Ciradonius Dywater

Containing his excitement, he points his staff at Cira once again, this time with the end glowing with small specks of magic. Wisps are not particularly dangerous, in fact they serve little purpose other than to light one’s way, but in a pinch the magic used to create one can prove to be somewhat intimidating to city-folk who are not often exposed to such magic.

He shakes his head, motioning with a swift jerk of his staff for Cira to begin walking further away from the road he slipped off of. “We bes going this way, cityhead.” He commands, taking a few steps around him to stand between him and the road. He had no idea what he’d do with the man after he questioned him. Perhaps leave him in the woods for the wolves to deal with, but that decision was quite a ways away, and he had much more important things to focus on. His cooperation thus far had made things easy for the pagan, with any hope he’d continue to cooperate.

He casts a lingering glance at the flickering wisps at the end of the man's staff, feeling no fear, only curiosity. He doubts that the specks of magic are dangerous, not with the way the Pagan appears to only wish to take him prisoner, and is far more interested in seeing heathen magic up close. Cira might not abhor the Trickster's lackeys as his old brethren do, but they still usually disgust him with their chaotic and disorderly ways; magic, on the other hand, is fascinating to him no matter who the caster is.

His own glyph-magic is good, but limited by the fact that he remains an acolyte and is barred from the learning of more powerful glyphs. Even so, Cira's fairly certain that he could put up a fight if the scruffy Pagan decides to turn on him before Cira can formulate a plan that will give him the best chance of getting out of this encounter unscathed. Or without further injury, at least.

He crouches down, resting the tip of his staff down on the ground, his fingers drumming along the wood. “Ahh, you bes not abling to get up after all.”

It’d be reckless to help out the stranger, and completely mad to allow him to simply pass through. All non-pagan faces were a threat in these parts, not to mention most people dont just happen to go for a stroll in the woods to get some fresh air. He had to have some sort of purpose. The pagan swats his staff back down at Cira, tapping the end on his injured ankle once again.

"I bes helping you up but you bes coming with me." he states. The man should be easy enough to overpower with his twisted ankle, at least for a little while. Dro cracks a toothy smile, unable to hold back his enthusiasm. Even without reliable magic he’d apprehended an intruder.

Standing back up, he holds the blunt end of his staff out to Cira, intending for him to pull himself up. He cant run anyways, and Drosera would rather not have to drag him around.

He knows perfectly well that Pagans generally murder anyone stupid enough to stray into their territory -- Cira just hadn't expected their territory to reach this far, nor, of course, that he would fall. This Pagan man seems willing enough to forego killing Cira, at least for the time being; Cira plans to use try and use that to his advantage as best he can. He would far rather give into the fury bubbling inside him, but he's not an idiot, and knows that antagonizing the man would be the simplest way to get himself killed.

Cira loosely reties his bootlaces, then curls his fingers around the end of the Pagan's wooden staff and hauls himself up. He keeps his weight off of his left foot as much as he can, unwilling to support himself with either the staff or the Pagan.

"I bes seeing about that," he grumbles. He makes a face at Ciradonius’s remark though, his nose crinkling slightly as his upper lip curls. "You bes movers if I bes making you."

If he had to drag him along, then he would. He couldn’t just let any old stranger get too close to Pagan territory, after all. If he’s feigning the injury, he’ll surely know it soon, and if not, he couldn’t risk the man quickly recovering and continuing deeper into the woods unhindered.

He comes to a stop a few feet away, still keeping some distance between himself and the fallen stranger. The pagan reaches forward, giving Ciradonius’s ankle a swift jab with the end of his staff before quickly hopping back again to avoid any potential thrashing.

"Look," he spits, the last threads of control he has on his temper slipping out of his grasp, "I am not moving anywhere except to the road, so that I might keep limping along in the rain. I am not going with you; I have no desire to see any of your territory."

He wants to wipe the increasing slick of rain off his face, but realizes that if he does so he'll only be adding dirt to the mixture; the predicament only makes him scowl more fiercely. Everything about what should have been a simple venture seems to be eager to go sour.

With his cover blown, his staff is whipped up defensively, held out in front of him as if to ward off any threat. He knocks the leaves in the bush aside, holding the branches down with his staff while doing his best to give the stranger a challenging stare.

He’s still down on the ground, likely injured in some way which is a slight comfort to the pagan. Emboldened by this thought, he takes a step forward, keeping his staff pointed threateningly at the man.

"Bes you not moving, cityhead." He warns. It’s an empty threat, but most people from The City knew better than to underestimate a pagan in the woods. It was a wonder what this man was doing so far from The City, though. Lost? Or a spy? No matter what reason why he’s here, this was Pagan territory. He’d need to be restrained and taken away for questioning. Or sacrifice, depending on the mood of the other pagans.

He puts on a confident grin (though it’s strained due to his anxious feeling) and brandishes the staff at him. “You bes comers with me, up to your feetsies.”

"Both of those comments were redundant, Pagan," he says sourly. "I am not going to move because my ankle has been injured, and for that same reason I am not about to be going anywhere with you."

Ciradonius blinks as a large droplet of water slides off the edge of his hood and splashes onto his nose. The desire to begin straightening out his clothing -- particularly his half-unlaced boot -- is starting to gnaw at him, but he does his best to push it away and focus on getting away from this damnable situation as soon as possible.

Which meant it was probably a good time to get out from the open and back indoors for a while. Drosera didn’t mind a little bit of water, but lightning could always pose a slight problem.

Drosera got to his feet, using his staff and the tree to prop himself up. He hadn’t even taken a step before he hears a faint commotion in the distance, more along the lines of something thudding against the dirt rather than the dull sounds of thunder. Tilting his head a bit, Drosera is ready to shrug it off. It may as well be a deer or something hopping over a fallen tree trunk.

The curse echoing from the same direction removed any doubt of the source of the noise. He froze, his head turned in the direction the noise had come from.

A person was nearby, though Drosera couldn’t tell who they were. It wasn’t a voice he recognized, and he’s immediately wary, though also curious. Whoever it was, they weren’t very far from where he was, surely there’d be little harm in taking a small peek from behind the concealing foliage.

He creeps in closer, avoiding dry leaves and thin twigs as much as he could as he can. He didn’t have very far to creep, as just around the edge of a thick patch of leaves is a man lying on the ground. That explains the thudding noise from moments earlier.

It was someone from The City, or at least he looked like one of the many City-goers. His lack of red and silver or teal and gold in his attire is a good sign; he may not be one of the Pagan’s immediate enemies.

He moves some leaves out of his way to get a better look, frowning and examining the fallen stranger. “What bes doing out here…?” he mutters softly to himself.

"Is someone there?" Cira calls out, flicking his gaze around. The shrubbery is thick enough to hide someone if they're not wearing anything bright, or if they know the territory well enough. It could simply be a little paranoia on his part, or perhaps some forest animal -- or it could be a highwayman or a Pagan. 

He has half a thought to mutter a prayer to the Builder; even after six years since casting aside the mantle his family had tried so hard to place upon his shoulders, Ciradonius finds it both annoying and amusing that they succeeded only in ingraining the instinct to ask otherworldly forces for aid every time he's in trouble. He doesn't pray, of course -- if there is a god behind all of the Hammerite preaching, Cira's quite assured that no help would be given to a sinful disbeliever like himself.