No hideyholes, no friends to rely on. Hyu chust...are gunna go to de norddern part uf de kity. Hy tink it's time Hy took over. Hyu schould leaff Kenril, even if only for a bit. Not like hyu're vanted by de guard. Und if dey've been bribed to brink hyu in, vell. Hy don' tink Hy kan help much at dat point." He points vaguely, "Dere's a hundred places to hide in de Sage, or hyu kan go as far as Larket. Hyu'll schtill be in de area, but outside uf de schphere uf influence uf de men dat chase hyu. Besides, gettink out uf dis hell hole vill do de body goot."

Thistle went predictably stiff. That her voice remained level was, all things considered, remarkable. "No. I told you, I have work cleaning bloodstains that'll get me in on Freyel's group. If I wait -- " what if the guard was bribed to bring her in? They'd have a damn hard time finding her in the slums. And she had information. "I've got word on Thonmet. If I take it to the Rats, or Pariah -- I have a chance. I'm not leaving here, not while my sisters are here." The pitch of her voice had gone up as she talked, as she turned away from Ranok. She didn't move then, though, just battled with the idea that Ranok might turn on her. Might remove her forcibly. The old panic was in her gut, the old fear of being forced to things against her will. She swallowed, bowed her head a little so she was looking at the ground. Anger was in there, too. "I'm not saying it's not dangerous, but I'll make it. Your concern is -- " unwelcome. " -- to your better honor. You have mine, I've told you, but this?" She was grimacing, her right arm up across her stomach to hold at her left before she got it tucked into her sash. Hated it. Hated, hated, -hated- it.

Ranok narrows his eyes, "Dere hyu go schtiff again. Dat means hyu're sinkink you feet in like a mule. Hy'd hef to karry hyu out myself, und frankly, it hain't vorth de effort. Hyu're like as to schneak back into de kity as soon as Hy leaff, und Hy'm sure as hell not babysittink hyu." Cradling Mirabelle in one arm, he says next, "It's not about danger, it's about beink sensible. Fine, hyu schtay in de kity. Den hyu need to find youself a bolddole. Don' be schtupeed gurl. Dere are plenty in de kity. Hyu chust need to look. Hyu hef leverage on zumone - use it."

"I will." Relief. Sweet, pure relief. Of course she was going to do things her way. What other way was there to do things? "But some things take time. I've got value now, now that I'm out of Thonmet's grasp. I'll take it to Pariah. Come on." Then she was moving, right shoulder back and the left one curled in, still hurting. She walked north, angling west when she was sure she had them past the worst of the slums. Cut more sharply west before they hit the docks district and the trouble that was sure to find her there. She kept her back straight, chin up. She took Ranok to a seedy tavern that stayed open most of the night. It was a small thing, part of someone else's territory that wasn't her problem and not likely to intersect on her problems. At least not right then. She paused outside of it, casting tired glances at the few men who smoked at the corner of the building, and then looked at Ranok. "This is all I can think of for now. It's a place to sit." It was a courtesy to him; if he hadn't spoken up about boltholes she would have just taken him to another quiet street and talked or whatever there. There was this nagging feeling that she could shake that he expected something else from her, and she never quite made it there. It was irritating.

Ranok trudges along, still openly carrying his weapon. It drew stares...as well as the stench of drying gunk. No one was ballsy enough to say anything to Ranok, though. Especially not with that pissed off set of his jaw and the 'I want to hurt someone' movement of his body. It wasn't even an act, he would have welcomed a beatdown on another dumbass thug. Probably for the best that they didn't, though. He doubted Thistle could take getting banged up in another fight. A doubtful look was given to the inn, when they arrived. It looked like hell. But so did they. And beggers can't be choosers. "Dis iz you choice uf places for me to leaff hyu? Not bad, if de innkeep knows how to make a nize liddle nook. But hyu need to see a healer first. If hyu don' get doze taken kare uf, vell. Hyu're probably gunna die uf infection."

Thistle lifted her chin up to make that climb up Ranok's body to his eyes. If she couldn't look him in the eyes, she could do the only other thing available to her: look up at him. "I'm learning how to do that. Have a teacher, even. Magic." Not that Daisy had gotten to show her how to chase out infections, or properly heal. Thistle's greatest accomplishment had been getting a seed to sprout without killing it, and that had taken hours. But it was something. She would figure out the rest, and -- "If I can't do it alone, I'll ask her for help." Gritted out through her teeth.

Ranok ran out of patience, right there on the street. One only had so much, and Thistle burnt through hers like a hunk of coal in a furnace. "Dat schprinkle uf magic dat barely schtopped de bleedink ven de kat opened hyu up? A novice doesn' hendle hennyddink more den scratches. Vy do hyu insist on beink so schtupidly independent? Every dem konsolation hyu giff iz a vound in you side. Hy'm schtartink to konsider dat you sisters vere not hall dat herd to konvince." A flick of a hand, snapping open, " But fine. Hyu vant to go it alone? Ven de vounds grow red und lines schtart to go towards you heart, hyu'll know hyu don' hef much time. Or maybe hyu pull it uff. Hyu hef de bottle. Use it ven hyu're sure if hyu'll liff or not." Crisply, he turns on his heel and begins to depart, tired to the bone. He supposed dragging her through canals and hauling her to the tops of buildings in order to prevent her death simply didn't beat the lesson into her. Perhaps nothing would.

Thistle was not stupid. That she was not trusted with her own life, and called stupid for it by more than Ranok alone only sent her a few more steps towards the building. Did they think she wanted this? They knew nothing. They could damn well keep knowing nothing, because that comment about her sisters struck home. Bullseye, heart-shot, right in the gut and carried outwards on a wave of icy nausea. She'd rutting told him she'd go to Daisy if she couldn't heal it herself. But-- But. "You have my honor," she called after him, voice rough. "That means gratitude and appreciation and a mark of respect, you idiot." Up into the tavern, and slamming the door home behind her. Rutting everything. Then again, she never had been very good with people. Not personally. Not ever.