I'll protect him, no matter what happens

Oifey seems fine. Oifey seems unchanged, by whatever metric, for the austere look of him even when he's getting his kicks in being a general nuisance—horrendously neat-pressed, frankly. It's unfair. They've known each-other long enough that even the greatest disparity couldn't make him self-conscious, in a world where that was in Shannan's disposition. In the end, it's mostly reassuring. Could be that the end of the world wouldn't change Oifey too much—at least, not into something unrecognisable. Then again, that's the thoughts of someone who watched all this turn out from a gangly teenager with stars for Lord Sigurd in his eyes. Put Shannan, the boy, in front of Oifey now, and he'd probably run screaming.

Fun thought!

He thinks of his younger self, thinks of the unsteadiness on his feet and wonders how he would react to see them now, laughing and joking as if the weight of the world they found themselves in burdens them no longer. A younger Oifey would be shocked at it all he thinks, the harmless pranks and willing touches that had been so few and far between coming so very common place. It is, of course, an amusing thought, and yet it serves as little more than a distraction from the weight that dances upon his shoulders like a child moves through freshly fallen snow.

"Perhaps later." When their heads need clearing from the fierce games that fate has begun to play. "Have you... met anyone on the way here?" There is no subtlety in the question laid behind closed doors, a seriousness that creeps at the edge of vision and yet the words to be shared are those that so wholly concern both of them. "Larcei, Fee, Diarmuid, Seliph, Scáthach..." A trailing thought, words that fade into silence as he contemplates that which is yet to be spoken. The names on his tongue still sing like open wounds, and yet to leave them unmentioned is to fail in a duty so wholly theirs.

She had mentioned her dream of seeing her family together again and he brings up her daughter. She wonders if this means he does not condemn her for that daughter's father. It feels too much to hope for but she has never shied away from hope.

"To have your help in my kitchen...I can think of few things I want more. It would be an honor to see how far your skills have come." It would be the perfect way, she thinks, to properly catch up. She can picture them reminiscing and laughing as they chop ingredients for something they all will enjoy. A fire in the oven warming the room, dishes clinking together, the smells of herbs and spices.

There if little in the way of condemnation to be found for the past within him any longer, so consumed was the anger felt by the drive of necessary purpose. He and Shannan had been teens with tasks entrusted that to focus on anything else would be little more than a dereliction of that which had needed their attention in full.

"I must confess however, my skills are still hardly worthy of too much praise, wrapped in the necessity of learning on the fly as they are." It would, after all, hardly do for him to burn down the cottage when it had taken so long to procure the supplies necessary to build it. Still, he cannot help the chuckle that falls from chapped lips at the memory of the blacksmith's scorn in regard to the pile of utterly ruined pots placed before them.

Running as fast as she can to keep up with her allies, she grits her teeth once she sees the destruction wrought upon the houses ahead. These brutes will get what is coming to them. For attacking a defenceless village. For such insolent comments against Emb- Against REGULAR Camilla. For making her trudge out to fight in such BARKING COLD!

Her fists tighten, wrapped in fancy, enchanted handwraps she found in Isaach. Everyone else has already managed to take someone down; she steps in front of an oafish brigand.

Easy pickings.

“Pah, I ain’t scared of a dumb looking, snot nosed-” He starts to spill drivel from his mouth, but is quickly and painfully silenced; a fist striking his stomach followed by a sweep to the legs, leaving the brigand squirming in pain on the icy floor. Any plans Panette had to add to her team’s cool lines washed away as she starts seeing red.

“If you morons think you got nothin’ to be scared of from me, look at your pathetic wretch of an ally and think again.”

Several pairs of eyes hopefully on her, she leaps up high into the air, bringing both knees down on the brigand’s chest as hard as she can. A sickening crunch rings out amidst the sounds of fighting and burning, and the dumbass who underestimated her is out for the count.

Feeling an energy course through her fists, a faint glow emanating from the fancy handwraps, she looks to the other clowns in the fight; some of them seem a bit unnerved, whilst some are clearly clutching their hearts in pain. Whatever these handwraps are doing is freaky, but those buffoons brought it onto themselves.

Camilla throws another spell at one of the mercenaries that was beating on one of the helpless villagers. Barbie pounces as his body falls, sending a shock wave through the ground and forcing the brigands to their knees. The wyvern tears into the fallen mercenary, adding his blood to the crimson snow.

"They're killing unarmed villagers, I say give them a taste of their own medicine!" Camilla shouts to Panette.

"Position yourself close to their chief, I can corral them all close enough for you to strike." An order, pulling the spear from the side of his majestic steed who looks more akin to the ashen horses of fables old. Malaen's huffed, angry breath is all the agreement he needs as mighty hoofs knock ashen snow high into the air, breaking into a galloping closing circle as his gaze turns upon the brigand who thinks themselves brave enough to attempt to move from his closing circle.

A breath, feeling the fire of anger in his soul as outstretched arm raises the spear high. Oifey is fast, faster than he was in the distant past, so he cannot fault himself if the spear strikes short of his target. He's grown too old to fight another war he thinks, feels his form groan at the strain, and yet he can not, will not allow them to hurt his students as fingers release the haft, letting it embed deep into the earth even as the brigand laughs in what they perceive to be a vicious mockery of his poor aim, and yet...

"Now Panette!"

Camilla was even wearing fleece leggings. So you KNOW it was cold.

A large blanket was wrapped around Barbie's neck like a scarf, extra saddle blankets layered on top of her back. She raced across the sky to the burning village, both rider and mount grateful for something to do to keep them warm.

In the village square they could see a group of brigands, dumping out chests in search of anything valuable. If only they knew the true value of all the crocheted lace and embroidered fabric they were throwing about and ignoring in their search for anything shiny.

Barbie flew straight through the group, sending them scattering to avoid the wyvern. She landed on a frozen well at the center of the town and stretched her wings with a mighty cry.

"Feel free to run." Camilla called from atop her wyvern. "But anyone who stays will be punished like the naughty children you are." She smiled like a cat who had got the cream.

"I wouldn't mind being punished by a lady like you!" One of the brigands foolishly calls out. Camilla unleashed a spell, aiming straight for his chest and knocking him to the ground. Barbie pounced on the brigand and finished the fool off as the rest of Camilla's group entered the fray.

Everything happened so quickly, the poor fools barely had time to react to the sudden attack. They'd finish this quickly.

Brigands and Mercenaries, no doubt searching for opportunity in the cold, and yet he cannot allow it to continue, gaze turning towards the warrior moving too slow to avoid him as the spear is pulled from the leather strap and weighed in his hand. The armor new, old, upon his shoulders have left him all the more mobile for it, even as the snow bites at his skin. For a moment, the Paladin steals a gaze towards his colleague, listens to the taunts and resolves himself to keep a distance between them as a mighty swing of his arm has the almost barbed spear flying high in an arc through the sky tinted red by flame.

Malaen knows what to do of course, this is a familiar routine as Oifey lowers himself to ride flat, leaning slightly askew as gloved digits catch the haft of the spear, holding tight as the warrior is brought low to a knee from the pain of dragging it free.

Or maybe shes just missing something obvious?

Either way she doesn't get to wonder long as the aforementioned seamstress comes flying towards them.

She steps aside, somewhat hiding herself behind Oifey, startled by the anger before she recognizes it wasn't aimed towards her.

Intentionally or not he rats her out but reassures her that at the very least her help won't be unwelcome.

"I-i understand if its an unattractive job but would you be so kind as to trim my coat a little past shoulder blades?"

its in tatters only an inch or two lower so she doesn't expect the idea to be indulged but she'd be a greater fool to not even try asking.

" Its good material id do it myself but."

she looks down at her hand the gloves still crusted with blood as she unhooks the pauldrons to remove the jacket.

She can do decorations; she can do garlands and fake flowers, run errands, and everything else, but her hands feel shaky as if too long with her own thoughts will leave her in ruin.

(she knows why

but she pretends she doesn't)

Oifey feels comfortable standing aside, letting the woman move closer, as his gaze shifts over towards his own home for a moment. It only takes all of a moment for the measuring tape to appear, as the Paladin takes two steps backwards.

"Ah sure can, ain't no one better than me!" A boisterous laugh, gesturing towards the house that serves also a shop. "You come with me, and we'll get you right as rain!"

Oifey can merely nod his support before the thought sparks into his mind. "Perhaps we can help with your deliveries in return? It's important for the students to have a varied life." Somewhat of a convenient excuse on his part, yet he has little interest in asking others to work for free as his attention turns back to the young woman. "Once you're finished, I shall be waiting here, I merely need to retrieve my own armor and weapons."

Tine can't help but freeze, tongue-tied and eyes wide.

She cannot imagine Freege being like this; it's highly individualistic and tense.

People are feverishly guarding their wealth.

But maybe she's just thinking of nobility, the life of the common folk being less rotten than theirs.

All the same, it still feels too good to be true.

"So they expect services? I know that there's a festival in the works, right?

While I had been working as a merchant's aide back in Foldlan, I learned a lot about making decorations back in my youth."

Well, she's still young, but those days feel so distant, that precious naivete.

"I apologize for this as well.

"Look lively, it would seem I've earned myself a spot on the hot seat." An almost suspicious whisper before he stands as rigidly as possible in an almost amused manner as the sowing needle is shaken in his face.

"Subpar clothes Oifey?! Not to mention running off to an entirely different continent?!?"

Ah, how unexpected, yet he knows how exactly to refocus her attention onto something that will curtail the wellworn ire that is truly deserved. "Tine, this is Siobhan, Tirnanog's only resident seamstress as far as I'm aware, there's no one better in Isaach when it comes to repairing clothes." Falling down memory lane is dangerous, but it'll be worth it to see suitable clothes prepared before they move on to the next stop of their trek.

"I assure you, there's no one better to entrust yourself into the care of, and if my memory serves, there's never a shortage of oddjobs and deliveries that need doing in return." He can't help but smile at the nervousness, he once felt much the same once upon the time, he feels confident that a kind hand will be more than enough to help her adjust to the laid back nature of the town that was once his home.

She knows that isn't right; it is a dismissal of all those people who suffered for sheltering her king.

She isn't worthy of being here, but her companion fits right in as if he never left.

"Lord Oifey? Is there anything in particular I should do or avoid doing."

She's playing with the hem of her sleeve, distantly grieving another outfit that got evacuated; she'd bankrupt Freege if she went through clothes like this on a daily basis.

"Do you perhaps know a tailor? I don't want to part with the coat, but it has to be trimmed significantly.

D-don't come with me though./!"

People look at him with such kindness, and she refuses to take advantage of that.

Ugh, she's rambling too much, her head in 50 places and nowhere at once.

She says it under her breath more as a message towards herself to cease it.

"Now now, no need for Lord, nobody here will call me that..." So many of those of his age know him merely as a hermit fleeing the past that he would prefer they not refer to him as anything more. Lord had, for the longest time, been a title belonging solely to his uncle that he himself finds it hard to hear himself being referred to with the same words as he begins to slowly walk up the gentle slope of the hill. "… As for what not to do, never refuse an offer of kindness, Tirnanog has been self-sustaining for so long that many consider it rude to take coin for their services."

He can't help the laughter, raising his hand to gently pat atop Tine's head before beckoning her to follow him to the house. "A tailor? Unfortunately not, however we do have a Seamstress." Its semantics really, yet as they near the cottage he turns his attention to the house opposite. "Siobhan can be... a lot, but I can attest to the fact her skill is undeniable, goddess knows she had to deal with enough tears." He nods his head, before turning into the home where four children were raised to be formidable.

Well, Caspar will show him something else to be shocked about.

He crashes into him, grasping wildly for the wrist that holds the knife in a similar maneuver to the one he’d just pulled on the thief. This one is more slippery. Opposing hands push at his body and pull at his clothing as he does the same. Caspar’s side stings, and then it burns. He gasps, holding the man’s shirt more tightly. Blood seeps through his own.

But blind faith crumbles beneath hard facts. He's drawn his blade and he's drawn Caspar's blood with it. Now released, the toxin is a much stronger scent and it makes Rhys blanch.

If he gets one more really good hit in on Caspar at that range, this won't go well. They may end up with two bodies to tend to.

White knuckles grip his staff as he finally stands. "Oifey! While Caspar has a hold on him, take him down! We can end this!"

Rhys hadn't wanted to believe there was a traitor among the guides. He always wants to believe the best in everyone, but that kind of hope isn't always rewarded.

Sometimes, it only leads to bloodshed and desperate measures.

He feels the tinge of poison in his limb like a familiar adversary, and yet it does little to stop the bullrush as he signals for the boy, the young man, to step back lest he too be caught in the storm's wake. Three beats is all it takes to close the distance, three beats as the chipped iron pierces through, carrying his enemy forward in a cloud of dust as Oifey lets go of the lance, righting himself. He thinks to the young student who had displayed such interest in the holy blood that runs through the Paladin's veins, and yet he is thankful they were not here to see the effects of the blessed strength.

Two beats of the drum are all it takes for their adversaries to flee now that the leader is slain, two beats in which fingers come to his lips to let out a shill whistle as an almost demonic neigh carries, heavy fall of hooves echoing through empty streets as the warhorse gallops with the wind. Satisfied he moves, walking calmly towards where their unconscious archer lay, bending methodically to slide his arms under the form of young Takumi even as his gaze turns to his fellow.

When he looks up, this time he sees them before it's too late.

"Caspar! There!" The pickpocket is stalking the battlefield for an unwitting mark and he won't let it be Caspar. "Don't lose your focus, we're counting on your strength!" After all, Takumi is down, and he's still bleeding.

“Not so fast!” He twists, further and further, until the weapon drops to the ground between them. Caspar kicks the blade in one direction, throws his opponent another. He watches the thief turn their back to flee down the street and lets out a bark-like laugh.

“No easy marks here! Y-”

Again, he’s interrupted by a sharp stab of pain. This time the arrows, two of them, pierce the padding on his back with bruising force. He whirls around, shafts standing on end like quills when his hackles raise.

Traitor, his mind screams at him in a haze of fury, prompting him to move even as the pickpocket meets his gaze and prepares to shout a warning. Yet even on foot the Knight is still formidable, rushing forward to bury the wooden shaft into a gut so all that escapes those lips are empty air. Yet the guide, Compass, turns and meets his gaze, as if shocked to see him so deftly approach before preparing to flee from the battlefield.

No time to waste, yet the only way to stop this is to invoke the name and title he suspects the guides were no more prepared for than the bandits surrounding them. It is a cheap trick to invoke one's own name, but it is enough for the mayhem to slow. "The guide who calls themselves Compass! As Duke of Chalphy, I, Oifey, humbly request you sieze them!" A glance to the young man, a nod of his head to approve of the student striking out at their foe.

The back of the man's head cracks against the stone. The front of it cracks against Caspar's forehead, for good measure. The world spins for a second while Caspar gets his bearings, letting the mugger slip out of his grasp and slump into the street.

"We don't-" He shakes his head, finds his footing. "We don't need poison or tricks. We just need to push through!"

Stubbornness pushes his voice to a booming volume. Uncertainty puts a creaking wobble in his sharpest syllables.

One of their foes darts through the chaos and he recognizes their shadowed garb too late. The pickpocket reaches for him and Rhys takes half a step back...and finds himself several paces out of place.

The pickpocket slips, catches nothing, and is as surprised as Rhys to find him a few feet away. With their target out of reach, they retreat, and Rhys sees one of the guides not too far away waving at him. Ah, it must have been their magic! How kind of them.

But the battle, and his allies, won't wait. The older man looks a little out of sorts. Their enemies hit hard and he doesn't want another of their group to fall.

"O Goddess," he repeats his prayer as he lifts his staff high, "shine your holy light on our poor souls and deliver us from our earthly wounds." Warm radiant light envelopes the man and Rhys allows himself a small sigh of relief.

And yet he still manages to hold the staff high, letting that holy light rain like the gentle droplets of summer's first mist. A weary nod is all he can give, voice worn out even as the scent of almonds continues to taunt him, growing stronger with every passing second. It is wrong, perverse, and yet he knows one of the three has done it intentionally, using it to ensure his full attention cannot be given to the fight around him in this acursed ruin of a town.

Perhaps if he were not distracted he would have seen the arrow fly true, and yet there is little to be done as the barbed head digs deep into his shoulder, as if intent on becoming a deepset thorn. No time to think, no time to lose focus, his shoulder flexes once, shifting it deeper while retrieving the mobility necessary to fight. Yet the pain as sharp as it is, is fleeting, old eyes going to the silver band that wraps tightly around his wrist, feeling the blood of his ancestors will him to continue fighting.

"Caspar! They're trying to distract you, show them the folly of their actions!"

"No!" Rhys runs over to him as their enemies clear and crouches next to him. Oh, this is bad. He's still breathing but he's out. There's no time for even a sigh of relief as he slips his arms under his and starts to drag him away from the main part of the battle. He doesn't want him to get hurt further.

Once Takumi is safe on the back lines with him, Rhys stands guard over him, as if he could do anything if someone drew too close to the pair.

Again, the man insists that someone among them is a traitor. Rhys looks between the three guides. The healer helped him only moments before, why heal someone who you want dead? Then he looks at the other two, but they appear innocent as well. No, he simply can't think that they're traitors.

“...Poison?” He echoes his commander’s words, shoulders hunched with suspicion. The woman tilts her head, flashing a disarming smile through the shadow of her hood.

“It’s a dangerous world out here. Sometimes even good people need a few ugly tricks to keep themselves safe. That’s all.” Caspar glares at her weapon. It isn’t true. Good people don’t use ugly tricks, and they certainly don’t hide their tricks from their supposed allies. He just doesn’t have any proof of who the poison is meant for.

“You…” He takes in a sharp breath. “You’re wrong. You- agh-!!”

An arrow plunges into the meat of his left shoulder, severing the rest of his thought. His fist clenches around the shaft. He bites the inside of his cheek, represses the instinct to yank the intrusion free.

Moving is second nature to him, darting forward to meet the mugger in single combat to the look of fleeting surprise. Once, his fighting style had been solely focused on mounted combat, yet swordplay had long thought him the benefits to keeping a trick or two hidden in his sleeves as he meets the fist. The blows are harsh, blunt, yet the jagged silver coating fails to pierce the leather braces protecting his ribcage, designed especially to meet those that had a clear advantage.

"This is reckless, even for you, a fighting style designed to get hit isn't much of a style, especially when they're going to retreat just as fast..." The echo of a past conversation, yet the almost vicious grin on his features speaks to just how aptly the trap had been sprung as his hand begins to slide down the shaft of the spear. "... And if they don't move fast enough, a sword still won't be able to reach them..." How right they were, unfortunately he had little need of a sword, spinning the lance low and letting the jagged edge bite deep into the tendon.

Rhys brings up the rear of their little group just as they're flung into chaos. The sudden descent of mercenaries on their position has him on guard but not flustered. Battle has been his way of life for a long time. Where the others in their group seem to suspect the guides, he's not so sure. Why would anyone lead them purposefully into danger?

But there's little time to think it over as sudden searing pain shoots straight through his arm. Two arrows are lodged there, one at his shoulder and the other only a bit below. Cold, rattling pain shakes him to his core as he gasps for breath. It's a lot of blood, but it's his own and he knows how it got there so he's fine.

There are others need his attention. White robes stained red, he holds himself steady and surveys the immediate situation. One is hurt, the other two are on the offensive, and they're surrounded.

Rhys raises his staff. "O Goddess Ashunera, hear my plea and send forth your radiant light!" A warm and subtle light envelopes the white-haired archer, soothing any damage sustained.

In turn, Rhys finds himself healed by one of the guides. They raise their own staff in his direction and relief floods through his worn body. A strange feeling as he's usually not the one taking damage.

"Thank you!" See, how could the guides have led them astray? They were simply unlucky in choosing their route.

"Thanks," Takumi says, and readies for a counterattack.

(In hindsight, he thinks, maybe he could've been more careful.)

The pickpocket comes at him again, this time with the blade. Takumi tries to sidestep him, but the pickpocket darts forward with alarming speed and stabs the sword first into Takumi's calf, then into his side. Pain sears through him but he endures it, firing another arrow straight into the pickpocket. He collapses on the ground. A couple of Takumi's rotten groceries spill out and roll around him.

"Finally got him," he goes to say, but a punch from the back forcibly sends the air in his lungs out instead—instinctively, his grip loosens and Fujin Yumi falls into the dirt. The last thing he manages to choke out is a strangled gasp as a punch to the head follows

This technique, the beginning of a dance of death, is untested, practiced in secret time and time again as he watches the arrow loosen into the air. His heart thumps in his ears, raising the worn haft and willing his body to move, pushing himself to the side as the arrow catches in his sleeve, tearing fabric and little else as it buries itself in the dirt.

Suspicion has begun to stew, and the guide that was behind him did little to calm his mind, something feels off to him, like there's a piece of this conflict he's missing before he notices it, the smell of almonds that curls at his senses like a fine poison. There is a gaze turned to his partner standing tall as the tactician pushes forward to brush shoulders with him. It is a suspicion, one that cannot be left to permeate the air and yet Oifey is far too used to passing secrets openly as his voice lowers, so only the mage can hear.