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Post by Caedan on Jul 9, 2008 0:32:32 GMT -5
Caedan trails into the cafe, barefeet padding soundlessly against the swept floor as she weaves a circuitous path throughout the tables, pausing at each one to gather the single bloom tucked away in painted vases until she carries with her a small bouquet of multi-colored roses. She is not disturbed by the staff; the overlord of the city has made it known the strange creature in the indigo sweater is to be left alone. And so the psychic finds herself within the quaint restaurant, abruptly motionless somewhere towards the center of the room, head canted at an angle as if eavesdropping on a conversation, though the cafe remains largely empty and absent of any patrons and their ensuing conversations.
Elyan appears to be one of the only patrons of this little cafe, and this is just the way he likes it. In fact - he prefers it so much that, when he had arrived earlier to find that many people were milling about, he had promptly left and wandered the streets until the area became clearer again. He sits in one of the corners, having stolen a few candles from surrounding tables to give him better reading light - for open in one hand is a red leatherbound book, and in the other is a quill, which he uses to scribble incessantly upon a long stretch of parchment. It's a little odd that he can write without looking, while reading at the same time - his brow is knit in furtive thought, and he flips through pages at a relatively fast pace. Finally he stops, and presses the end of his quill in-between his lips - where they hold it there as he uses both hands to search through the thick book - until a strange feeling overwhelms him, one that makes him feel as if he's being watched. Grey eyes are lifted from the work in front of him, and immediately fall upon Caedan. His brows unknit and arch, he freezes entirely - except for the slow, shocked parting of his lips that soon has the quill slipping out and dropping lightly to the table's top.
As the quill falls to the tabletop, so do the roses fall from her hand, left to scatter upon the pristine floor. She spin on barefoot, characteristically graceful pirohouette allowing her to face the doctor, to acknowledge his presence, here, in this land ... this city ... this cafe. She is both drawn forward and forced back, frail frame ultimately surrendering towards instinct to flee, though she is, without a doubt, captivated, like a moth to flame. To something dangerous, deadly, but so alluring, it proves irresistable. The psychic stumbles when her foot hooks around the leg of a chair, and she is nearly sent sprawling upon the floor were it not for cat-like reflexes which enabled her to retain balance almost immediately. "No," her voice finally breaks the shocked silence, quiet, slightly hoarse. "No. You aren't here. It's only the voices. Voices making pictures. Maybe they do that now. Maybe I'm not here either." A lump in her throat is swallowed; how she wants to go to him. "Maybe ... maybe this place isn't here either. All in the head. Where it belongs."
Elyan doesn't move for those first few moments of recognition - in the same manner that Caedan eventually mutters, the surgeon can't seem to believe that what's before him is actually flesh and blood. Finally he moves - making to rise from his seat, his eyes never leaving Caedan - but this is just as she turns to flee. This does not deter him - not really, and slowly he moves from his table, as if in a trance, and he approaches her sprawled form with his typically reserved manner - moving through the cafe as if he would be burnt should he touch anything. Slowly, he kneels into a crouch before her, his hand shifting up to, beneath her dishevelled hair, find her cheek to caress and bring her eyes to meet his own. A smile can be seen in those greys, as he says, in an exhaled breath, "No, Caedan. This is very real."
Caedan flinches at the contact, though she doesn't withdraw, or lash out, as she would in any other circumstance. Instead, a slate-blue stare trains downward, searching out his opposite hand, as if it might hold a needle soon to be plunged into her arm at any given second. Content he holds no such instrument, that gaze lifts to meet his own gentle version, and an imperceptible tremor courses down the length of her spine. Her voice but a frail whisper, she inquires, " ... how do you know? How can we really know?" Her hands are studied for some time, before one lifts and hovers at his brow, sleeve-covered digits extended just off the surface of his temple, without employing any actual contact. "Why ... why are you here? Is it ... time to go back? Is here ... really there? Maybe I never left that place. I feel like I did though. I think I remember." Everything seems to be hazy for the dementia-riddled teen now, the doctor's presence prompting a myriad of fragments of memories, which overwhelm those of her present circumstance and situation.
Elyan scans her features, soaking her in, for she is an old friend he has not seen for some time and one who he had certainly missed. He does not shift when her hand reaches for his temple, and he offers her a soft smile, "We know because life is as it should be. There has been no disruption in the time or space continuum." Yes, he knows how to speak crazy sometimes, to - it's a language they can share together, and he rubs his thumb affectionately against her cheek, while his other hand lifts to brush some hair from out of her eyes, "There's no going back. I've not come to take you away."
Every instinct tells her to run, run far away, flee from his presence, from the memories filtering into a dysfunctional psyche. Yet, she cannot; lashes drift shut under the most gentle of caresses. "Alright," she breathes, content in his answer, relieved when she should be alarmed. "Life is as it should be. There has been no disruptions, as you say. I would have remembered. The voices would have told me. You are right. Always right." Her hand falls from his cheek to her lap, where it absently toys with the other. A steel-blue stare, laced with something undefinably feral, shifts towards the table he had been occupying, and the tome situated atop the surface. "What are you studying now?" She remembers conversations, conversations outside of that horrible room she loathed; conversations that were enjoyable. " ... or ... do you want me to tell you?" Her nose crinkles, obvious disdain for her own suggestion; yet something drives her to please him, to make him proud, for he took genuine pride in her accomplishments under his guidance, whereas others had merely taken what they needed from her with little thought to progres, nor state of rapidly declining mental health.
Elyan smiles kindly once again - it broadens just a little, for she's barely changed. She's perhaps a little less rough, but then again, he can't be sure - he did not expect her to still be alive, so even this is an accomplishment. He finally draws his own hand away, now resting it on her shoulder - and he blinks, glancing behind him towards his work, before settling his attention once more upon her - lips parting to reply, only to hesitate when she offers. Elyan's eyes do narrow just a little, as if in thought, and his brows dip ... but slowly, very slowly, he nods, "Please, do."
Caedan hesitates, sparing another glance over her shoulder towards the table set within one of the alcoves where the materials in question lie. Her nose remains crinkled, and a few seconds are spent in silence until she speaks. "A new ... technique ... for lobot-lobotomy. Less ... invasive ... fewer ... adverse reactions ..." She abruptly pauses, and returns that restless stare to the doctor. "But you aren't sure if you believe it's for real. There isn't enough proof it causes more harm than good." Shoulders roll in a languid shrug. And just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment of lucidity vanishes, and vague commentary ensues. "But sometimes the harm is good. Makes things better for others. Better for others when some can't be helped. The flowers scream ... I can hear them screaming ... nothing ... over and over. Empty graves call for bodies, but we cannot share. Cannot share rooms in the earth. We all must have our own." The psychic withdraws, and begins to pace uneasily, meandering throughout the empty cafe in patternless circuits.
Elyan tilts his head just a little, and listens intently to every word that Caedan says - every sound she utters. He nods, once she finishes, smiling proudly and squeezing her shoulder, "Very good." He begins - only to stop when she begins to degrade once more, his smile turns into a frown and he straightens, watching her pace. Elyan's gaze shifts towards his medical bag, and slowly he makes his way towards it, to quietly flip it open and run his hands over the needles, there.
Caedan watches his progress across the room, and stills when he reaches for his bag. Body grows taut, posture on edge. When she observes what he is reaching for, she blanches, and stumbles back, murmuring all the while, "No ... no ... no ... I don't want it. Hurts. Makes me sleepy ... No, no." The psyhic continues to backpedal, wayward steps carrying her towards the exit, which she pushes through, and disappears into the night.
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Post by Caedan on Jul 9, 2008 0:33:25 GMT -5
Caedan sweeps out into the night, and immediately dodges into an alleyway, deliberately clinging to the shadows that welcome her into their embrace, and paint darkness alongside of the buildings that line her path. She ducks down a second narrow alley, and skirts a small contingent of Cenril guards upon the main road by slipping inside the theatre populaire; the building is empty, and dark but for a few candles that had been forgotten, and the moonlight which illuminates the stage through the intricately designed skylight high above. The teen hurries along, down the aisle, and onto the platform, where she pauses to take a deep, ragged breath. Sleeve-covered hands wring in front of her, and she paces the length of the stage, mumbling all the while, her voice carrying throughout the theatre; for design of the structure provided for excellent acoustics.
Elyan has followed - obviously. Clearly he's a great deal slower - he'd had to pack up his things, and pay his bill, but he knows how to find Caedan - he always has, and he always will. It could be something like a sixth sense, or perhaps he just knows where to look - and how to follow the strange glances she earns. He's far too professional and 'nice' looking to be stopped by the Cenril guards - they tip their helmets to him instead, and he replies with an arched brow and a reserved, but polite, nod, before slipping into the theatre's front doors. He takes his time; there's no immediate rush, and he does not want to frighten Caedan by coming at her running. Elyan slips through and into the populaire, his medical kit held down at his side by one hand and his hand pocketed as he sidles down in between the empty seats. Caedan, there, sitting on the stage, causes his gaze to soften, and he takes the stairs that lead up to it, "Caedan," he calls, gently, so as not to frighten her, "Caedan, this will make you feel much better." For a time, at least.
Caedan doesn't seem to notice the doctor's entrance, his quiet manner something that has simply ceased to phase her, even in her current state of unrest. When he sits, she doesn't draw away, merely folds her hands in her lap, and adjusts her posture. A small voice still carries as she answers stubbornly, "Don't want it. Hurts." Of course, she won't -- can't -- deny that it makes her feel better; if he says it does, then it does. A slate-blue stare shifts upward, staring into the balconey, sweeping over rows upon rows of empty seats lined in velvet. No extravagance has been spared in the making of the theatre populaire, and the end product was something well worth the years it had taken to finish the thing. "I come here to listen. Listen to them sing. Sometimes I can still hear them after they've gone home." She sighs, and lifts a hand to swipe away tangled curls from her eyes. "But my favorites are the ones who dance."
Elyan smiles again - fainter, this time. There is sadness in that smile, but intrigue that keeps him connected to Caedan, and while she says she can hear them sing after they've left, he could still feel her own presence, even after she had been stolen away. Slowly, he inches a little closer, and a chuckle eases from his lips, "You are a creature of extraodinary grace, Caedan. That does not surprise me." He quirks a brow, "Perhaps you should get lessons, although I doubt you would need them." He talks to her as if she's a real, sane person - as if she doesn't need the medication, the precautions, and he talks to her as if he truly, really cares about her. Elyan, as he says this, once again makes to open up his kit, "It will only be a moment, and then you'll feel much better. I promise."
Caedan crinkles her nose, and reluctantly unclasps her hands, though she doesn't exactly proffer her arm to him. But it is agreement enough, and he'll be safe from her volatile nature. She watches him hawkishly, yet only from the corner of her eye, refusing to observe the preparation of that spiteful needle. "Promise. Promises are made to be broken. I heard someone say that once. I wonder if it hurts them, when they are broken." Frail shoulders roll in a noncommittal shrug. The psychic falls silent, and stares once again into the balconey, the arm not about to be injected lifting to number the seats, index finger stabbing at the air as she counts. "It isn't as big as the one in Catal. I remember. Papa took me there. Hair in curls, dress of lace. Dressed up like a doll. They made us perform, like dogs. Like dogs in their little rooms with no lights. The others. I didn't like them. They talked around me. You talk to me. Like a real girl. Like a real, functioning girl." Her steely gaze snaps back to him, and her nose wrinkles with renewed vigor. "But it still hurts."
Elyan stays entirely silent as she speaks, for he's going about pulling out a small needle, and slipping the tip of it into another little vial that will bring the liquid into the needle itself. When she finishes grey eyes loft to settle upon her own blue, "You are a real girl, petit oiseau." Quietly now, he lifts a hand to gently take her arm, and slowly does he roll her sweater sleeve up, until the skin on her forearm is bare. "Now, Caedan, I want you to tell me your favourite meal - detail every single course."
Caedan pulls a face at the needle, and the preparation thereof, and turns away, though she doesn't retract her arm from his gentle grasp. "I don't have one," she answers defiantly, chin tipped upward to acccentuate that stubborn streak she possesses. A streak he knows well. The teen cannot refuse him, however, and she compromises, though makes sure to huff an irritated sigh before beginning. "Milk. Or maybe, if its a special day, juice. Then a cookie. With chocolate." Her eating habits are a bit less than what they had been in the past; after all, she's hardly capable of cooking on her own. In the detention facility, meals had been provided, and though tasteless, they provided the necessary nourishment to sustain her health, appetite-wise. Quinton and Jack had seen to her after they left Catal. "Then more milk. Warm. Steadman fetches it for me, where I live. He only has one eye. I have a bed now. Not the one downstairs, in the cellar. My ghost takes me upstairs, and we lay in the big bed there. The feathers are nice. Keeps me warm." She turns to him, smoky blue gaze wide and inquiring, as she questions, "I forgot why you are here. You've come to take me back? I don't want to go. I don't like it there." She'll worry her bottom lip, and look away once more, refusing to watch the needle, and the medicine it courses into her vein.
Elyan surprisingly pays a great deal of attention to her description of what she eats - and where she sleeps. "You will have to show me, one time." He comments idly, but while she had been busy thinking he had, quickly, slid the needle into her skin - she would feel but a prick, and a small pull, before the contents had been disposed into her bloodstream and the needle was removed to be replaced with a small, circular patch of gauze. He sets his instruments back into his kit, and casts Caedan another caring smile, "There, it's done." And then, he continues, immediately making to correct her, "Ah, no - you're wrong for once, moineau. I am not here by choice, the ship I had been travelling on wrecked and left me here. Coincidental, no?"
Caedan flinches when the prick is felt, body tensing, fists balling, breath catching, only to be released in a quiet hiss. She fidets listlessly for a few moments until the medicine begins to take effect, whereupon she sighs, and slumps slightly, muscles relaxing, and sooty lashes drifting to gaunt cheekbones. "I'm not wrong." She's never truly wrong, and though mistaken at times, events seem to work themselves out so that she is never entirely incorrect in any lucid, or illucid assertion. Again, she lifts shoulders in a simple shrug, while turning to meet that kindly grey stare. "You're thinking about her again. You wonder if you made the right decision." A pause, a muffled yawn. "It makes me sleepy. I don't like it." She's just about ready to go back to her cell, by this point, as ritual dictates. "We have a busy day ahead of us, tomorrow?" Something he had told her, the sentiment echoed again now that he had found her, or rather, come across her.
Elyan shifts a little, so he can sit directly beside Caedan - allowing her to lean against him, should she need to. "I know it does, but you need it. Doesn't your head feel clearer?" Her words concerning the 'her' makes him tense - he had gotten so used to never hearing Caedan speak of her, and said memories and thoughts had been pushed to the back of his mind where only his little bird could find them. In order to change the subject, he clears his throat and brushes his fingers against the back of her head, "Perhaps you can show me your new home, now? And I'll buy you a good, healthy meal."
Caedan uses the back of her hand to muffle another yawn, and chooses not to press the matter of his first, and only love -- beside his profession, that is. Any other day, she might goad him into speaking of her, detailing the way she wore her hair, or the expensive gowns she sported, but today, she allows the woman to remain in the back of his mind. "Yes. But it hurts. Makes me tired. I don't like it." She pushes off from the stage after enjoying the gentle shifting of dexterous fingers through her hair, and immediately stumbles perilously close to the edge before regaining her balance. The psychic detests the foggy feeling the effects of the medicine induce in her, for although it makes the mind clear of the dementia she suffers, it also infects such a lethargy she lacks even the will to stand on her own. Nevertheless, she drags herself towards the exit, gait listless, and lacking the usual delicate stride that carries her with such refined grace as she walks barefooted up the carpeted aisle of the theatre populaire.
Elyan slowly rises as Caedan does - he keeps close behind her, lest she should fall, and a hand soon rests upon her shoulder (keeping her up, not pushing her down.) "It's good for you, petit oiseau. Do you want me to tell you about my research?" He knows he doesn't need to, because she's already 'heard' all about it - nonetheless, she possesses a level of intellect far above his own, and he can only assume she'll be as interested as he is.
Caedan enters the tavern, pace listless, lacking any spring, though her direction is purposeful. The door is avoided per usual; she crests the threshold in the wake of an exiting inebriated patron. The psychic shuffles towards the pair of armchairs before the hearth, and sinks into the one claimed as her own, while the trio of blankets folded neatly underneath the worn leather seat are retrieved. Elyan will likely be directly behind her, and perhaps beginning an explanation as to his latest research, though he'll possess her full focus when she is situated comfortably before the hearth, where she will interrupt to state, "This is home. I sleep there," a sweep of her hand indicates the cellar door, " ... or there. With my ghost." Now the staircase along the northern track of the establishment is indicated with the same sleeve-covered hand. Steadman, meanwhile, has already put a pot of warm milk on the stove for her.
Elyan does indeed follow Caedan into the taverne - though he's a little delayed, for he'd not gone anywhere near that drunken patron, even though something certainly tugged at his gut when he had lost sight of the soft-footed psychic. Nonetheless, he does venture inside soon enough - pristine, prim, and proper; a total contrast to the taverne around him. He sticks out like a sore thumb, and knows it - while he is at ease with Caedan, he is not when placed in a position like this, and one hand lifts to press against his chest, while a grey gaze surveys the innards of the taverne. He has paused, momentarily, and realises this - so quickly he walks again, avoiding the walls and chairs in his usual manner; not touching anything - he's remaining... detached. (Professional?) Finally he arrives at Caedan's chosen seats, and he sets his medical kit down carefully on the floor, prior to gently taking the opposite chair as his own and leaning back. Elyan follows her indications, hawkish eyes taking in everything she has to show him, before he 'ah's gently, "Very ... nice." To be honest, he's not yet sure what to think, but he'll form an opinion soon enough. "Well, as I was saying, petit oiseau, these new ways are really not putting my mind at ease. It's like they're trying to cheat through a lobotomy - to spend less money, rather than do the patient any good."
Caedan nestles into her chair, and pulls two of the blankets about her shoulders. Her warm milk is soon delivered, and a hand appears from the folds of woolen material to collect the glass. She likes listening to him; his explanations and thoughts are often soothing to her mind. His is in such order, such pristine condition, such intellectual soundess, the psychic can't help but walk the paths that compose such an immaculate psyche. Quietly, she listens, nodding at the appropriate intervals, before answering, voice small, exhaustion lacing her inflection, "It's dangerous. It isn't good to go about poking in people's heads. They aren't doing it right. They don't know what does what. You do. You know more than they will. Their hands are just drowning in their own blood of gold, it clouds their minds so they can't think. Can't see where they're poking, or who they're hurting." She abruptly pauses to sip at her milk, and allows a slate-blue stare to drift aimlessly over the few gathered. The guardian at the bar is noted, acknowledged with a lingering stare that soon shifts Dulcinea's direction; the healer is simply observed in silence before her attention returns to the doctor, and ultimately the flames licking at the mantle.
Kasyr was barely even conscious when eyes were met with a stare, amber gaze taking in the sight seeming devoid of any interest or joie de vive. This changes after a few moments passing, a pop and hiss emanating from hearth seeming to precipitate a spark with the guardians eyes, kindling a faint luminescence which matchs the faint curl of lips as he recognises the teen. Slowly he'd push himself from the counter, if only to drum fingers along bartop. He wasn't quite sure whether he should intrude or not, though it seemed by the manner in which he rose and drifted to find the nearest seat to Caedan and what he could only assume to be a physician.
Elyan certainly looks like a physician - but oh, he's at the top of his class. A surgeon, to be exact - and a very prestigious one, too. He listens as Caedan responds to him, and the corner of his eyes give sign that a smile is curling on his lips - lo and behold, there's the hint of one, hovering there. Gentle, kind, but it fades when she begins to come to a halt. "Mm, yes. That much is true. But hush, do not strain yourself. Would you like something to eat?" His gaze has settled on her milk, and then towards the bar where he's sure he ought to go to order some food - and it's there that he spots Kasyr, as the male approaches, and though Elyan seems to tense just a little, he inclines his head in the slightest of polite nods.
Caedan does hush, and rolls her neck to observe Kasyr's approach with an expression lacking any emotion, though that is not to say she is displeased with his presence. The medicine is waning now, leaving her more sleepy than lucid. The psychic, alreadly prone to narcolepsy, nods off, body warmed by the flames within the fireplace, insides warmed by the glass of milk now empty. She snuffles lightly, and tugs the layer of blankets closer about her slight frame. By the time the doctor inquires after sustenance, she has drifted off, sooty lashes draped upon gaunt cheekbones.
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Post by Caedan on Jul 9, 2008 0:37:57 GMT -5
Caedan isn't here. Who knows where she is? Terrorizing some flowers, perhaps, or irritating the local militia who have just begun to rebuild their ranks after an earlier decimation ... we can't be sure. We do know, however, that in the relative solitude of the local pub sits a regal doctor, stoic in mien, proper in deportment. There is a book spread open across his table, along with a leather-bound journal, while a barmaid hovers close, fidgeting and tripping all over herself to fill the doctor's coffee cup. There are few people about; a few have drunken themselves into a stupor, and shouldn't be of any bother to the solace the quaint tavern affords Fox. But a commotion at the door heralds the arrival of four hooligans, unkempt, unshaven, disheveled -- in need of alcohol. The barmaid scuttles off behind the counter. Some time passes until they feel sufficiently liquored up, enough to cast lustful glances towards the various coin purses of the unconscious, before ultimately settling on the good doctor. Elyan is watched from four pairs of interested eyes. One of the hoodlums slaps his counterpart on the back, and stumbles towards the unassuming doctor; the barwench cowers behind the counter. "Good evenin' thar, mister." The four crowd about, cutting off route of escape. "Mighty fancy lookin' bag ya got yerself thar." Simutaneously, four sets of eyes drop towards the leather satchel. "Prob'ly be holdin' plenty of stuff 'e don't need, eh?", another pipes up, and grins a toothless smile.
Elyan has, obviously, been sitting at a table with everything set out in front of him. Left unbothered by the unconscious patrons, he has consquently become very involved in his study - and therefore he doesn't even lift his gaze when the four companions enter. While this bar was not exactly his first choice, it had, previously, proven to be a potentially quiet place - but by now Elyan is so far in his head that it takes some time before he realises that louder occupants have started their own drinking rounds. Briefly he peeks over his book towards them, and grey eyes narrow ever so slightly - but of course the surgeon thinks nothing of them, for really, who would bother him? ... Of course, for the first time in quite a while, Elyan appears to be wrong, for when that male approaches him, he does not look up once from his open book, and scribbles a note while he replies; offhandedly, and distractedly, "Mm, one might think so..." Is his only comment, for he's just started on a terribly interesting paragraph and idle chat with toothless rogues does not particularly catch his attention
Caedan || The ringleader snickers; he won't be so easily dismissed. "Mind if we 'ave a look then?" Of course he would mind. One of the would-be thieves snatches at the bag, while another drops a hand to Elyan's shoulder, rough and calloused, to keep him in his chair. The glint of metal betrays a withdrawal of a dagger from the pocket of the third, while the fourth watches both the door and the cowering barwench. "Why don't you be handin' over your wallet, so we don't need t'search ya for it, eh?" The toothless wonder grinned again, and spit some tobacco to his immediate right. It left a brown stain on the pant leg of his unshaven companion. Neither seemed to notice. "Let's just have it out nice 'n easy, an' we'll be on our way. No 'arm done." The dagger-wielding third hooligan sweeps his arm across the table, clearing it of tome, journal, quill, and jar of ink alike. The pilfered bag is slammed down upon the now empty surface, and the two of them will seek to rifle through it, while the first keeps his hand on the surgeon's shoulder to prevent physical protest.
Elyan grunts as his shoulder is gripped and back stolen - he reacts instinctively, reaching for it, only to be pulled back and shoved hard into his chair, "Release me." He snaps haughtily; pretentiously, almost - but he's not stupid enough to think that they would actually let him go at that demand. He's tensed sharply, and sits straight as a board, his gaze unblinking and muscle in his jaw tightening - while he's not a man to be easily scared, he is certainly no fighter, and stands not a chance at forcefully getting his bag back. "I'm afraid I lost my wallet, and there's nothing that would particularly interest you in that bag. Some bandages, and disinfectant..." A beat. "Although, the latter could do you good - unfortunately you're probably so fetid and foul that the chemicals in it would all be for naught." Ah, a witty comeback bleeding with technobabble.
Caedan chooses this moment to approach, lingering outside the door and fidgeting until the guard there props it open to observe the cause of the soft commotion. The psychic slips in, under his arm, and towards the bar. Barefeet pad listlessly upon the swept floor, and gaze seems to be riveted upon a particularly colorful character strewn across the floor and snoring loudly, gripping an equally colorful bottle of some unknown substance. But it is a pipe hanging loosely from the corner of her mouth, long since extinguished, that arrests the majority of her attention. She reaches for this, while the hooligans track her movement across the room with a cautious, collective stare. Content the crazy seems to be occupied, they return their attention to the proper surgeon. "Lost it, eh? Wot was you plannin' on using for money for yer drink then?" The one with the brain grins, yellow and sharp. The hooligan rifling through the bag pulls out a vial of clear liquid. "This looks interestin'." Another chimes in, "Expensive. Looks expensive." More vials are withdrawn and set on the table. The third, the one with the dagger, forces the blade against Fox's side, dangerously close to his kidney, likely. "No jokes. Let's be having your wallet, or I'll cut it out of ya." Another, tiring of the resistance, and lacking any patience to begin with, roughly launches a fist at the doctor's jawline, intent on getting the heist over and done with.
Elyan rakes his eyes from his medical kit as the ruffians glance away from him, and along with their own his gaze finds Caedan and, were it possible, he would tense even further. One part of him wishes he had her gifts, or something similar, so he could whisper wordlessly for her to get out - but unfortunately, Elyan is very human, and cannot do anything other than stare intensely at her until the ruffian with the brains catches onto his lie. He responds with a stiff, "I was planning on putting it on my tab," but any further retaliation is cut off when they begin manhandling his precious vials - the doctor makes to stand up again, but clearly cannot due to that hand on his shoulder, "Be careful with those-" he begins, freezes when that blade rests thinly against his side, and just as his gaze flies to the one that sets it there the punch launched for his jaw connects and his head snaps to one side, nearly forcing him out of the chair itself. And, unfortunately, into the knife. It doesn't cut far enough to get to his kidney, but it slices his shirt and leaves a deep gash in his flesh, which he instantly clutches, a gasp of pain caught in his throat. Though his muddied mind he grunts, "I'll give you my wallet if you just leave everything in that bag intact."
Caedan stands, pipe and vagrant abandoned as she faces the commotion, and Elyan. Not a single emotion is betrayed upon an expressionless visage, not a twitch of brow, not a purse of lips, not a tensing of jaw muscles. A coat wrapped around slender shoulders drops, billowing to the floor. She paces forward, arresting the attention of the sentry closest to the door. He lofts a brow at the forward girl, and moves to intercept. He is brought to the ground with a single sweep of her leg, which connects harshly with his forehead. He drops like a fly. It is not he that interests her so, however. It was the doctor's gasp of pain, a stab in her mind, as if she felt the pain the moment he did. The dagger wielding hoodlum has wrenched his weapon from the surgeon's side by now, and is rifling through the man's pockets for his wallet, which is located, and picked through, while the others snicker at his request, and begin to collect the bottles, only to turn the larger thief's direction when he hits the floor. A dagger, not unlike one previously wielded, buries itself into the neck of the ruffian who had punched Elyan, while Caedan stands defensively a few yards away, feral stare locked upon the remaining hoodlums who clamor for their own weapons. Meanwhile, the large brute previously felled, rises and grabs the girl in a backward, restrictive embrace, arms pinned at her sides. She insteps, stomping hard on his booted foot, while a well-placed, backward punch towards his groin region causes him to gasp and release her. She grabs his arm, and tugs him in front of her, twisting the appendage cruelly behind his back, just in time for the man's meaty torso to catch the two daggers meant to strike her own heart. His slumping body is abandoned as she acrobatically flips towards the remaining two, and smashes her fist into the nose of the former, while the other meets with a hearty kick to his abdomen which leaves him gasping for breath. Two jabs in quick succession bring the first to his knees, while a sidesweep of her leg brings the second to his bum. The psychic suddenly ducks; a dagger cuts through the sinewy flesh of her shoulder, painting a thin trail of sanguine across the surface, where it had been intended for her head. The rogue with the dagger in his back manages to pull free the weapon, and after grabbing the surgeon's wallet, makes for the door. Caedan rushes after, recovers the wallet and digs through it until she finds what she is looking for; the slip of paper withdrawn is shoved in her sweater pocket, while the only thief left capable of walking staggers towards the door, steals the wallet, and runs out, using his bleeding comrade at the portal as cover from any more knife-throwing theatrics. The teen bristles, and contemplates giving chase. But her doctor is there, maybe dying for all she knows. To Elyan, she paces, subdued, though eyes shine with malignant design, the feral gleam perpetually present in optics of slate.
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