VENGEWISE

Jing Yuan would not harp on the man, instead just happy to walk, even if several feet apart. Curious that Feixiao and Jiaoqiu did not have this one with them. Stealing him away for the night was not too grave a sin, surely. Feet step in time, slower than the woman Moze was used to. Time is taken to enjoy simple beauties, methodical and patient, unwilling to spring at an opportunity without proper insurance. Different stalls and games are passed, some with short pauses to gander, and others without even a glance.

Silence drags on, though the one-sided tension does not cause concern. Even as every movement is observed with great care, he does not give an inch. Instead, a small treat, two sticks of Tanghulu are purchased from a vendor. "Moze, come here." The closest thing to an order is given. "If you must watch, at least have a treat with me." Once the sugary treat is offloaded to the assassin, he turns his back, carrying on with his stroll.

It is hard to tell whether The Dozing General is truly as gentle and careless as he appears, or if that flash of a smirk is truly aware of the absurdity of their circumstances. Each pause to admire even the most trivial of trinkets, to converse with vendors about things completely unrelated to their wares. Each step only strings the guard along more.

This indecision lasts only a second, however, and comes out in the stutter of his hand as he reaches for the bamboo skewer. And then on they go to the next stand. Moze stares at the bright red candied fruit as they walk, debating with himself on whether to try it, to surreptitiously throw it away, or carry it around all night like some kind of sticky souvenir. This occupies him more intensely than observing the Dozing General’s leisurely stroll through the festival, performing his well-practiced act of complacent nothingness.

By the time they stop again, he’s finished off the treat against his better judgment, and draws up alongside the general to examine the targets set up against the back wall of the booth. Yet another “tch” meets Jing Yuan’s question, but this one, at least, doesn’t contain the same exasperation as the first. In fact, the shadows shift just enough to create something nearly like a smile on his face.

”Of course,” he answers confidently, pulling his knife from its sheath. He could hit any of these targets dead center without even trying.

”Hold a moment, sir!” The stall owner pulls away from the customers he’d just sent off to hurry over to where Jing Yuan and Moze stand, his hands waving frantically. “I can’t allow you to use a real weapon!”

Moze regards him wordlessly, but lowers his knife.

”You see, this is a game of skill, but I had to level the playing field a little. A child should have just as much a chance of succeeding as a trained combatant has of losing.”

The furrow that creases between Moze’s eyebrows speaks his thoughts on the matter: that doesn’t make sense. But he doesn’t voice it.

The gamemaster withdraws two slingshots from under the counter and sets them on top.

”Oh! General Jing Yuan!” He gasps, noticing his second guest now that he doesn’t have to worry about pulling a knife from his wooden targets. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed games like these. Are the two of you interested in giving it a go?”

There were other symptoms that would have been treated alongside the throat irritation. The coughing would have no doubt subsided, and it was intended to aid as well with other symptoms such as watery eyes and excess mucus production. She was given no chance to explain as much, however, before the shadows began to move on the breeze.

The smaller wisps of Fuyuan retreat back to the lantern with tiny, upset cries at their mistreatment. Their presence slowly begins to fade from the room, aided by the way the window is suddenly thrown wide as Moze nearly throws himself through it. Even with all her experience, surprise still leaves her motionless as she watches him, up until the moment he turns back to her, looking much like a cat that has been dragged to water for a bath.

Lingsha closes her eyes and sighs. Even she can hear the irritation that rides on her exhale. "We are not a fan of aromatherapy treatments. Noted."

She really must commend Jiaoqiu for his patience when next she sees him. Or, perhaps, two oddities simply cancel each other out.

Placing the burner down, she scribbles another quick note to herself; as though this is something she might forget if she ever sees him again. "I imagine it will last more than a few hours," here, a briefly mocking repetition of his tone, before she reels herself back in. "if you are going to stubbornly refuse any form of medication. But fine, I cannot force you to consume anything if you so insist. However, I must still ask for your cooperation."

If so violent a reaction is had to incense, she imagines there are very few other options that will not provoke a similar reaction or stronger. If modern solutions will not do, then perhaps something slightly more archaic might suffice.

From a nearby drawer, she pulls out a tightly sealed package. She makes sure to keep her hand within his line of vision as she places it down on a counter between them, then slides it towards him. She walks back to her side of the room.

He's much more comfortable by the window, away from her, but he watches curiously for what she might do with it.

"... Are there not other ways to treat illness?" he asks after a few moments, the futility of their stalemate wearing him down a little. It's clear by this question that he is not resisting treatment simply because he enjoys suffering. He looks tired. He is tired. His voice rasps from overuse, but he forces himself to speak anyway, this time to level suspicious like a knife.

"The Disciples rely too much on medicine," he says as he watches her work, but something akin to accusation colors his usual monotone. His eyes narrow a little. There was never any real way to know if someone secretly agreed with the ways of Sanctus Medicus until they'd come out and say it. Living under their care back then, he believed that whatever they gave him was meant to cure his illnesses. That's what they told him. That's what they said to justify their existence within the Alliance. They were helping the sick. They had helped him, after all. But it wasn't until he'd grown older that he realized that their medicine was largely different from the mainstream. It'd always been concerned with promoting immortality, at whatever the cost. Patients were often times test subjects for new drugs, and curing them only a pleasant side effect. He knows that a regular doctor would not be so cruel. And yet the exhaustion has worn away his better sense and all he thinks about is how "doctors" had "helped" him survive his childhood.

The fragrant smoke curls from each of the incense they'd left, filling the little temple with the scent of sandalwood. Moze steps back as if to admire the scene, but it doesn't quite move him. Instead, his eyes alight on Jiaoqiu, and there they linger for a stretch of quiet contemplation.

"... The gods don't actually hear us." They're fortunate that no one else has come to burn incense for the festival at the moment, but even if someone had been lurking out of sight, it would been difficult for them to catch the nearly-whispered words out of Moze's mouth. He's finally come to some semblance of understanding, but the revelation is for Jiaoqiu alone.

then, he feels the other taking his hand to place something in it; fingers wrap tightly around the incense as guided, and he walks further into the space with moze steering in what was hopefully the right direction. as he walks, jiaoqiu speaks softly, "well... the last time I came to a temple remotely like this was a long time ago. probably on one of the fronts the verdant knights fought in during my first career... even foxians living in fear while enslaved to the borisin wanted to believe in something. I couldn't tell you what aeon they believed their shrine was protected by, but... it was simple. quiet enough for prayer."

then, as thickly fogged vision makes out the shadow of an altar before them, jiaoqiu stops and bends forward to search for the proper place to rest the incense, then takes one of the sticks and places it on an intricate bronze receptacle. "... there. maybe there's another place to put them here at this altar? but, before moving on..." a slow breath, in and out, and he thinks slowly about what he does want to pray for before moving on. "... for those who fought to protect and lost in the shackling prison, duty-bound honor unbroken even in death."

Unfortunately, it's as though the doctor is speaking to the air, because his shadow forgets to say anything despite the questions that naturally rise in his mind. Moze has spent too long deciding which one is worth asking, and now he is turned back to the duty at hand. Following Jiaoqiu's lead, he accepts one of the incense sticks and bows his head. This, however, may be an even harder task than deciding how to navigate a conversation like a participant and not simply its audience. The incident in the Shackling Prison had been the biggest tragedy for the Alliance in recent years, and both of them had witnessed the chaos and felt its hopelessness firsthand. What else was there to offer to the aeons of a distant world? Didn't some people make wishes at shrines like these? What was there to wish for when his companions had survived?

If the doctor could have seen his shadow's face just then, he'd witness it twisting up further and further in concentration. Seconds accumulate nearly to a minute before the pressure of silence - of letting Jiaoqiu know that he's still there - finally gets to him.

"... For..." Moze starts, uncertain, "Master Jiao's resilience and wit, although it cost him his eyes. And because he took the easiest one."

Wordlessly, and as serious as ever, he adds the incense stick to the pot with the rest. Then he turns to Jiaoqiu with the question he'd finally decided on as a participant of a conversation. And because that long stretch of indecision while he tried to choose what to offer alongside the incense had illuminated all the things he didn't know. He never visited shrines or temples. The Disciples conveyed their piety with experiments.

the inside of this shrine, if it could be called that, is quiet --- almost quiet enough for him to second guess talking, but... jiaoqiu speaks softly regardless, unsure if there's anyone else inside who may hear. "moze, perhaps I should've asked earlier when I suggested this, but... when was the last time you stepped into somewhere like this?" personally, it had been quite some time. temples on the yaoqing weren't the kind of place he often found himself. for a second, he considers if moze is there at all, and if they'd somehow gotten separated on the way here from the harbor. and if that was the case, well... he was talking to darkness.

Had he been with the general, he wouldn't have made any sound at all, and although he had been training himself to speak more frequently around the doctor, the sacred stillness of this tiny, rural temple dampened just about all but the most crucial of noises to convey his presence. There is no one else here despite the festivities they'd left behind just a short walk ago, and theoretically no one to chide them should they speak too much, but old habits were, at times, the most comfortable safety nets in unfamiliar lands.

Unlike the winding path up the hill that they'd taken, the place is clean and well-kept. That is to say, it meets Moze's standards where the road had not. In the months since the crisis with Hoolay, with his own wounds fortunately superficial compared to those sustained by both Feixiao and Jiaoqiu, he had taken to assisting the doctor in whatever ways he could. Quietly and unobtrusively, of course. What should have been a leisurely stroll through the Liyuean countryside had turned into some moderate exercise instead as Moze darted between clearing the road of stray branches, leaves, and stones that Jiaoqiu might stumble over, and returning to the foxian's side to offer a word or two in response to an otherwise one-sided conversation. Even now, his eyes flit over the ground and the temple's features first before he once more departs in search of the donation box and incense described.

The censer is easy. For the temple's modesty, the large stone bowl that awaits offerings before the entrance is more ornately decorated than anything else in the area, boasting Liyuean characters painted in gold, dragons carved into the legs and handles, and a pagoda roof as a ward against the weather. Dozens of sticks have already been left, the source of which Moze quickly finds nearby. He takes three from the box, lights them with the lamp hanging outside the entrance, and returns to Jiaoqiu with the swirling scent of sandalwood.

It's unsettling, this place. Everything about it, the seemingly endlessness somehow simultaneously claustrophic. Fingers tug at the collar of her jacket as though it's suddenly too tight, eyes wandering this way and that. Her footsteps stop instantly at the sight of the words, paint still drying with no brush in sight. 

Had he done that? Surely he couldn't have, she's been staring at him since she got here, and he definitely doesn't look like he's the artsy type. Someone's gotta be messing with her, or both of them. She's really short on other explanations.

Attention is dragged rather unwillingly from the words to the key. Kiana would like to think multiple years of being St. Freya High School's favorite delinquent for how easily her hand shoots to the back of her neck and her eyes to the ground. Sheepish, she makes a sound like a laugh.

"Uh, about that..." She could just be honest and tell him that she has no idea, that she's not even certain this is real and was kind of banking on that fact. It would be pretty easy, and it's not like he could possibly think she's any stupider. 

Kiana shrugs.

"I heard there was something super important behind the gate, that's why it's kept under such tight lock. Figured I'd find out what," as though that is an obvious and otherwise entirely normal way to think about it. "I expected... well, not this."

"You're not good at this." And does, in fact, say it.

He swings the key thoughtfully from his finger, back and forth twice like he's taunting her, but with a display of guilt coming out in the sheepish laugh and her eyes preferring the ground to his face, he decides she doesn't really want it and twirls it until he catches it again. Then he pockets it and cranes his neck back to peer up at the jagged scar of foggy grey sky between the tall buildings.

"I took the key to prove that I'm better. But as it turns out, that was not much of a challenge."

This admission appears to relax him a little bit, at least insofar as he removes his hand from the hilt of his sheathed knife long enough to cross his arms. He isn't sure what had been concealed back here either, or why it would be kept under lock and key, but he knows a security system when he sees one. Wordlessly, he walks on past the question painted ominously on the wall, but his steps are slow and careful. Not because he cares whether the girl follows him or not, of course; a message like that could only mean that someone had laid claim to this place and would do whatever it took to ward it from invaders.

"Whatever," he says after a moment. "I walked around these streets three times before you arrived and they kept leading me back to the entrance."

He does not get lost, he insists without insisting.

Like a petulant child told that he cannot go out to play, Moze emerges from the shadows in front of her, sullen and slumped over. She half expects to see him pouting when he glowers at her, hunched over with some of the worst posture she has seen, save for those who fell asleep at their desks researching late into the night.

She makes as though attempting to hide her smile behind her hand, but allows it to easily be seen by even the unwatchful eye as she laughs. "My. Would the offer of some candy make this easier for you?"

Flu symptoms are apparently and obvious, even without a need for a close inspection, but steps and processes exist for a reason. She crosses the room over to one of the desks (and ignores the signs of what appears to be a footprint left on some of the documents scattered on top of it) and pulls out something to scribble notes on.

"A lack of a history with illness does not mean that you are immune to it. Clearly." A pointed look over at him before she carries on. "Considering when you arrived on the Luofu and when the illness presented itself, this leaves two options. Option one is that you were ill before you arrived which, according to yourself, does not happen."

Unlikely, but she won't argue a pointless point. "Option two is that you contracted an illness that is not native to Yaoqing, which would explain why it incubated so quickly."

Satisfied with her notes so far, she turns to him again. "If that is the case, then allowing you to leave now potentially puts others at risk should you infect them. So, until we are absolutely certain that whatever you have is benign or that you have recovered entirely, you will very much not be allowed to leave."

There is a bit more teeth to her smile than is probably friendly. "I appreciate your cooperation in this endeavor."

There's a distrust in his pale eyes like one might find in a wounded animal when Lingsha turns back around to carry her incense burner to him. Cautiously, he shifts to sit up a little straighter, more alert, and leans back as she draws closer. There's nothing unreasonable about anything she's said, of course: he'd be a liability if left to roam the Luofu or the Yaoqing without knowing whether he was contagious. And it's not like he can continue on with his mission until he recovers anyway, yet the settling of the warm, fluffy rabbit-shaped plume of smoke into his arms drives against something inside him like a magnet. Stubbornly, he takes a quick, sharp breath and holds it.

The disciples of Sanctus Medicus had had a plethora of techniques that they'd developed over the centuries, and Moze had sat as their unwitting guinea pig through a number of experimental treatments. It was not entirely common that their methods would involve scent, but it was not unheard of either. Visions, often horrifying ones, usually accompanied the musky sweet incense that hung heavy in that tiny, poorly ventilated room. No one usually thought to tell the child who would be subject to breathing it about what he might expect, so Moze simply had to bear whatever surprises it would bring.

So far, he sees little difference here, even though she'd told him it would ease the throat irritation. Still holding his breath, he ekes out one question:

"And what else?"

But he can feel his lungs protesting the stale, sick air he's filled them with, and a cough tickles the back of his windpipe. Exhaling sharply, he claps his hands together to break the little rabbit into wisps of dispersing smoke and then in a single, shadowy streak, leaps for the window and its thatch shade propped open to let in the morning air. Grasping the windowsill with both hands, he doubles over it as a violent cough wracks his body, but the cool air, at least, is a reprieve. As the fit subsides, he slowly withdraws his head and flashes Lingsha a petulant look, but remains standing by the window as if trying to insist that he does not need the bedrest for as long as she thinks. His face gives him away though. Despite the hardness in his eyes, he sways like he could collapse at any second.

She should have made a stronger tea this morning. She could feel a headache slowly forming.

“Moze.” Arms crossed, she taps one finger against her bicep impatiently. She had really thought the healer had been exaggerating when they came to fetch her, insisting that there was no helping the patient in room five for fear of losing a hand. Unimpressed but forced neutrality meets his gaze as she keeps her head held high.

Was it too much to ask for an uneventful day?

“I am under the impression that you found the previous healer unsuitable for the task.” She had not even had the time to ask what he was here for yet, too busy rushing to what she had assumed would be some sort of escaped antimatter legion monster rampaging around the room. “If you would like to request someone specific, next time, we do ask that you let us know in advance so we can try to accommodate.”

Not that they may be able to, with their limited numbers, but she would rather not scare away the few healers she has left.

She moves closer to attempt and get a better look at him, while staying out of his reach. Whatever he had done to scare the other healer so badly, she would not give him the same opportunity. “So, would you care to explain what you’re here for?”

Maybe she's bluffing, he thinks.

She wasn't.

All of a sudden, something catches in the back of his throat and seizes his chest. By now, Moze has learned to quell a number of impulses that could give him away during an hours' long reconnaissance mission, but the longer he holds this in, the more his lungs burn. Finally, he coughs. It's barely a sound, but it's enough to dispel the cloak of darkness around him and he resigns himself to the cot pushed up against the wall. With a swirl of shadow, he appears on it cross-legged, bent over with his arms draped over his knees, a dark weariness under his eyes and pallor to his cheeks revealing what might be ailing him before he even speaks. Clearly, he's been lain low by the common flu, but for now he's still sulking - casting a nasty look at Lingsha from the corner of his eye.

Patients came to doctors for treatment. He knows this. Rationally, anyway. Usually he relies on Jiaoqiu for his health. Outside of the occasional check-up or, more often, treatment for some injury sustained in battle or training with Feixiao, Moze rarely needs him. He doesn't get sick often. So it's just his luck that one of the few missions that would send him to the Luofu without either the doctor or the general would also be one where he wound up catching something. He sniffs. He's more angry that he got sick to begin with.

"I don't get sick," he asserts - to her and to himself - still not really looking at Lingsha directly, then quietly amends: "... usually."

What's more - he couldn't complete his mission while he was sniffling and coughing, but the Cloud Knights wouldn't let him leave either. Something about quarantine. And Jiaoqiu was accompanying the general on a trip too far away to come pick him up from the Luofu within a reasonable timeframe.

Moze lifts his head to stare up at Lingsha, and for another long moment, doctor and patient face off against one another in silence.

Robin decides this is her lead. One of the more absurd ones, but certainly better than nothing. When the crowd eventually disappears, no longer held by the piper's song, the man disperses with them, walking briskly toward his next location. Now that she's heard the Noise, Robin can more easily follow its quaver. Dissonance grows more obvious the more you search for it, and as she quietly tunes the Dreamscape around her, she finds more and more Disharmony scattered throughout the Moment.

All of the Noise seems to converge towards one direction: Aideen Park. The man steps into a small sidestreet as a shortcut. He will soon find that this is a mistake. The world is not kind to those who do not pay attention to their surroundings. In focusing on this one sound, he misses a few others—the din of a metal trashcan, and the lethal woosh of a blade cutting through the air.

"What—?!" comes the cry as he is pinned up against a wall.

Panic quickly overwhelms her. Had someone seen through her disguise? Robin feels her heart begin to race as her eyes strain to look down at the gleaming edge of a blade held against her throat. A throbbing, burning sensation singes by her neck, scorching a hole through an old bullet wound. Death has touched her a number of times, but in this Dream, she knows it may not be so easily escaped from.

She dares look her assailant in the eyes. He stares at her intensely, with a gaze sharper than the knife by his hands. Such intensity could only have been whetted by a strong hatred. Has Penacony changed so much after the Charmony Festival? Perhaps the dissolution of the Sweet Dream had done more to negatively influence those who had lived in it. But could it truly spawn this level of anger and rebellion?

A thousand questions, all similar to the last, race through her mind at once—but the storm is soon put to calm. The man speaks, and Robin's eyes widen. This hatred is not for her or for the persona she embodies.

"You… You have it wrong." The man tells him, in a low and quiet voice, "I don't know who you're talking about. I'm not aligned with the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus—I'm… someone else entirely."

She hadn't meant to disguise herself as one of them, whoever they were. She had intended to look woefully average—the sort of man who could blend into a crowd. But she knows that this method of concealment relies on others' memories. Most of the Dreamscape does. The foundation of Memoria is only as stable as one's mind is, and its influence affects some more than others. This man likely perceives her front very differently. Robin wonders if using her tuning could calm him down.

She'll cross that bridge when she gets there—if she wants to help him, then she needs to gain his trust. It will not be so easy while she is shrouded in this deception, however. Taking a deep breath, she slowly lets her disguise fade away. How quickly he will realize that this old man is actually a young lady will depend on his psyche—but Robin's truer form will reveal itself eventually.

The songstress remains pinned up against the wall, with that blade still against the skin of her throat, but she hopes that her honesty will reward her with freedom. She looks up at him, entreating. 

"You have it wrong" - he's said it before, that old man. "This medicine only hurts, it doesn't help," Moze had insisted. "You have it wrong," said the old man again.

"I'm not aligned with the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus." Perhaps not anymore, now that his branch had been gutted by the Yaoqing's very own Lacking General. But that was why he had come to Penacony, wasn't it? To find new subjects, new experiments, new people desperate for new bodies and better health. From Moze's initial research of the place, he'd discovered that there was no shortage of such guests, most of which would be ripe for indoctrination. Just as he had been way back then, when his only options were the Disciples or a slow, withering away in agony, hardly able to care for himself.

"I hope you can see that I am not your enemy," that old man had said in the forest back then, when he'd come upon a terrified, starving child writhing in the dirt, kicking rocks, scrabbling on twisted limbs to get away. Terror, by now, had transformed into a fury that burned brightly in Moze's eyes as he pressed the knife harder against the man's neck, daring him to say more.

"I don't believe you," he says through his teeth, and indeed the disguise does not melt away for him. Because he had never seen the disguise to begin with, but the shade of a tormenting memory. The knife's edge trembles slightly, but otherwise holds still, because the wielder - for all his vengeance - is muddled by some strange sensation of relief. The dull echo of desire for reconciliation with the only father he had ever known, usually drowned out by all else, rings loud enough to hear for some reason.

"Don't worry. I'll be sure to take it easy on them." I'll come out fine, just like I always do. "Besides, you're here. I have nothing to be concerned about." A few steps took her to a nearby rack, opting to retrieve an unassuming, simple sword-- it wasn't nearly as sharp or as intricate as the gunblade she usually kept in hand, but it would serve its purpose here. True to a warrior's experience, it didn't matter what the weapon was; as long as it was in the hands of an expert, it would cut just as well as any other sharp edge would. "Alright! You, you, you.... and you." Feixiao pointed to a few of the gathered men, aiming to pick out the ones who seemed to be grizzled veterans. It would be hard to tell for anyone who wasn't a soldier, but the familiarity in their stance and the way they held their weapons belied the fact that they had experience; a simple shift of the back foot could propel someone's strike a little bit faster, and a little bit stronger. "Come with me. You're going to test your mettle- all of you. Moze, I entrust my back to you." As she always does; it doesn't even need to be said, truthfully. "It's 4 versus 2. If you'd like to even the odds even more, feel free to grab a few more men. Otherwise..." It was unceremonious in the way she brandished her blade, her body language remaining far more relaxed than it should. She didn't worry about being surrounded, as she already knew the extent to which she could seize an opening in the millisecond it was presented to her. A slight shift in their coordination, or a slight adjustment in the space between them-- it would take only the tiniest mistake to provide her with a recourse to disarm them. "Come at me, then. You've got 5 seconds to start before I make a move-- make it count!" The looks of uncertainty that each soldier exchanged with one another would normally have made her laugh, but... unfortunately, this training camp was a sorely needed excursion for the Knights who had become complacent in the presence of peace. It didn't take long though for one of the older men to steel himself, and he lashed out faster than Feixiao expected any of them to. At least some of them had guts. As he lunged, the general's body moved instinctively. A quick step to the side was all it took to narrowly avoid the strike, and she responded in kind with an elbow to the back of the neck-- the Cloud Knight immediately crumpled, groaning as he clutched at the place where Feixiao's blow had connected. "Sloppy! You should know better than to position yourself like that; it leaves you wide open." Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of another soldier, this one circling to the left near Moze's direction. This one was quicker, more agile-- and she could see the intent in the way he shifted as he prepared for a chance to break into an opening in Moze's defenses. Ah, she didn't need to intervene. The soldier made a grave mistake in believing that Moze would be an easier target.

Of course, there's another side to it as well - one that has stifled any of the complaints a contrary young man of his age would otherwise have about being dragged around by the ear constantly. As the knights begin to move, pale eyes flicker from the pairs to the group of four who face off with the general, but it's Feixiao's broad, upright back that they linger on. He has not hid his motives from her, of course; she's known that her shadow is a doubled-edged blade for as long as he's been by her side. No one else but the Lacking General would be so fond of her would-be assassin, nor so confident that her back exposed to him would not cost her her life.

Mostly because he'd tried that approach a few times. And failed.

But each new exercise allows him opportunities to observe her for weaknesses and openings, and though he relies on her as one might rely on family, studying her offers his mind the enrichment most turned to puzzles for.

Only the soft crunch of silt under rubber soles accompanies Moze's shift from roof to the ground again, and he darts along the wall to find a place to put pressure on the unit of knights who follow their leader's example and charge for their "borisin" foe. Almost all of them, anyway. One of them has eyes sharp enough to catch the shimmer in the shadows, and breaks away from the others to take care of it himself. This development draws a smirk across Moze's lips - better one on one than a whole unit. This is where he excels.

With a breath, he calls on an old magic technique he's perfected over the years and dissolves into darkness and waits until the perceptive knight has stepped into the shade.

Before the man can even brandish his weapon in defense, Moze leaps out from his hiding place and tackles him, feet to chest. The knight hits the ground with a startled cry cut abruptly off by the blunt side of a knife pressed hard against his throat. Moze crouches on top of him, clawed hand pinning his arm with its weapon to the ground, the other holding the knife, with a sudden sharpness in his eyes.

"Be wary of traps and distractions," he warns. The man sputters some kind of response - an affirmative, Moze thinks - so he clasps him around the collar and hauls him back up to his feet.

"A fool travels alone out in the open."

It's definitely not her reaction time at fault for this, considering the sheer speed at which the key disappears from her fingers. Kiana blinks at her now-empty hand, then frantically around for traces of its thief.

She nearly shrieks at the figure of a man that had just appeared in the few paces between herself and the gate.

Her brows pinch together, drawing a crease between them. Sure, she's not very good at this whole stealing thing. She makes up for this fact by being good in plenty of other fields like swinging a bat and also saving humanity. And yet, despite the fact that she has absolutely nothing riding on her capabilities as a thief, Kiana is quite offended. 

She's still trying to figure out her retort when the gate groans open and, as quickly as he'd come, the weird guy is gone.

"Wha- That's it?" Seriously? Rude. Finality plants one hand on either of her hips and marches right on after him-- she wanted to see what was past that gate, anyway, and well... now she's got a bone to pick.

"At least give a girl a second to think, that's just common courtesy if you're gonna rob someone!" She pushes open the gate, eyes shut as she shoulders through it. "Like, what happened to 'give me all your money' or whatever? Where I come from, theives are much more considerate." A huff through her nose, as if she had done any of this to that poor guard that she stole the key from in the first place. 

"And you forget to lock the door behind you? Seriously, what the hell is y-"

She opens her eyes, then blinks a few times. Then a few times more. Her head swivels, right and then left and then a full body turn and... "Um... what the...?"

There's not a gate anymore. There's not... much of anything. Just another alley. Kiana rubs her eyes.

Maybe he gets a little lost. Sometimes. Only in strange foreign cities with outdated, military-grade architecture that all looks the same. This time, he decides to try his luck with the rooftops, but finds out quickly that a dense wall of fog hangs across this part of the city (strange - he recalls a crisp, clear blue sky over the alleyway he’d just come from). He gives up quickly, and when he lands on the ground again, he’s back at the entrance once more.

And there’s the amateur. She looks even more lost than he does, and he’s heartened by this somewhat. For a split second, they make eye contact. Did she expect him to help her? He frowns, but turns his back and continues a short distance down the street. Here, the tall buildings nearly touch, and the narrow path between them can hardly be called a street. Moze likes these small, shadowy places better. This one, however, brings him no closer to a way out, and more questions than answers.

WHO TRESPASSES HERE? is painted on the wall in bold, black brushstrokes at the end of the alley.

”This is your destination,” he says to the thief who insists on following him, judgmental, skeptical, and a little disappointed. Silently, he retrieves the stolen key from his pocket and holds it up in front of her.

"That lamp. You're concealment is impeccable, but you are still physical. Barely a second, it could have been a shadow from a dozen different sources. But it looked more like a glimmer than a proper shadow..." his arm comes down, looking over his shoulder. "Though I fear I only noticed because of how on edge I am. It has been quite the week, wouldn't you agree." Going to pat the mans shoulder, he would hesitate, instead brushing out some creased part of his jacket. It looks awkward, though Jing Yuan is wiser than to try and make contact with an assassin such as this man.

In unlikely comradery, he finds an opportunity.

But then his eyebrows raise slightly, a rare glimpse of Jing Yuan’s mind catching him off guard and by surprise. He doesn’t say anything though. Not immediately. And stands rigid, arms by his side, as the general reaches out as if to touch him, then decides against it. Had Moze believed that he meant him harm, his reflexes would have pulled a knife from its sheath in no time flat, but the gesture didn’t set him on edge so much as it confounded him. Just as subtly as his eyebrows had raised, he tilts his head to the side.

The differences between Jing Yuan and Feixiao were like night and day, and Moze had only just gotten a grasp on the latter.

”I intended to watch you all night,” he says candidly. There’s no reason to hide it now, because he’s been found already. He wouldn’t try to trail the general in secret again. At least not until tomorrow. Brows twitch together for a split second, confused by the invitation and weighing his options. But then he nods.

”If I come with you, it's only because you have found me out, and I have nothing else to do.” Again, he is candid, yet the finality in his voice is softened just slightly, unconsciously seeking the general’s approval of it. Whatever happens, he will report it to Feixiao, in other words. Pale, unblinking eyes try to stare holes through that gentle smile, to no avail.

Whatever anyone might say, her methods work. Moze can already see acceptance ripple across the faces of the gathered knights, and that’s the first step to healing.

Of course, he hadn’t come all the way out here just to watch, even if that is his job most of the time. And indeed, the general twists her head to call for him over her shoulder then. Wordlessly, he unfolds his arms and pushes off from the wall of the storage shed. This is routine by now; she barely needs to tell him what to do. As steel claws wrap around the handle of one rack, however, a split second’s hesitation presents a vision of a shadow grabbing one of the glaives and bludgeoning the base of the general’s head with the blunt end, killing her quickly, without fanfare. But like the dozens of other assassination plans he’s toyed with over the last few months, this one is thrown away almost at once. It would be all too easy for her to spin around and disarm him.

So Moze drags a pair of weapon racks out from the shade and into the sun where the knights have organized into pairs. He sets them up nearby and begins tossing training glaives to half of them, and specially crafted claws to the other half. Then he crosses the field to where the general has begun to prepare herself for her own fight - or fights, more likely.

”They’re armed,” he says simply, a statement of fact that he has done his part of the job. “The claws have a small dose of lupitoxin, as you requested.”

Pale eyes raise to study the general’s eager face. Knowing her, she wouldn’t stay on the sidelines for long.

”It's not the same as a real borisin.” Another statement of fact, delivered just the same as the first one. A report, yet tinged faintly with curiosity. His eyebrows raise slightly behind his shaggy mop of hair. The claws might not be the same, but Feixiao--.

it takes but a minute to tune into the heartbeat of the world, to the way life pulses around them. the distant roar of thundering waterfalls, the faint chittering of wildlife. the soft thumps of fungi as they hop about, and the wind’s call as it sweeps through the trees.

and yet, despite the noise, the voice startles kaveh—

—just as much as the sudden appearance of a man he doesn't recognize.

a sharp gasp seemingly leaves the architect winded as he doubles over, struggling briefly to catch his breath while studying the other man from beneath his brow. he's hardly poised to strike, and more inclined to stare until common sense settles in.

( this is no bandit, judging by the stranger’s appearance. reasoning follows: if the man had intended to attack, he would've done so already, with the blond's back exposed to the sprawling trunks behind him. )

"that's sumeru for you," kaveh manages, expelling the last traces of shock from his system in a long exhale. then, with a feeble gesture toward the machine at his side, he prompts the toolkit open to reveal a small bottle of water. "here, take this. it looks like you need it more than i do. you’ll have to pace yourself out here, especially if you aren’t accustomed to this kind of weather."

So he introduces himself simply: "Moze." And regards the offered hand with some muted bewilderment. If not friendly, then at the very least he should be cooperative for a task like this - he can almost hear Jiaoqiu chiding him - so tentatively, he accepts the handshake and then produces a small bottle of his own stashed away in a pouch hooked to his belt. In a show of defiance, or perhaps simply to acknowledge the scholar's warning to take care of himself out here, he drinks from it, caps it, and then returns it to his belongings.

"You intend to venture into what people in this world call the Withering Zone, correct?" he asks when he's finished, mostly because Kaveh (and Mehrak) both seem to look at him expectantly. He's never been good with the part of assignments that required conversation. That was the garrulous doctor's speciality, while his own questions were usually accompanied by the shine of a knife's edge. For now, however, his daggers remain at his waist, sheathed but still visible.