#the doc

The door is there, and as she gets closer, the door opens. Amelios is there in the doorway, and he'd probably look a little more imperious if his hair wasn't standing up at all angles. "What is it?" He ask, looming slightly.

Morwen is accustomed to people looming at her. "Gavrel went missing. Some of the party has gone to assess the situation, but I did promise you I'd ask if I needed help, and also that I wasn't going to try anything heroic. So...I'm here."

"He's gone missing? How long ago? What was he doing? Do you know where he went missing from?"

"An hour and a half, and he was just going to his house to get some books to read. I gave him about 45 minutes to clean house or do whatever and then I started getting worried. He's within messaging range for at least one Party member, but not responding."

"His house. He went to his house? That's..." He sighs. "I know what's happened. Well, at least I know who it was. What has happened is less sure, but I can make a guess."

"Okay. That's...good? I was concerned there was something we didn't know about in the city. How bad is it?"

"It's Kharta," he says, and swishes backwards, taking his dressing robe off as he goes so he can change into proper clothes.

"Ghroldune?" she asks, very concerned.

"Yes," he says, dressing in something a little bit heftier than his earlier outfit, but there isn't any visible armor to say why that is.

"So...not great, though you were planning to meet with her and Gavrel at some point. Where do you want me, where do you want the Party, and do you want backup?"

"Morwen, thank you for telling me. Now, please, for everyone's sanity, go home. Take the party to bed. Kh- Master Ghroldune can get into his house, but she's not good enough to kill him. Everything will be fine come morning. I will handle this. My lady."

Morwen's a little dubious about this, but doesn't know him well enough to know if it's bravado or not, and she knows a dismissal when she hears one. "Okay. Next time hopefully I'll have enough communication magic to ask for help without coming across town." She turns to go. "Thank you for...handling this."

He nods, as he attaches several concealed knives beneath his coat.

She eyes the knives warily, though also with the thought that she would really like some knives like that. And maybe an armoured coat. She waffles about offering her house if he needs medical attention, but he does not seem to want assistance and he does know there's a healer in the Party. "Good night." She decides to take Casimir and go. Then she changes her mind. "If someone ends up needing urgent medical attention you can stop at my house." Then she ducks out.

Casimir escorts her home, with the same sort of blase attitude about the stall owners as he did on the way out, but as they near her house, he stops near the gate and sends a message to call the party back.

She pauses with him, then proceeds into the house, and waits for the party to return.

She waits for a few minutes and the party — sans Gavrel — files in, looking grim.

She relaxes slightly, but not much, considering how grim they look. "How did it go?" she asks, a little tentatively.

"There is no trace of any abuse outside the home," Peles says.

"But someone definitely broke in," Lekjun says.

"There was... noise. I could not say if it was shouting or merely a loose animal," adds Ae-Ra.

"Apparently Master Thewella knows who broke in and has the situation in hand. I'm a little concerned at the number of knives the situation seems to require, but he did not want backup. I'm not sure what's going on beyond that. I...the shouting worries me, because it's probably not a loose animal, but he was quite firm on us going to bed. I told him to bring by anyone who needed medical attention but I doubt he will unless someone's actively dying."

Peles frowns. "I will... wait outside. In case. You may sleep, if you wish. It would be advantageous if there is someone injured for Casimir to sleep."

Lekjun sighs. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm going to bed too," Morwen sighs. "Count Peles, if you want to stay up, I'll honestly be happy to have someone keeping an eye out." She goes inside and goes to bed in her clothes, since she does not have panels up yet and there are still additional drop items in her inventory. Before bed, she prays for the safety of both Gavrel and Amelios.

She goes to bed, and sleeps, and only gets through half of the final dream on the cycle before she's woken by a knock at the door, and Casimir's voice saying to "lay him here. Is this poison? That kind?! On the Forge, that is cruel."

She pokes her head over the edge of the loft bedroom to see what has happened and who has been poisoned.

Gavrel is standing, then quickly jogs up to Morwen while Amelios bleeds on her couch mm "Hey! Hey, sorry! There was... Someone waiting for me. It took a minute to get back. I can put up those panels for you now."

“The Master of the Beggars’ Guild was waiting for you,” Morwen informs him drily. “What happened? Why is Master Thewella poisoned? Why was there yelling from the house when the others went to check it out?”

"Oh, um. Yeah, that, uh, that was her. She was.. mad. At me. For the whole Atticus thing. But I'm fine! And we're going to make it work. So everything's fine. And he's going to be fine as soon as Cas is done working on him."

“How did you make it work, and why is he bleeding?”

"Well, Kharta is cool with making a deal because she doesn't want Masaru to... Coup her? What's the word for that? Anyway, so we came to a new deal, which involved him, but she's, um, aggressive, and then they sealed their Pact. With a kiss! It's a thing people do! And they also definitely stabbed each other. Multiple times. It was flirty. Didn't know stabbing could be flirty. Kinda weird."

“Stabbing should not be a form of flirtation!” Morwen throws her hands up. “What. Was. The. Pact?”

"Oh. I'm going to carry a recorder on me when I first meet Masaru and get my first assignment, and then one of Amelios's people will steal it from me and listen to it, and they'll get the person I'm supposed to hurt to safety, and Kharta will take the recording and use it to hold a council to oust Masaru and then once she's out, the contracts on her will start coming in and she'll either get assassinated or have to go so deep into hiding that she can't do anything. And because the Pact she made with me broke the Pact she made with the Guild, she won't be able to keep either as soon as it's invoked. And Amelios will give Kharta access to his operators until it's done."

“Okay. Okay, that sounds workable. The last bit sounds not great but it’s probably the lowest price she’d accept.” Morwen scrubs her hands over her face wearily. “This is. Probably the least bad outcome of that Pact.” She sighs. “You can put the screens up now if you like. I’m going to go down and see that Master Thewella’s alright.” She suits the action to the word, climbing carefully down.

"He's— going to be fine," Gavrel calls, quietly, so as not to wake anyone else, but does as instructed and puts the screens up. Morwen goes to see Amelios. He is sweating badly, his face a shade of puce that does not look correct on his greenish tan skin. Casimir is healing him, each second pulling sticky oily strings from his various wounds. Amelios's clothes have been opened to reveal his own steady mix of scars and current punctures, and three of his knives are missing, though one might be on the floor beside him, or it might be one of hers.

Morwen is rapidly reassessing her impressions of Amelios, between the scars and the fact that he acted very in control and then got very stabbed. In lieu of hovering, she looks around to see if anyone was disturbed by the kerfuffle and goes to reassure them if so.

Lekjun and Ae-Ra might have woken, but they are currently back asleep.

Morwen leans against the bar worriedly until Casimir is done, or mostly done, with his healing.

Casimir finishes up within the hour, leaving a sweaty, shaking Amelios on the couch to dry heave whatever is left of dinner.

Morwen politely waits until he seems somewhat recovered before asking, "You good? Need some water?"

He takes a deep, heaving sort of breath, then stands and clasps his coat over his injuries. "No, my lady, but thank you for the concern. I apologize for waking you. The meeting went as to be expected. We have a solution and an agreement, which is a far better outcome than could have been."

Morwen gives him an assessing look. Her assessment is: stoic idiot. "I agree about the solution; Gavrel told me, and it could have been much worse. But is there anything else we can do for you? I try not to send my guests out looking like death warmed over."

"I'm not dying, my lady," he reassures her. "The poison is not fatal, not even to you or Atticus. It's just irritatingly painful. Even without healing, I would have only suffered for a few hours. I did inform Gavrel of this, but he was staunch in seeing me to medical care, which I deeply appreciate, my lady, even though it wasn't necessary. I am currently more in need of a bath than healing or food."

Morwen's concern, and the associated concerned face, abates, but only slightly. "Well, not fatal is good, but I'm glad he got you to medical care all the same. You're welcome to use the perpetual pond, if it would help."

"A perpetual pond? Really? I didn't know those actually existed." He looks back over his shoulder to see it, then shakes his head. "No, I wouldn't want to impose, and I have an excellent bathing tub back at the Inn. But I thank you for your hospitality, my lady. You are generous and kind." He swoops a deep bow, and if he flinches while he does so, Morwen can't see it enough to confirm or deny.

"They do exist, and they're very useful. It's not imposing when I literally just offered it to you. However, I won't keep you if you don't want to stay, especially not when you're still recovering." (Morwen, internally: STOP TELLING ME HOW GENEROUS I AM AND GET IN THE POND)

"I'm fully recovered, my lady. If I look otherwise, you'll simply have to trust that I am. I am not so proud nor physically resistant enough to let myself suffer like some of your companions. I will take my leave, my lady, so you can rest. It would hardly be proprietary for a man you only met today to stay when everyone else had gone to bed."

(Once again, Morwen internally: I met Gavrel ten minutes before he took off his pants in this house. You cannot shock me that much.) "I am really not the person I'm concerned about here," Morwen sighs, more honest than she would have been if she was slightly more awake. "But I will wish you a good night. And, seriously, thank you for cleaning up that mess. I'm sure you're going to tell me that the personal cost was negligible, but it was clearly not, and you've headed off a very nasty potential turn of events."

"The costs weren't what I'd call negligible, but comparatively, it was nonexistent. Kharta might be sadistic and cruel, but compared to Atticus's abuser, she's a benevolent priestess. I bid you good night," he says, then as he bows, mutters, "Perhaps see to your inamorato? He seems like he'd like to rest here tonight."

Morwen pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think there have been enough unusual comings and goings tonight that it won't do any harm for him to stay," she says, sotto voce. "Good night." She sees him to the door, not without a little concern and not without a momentary temptation to trip him into the pond on the way, but she resists the temptation and closes the door after him. Once she's sure he made it to the street and did not fall down after he went around the corner.

Melay’s body felt stiff — but only when he tried to get up, he realized the soreness of his muscles had gotten a hundred times worse. Every limb protested every movement. Whimpering in pain, he got onto his feet like a foal standing for the first time, and like a foal, Mac helped him up.

»Sore, huh?«

»Yes, sir.« He barely got the words out.

But he knew he had no choice. He never did.

Mac handed him a piece of breakfast bread, cream cheese baked into its center. It was good and baffling for it.

He flinched when he heard the commander bark through the camp.

»Okay, put this one before the cart.« There was scattered cheering at the order. Melay didn’t turn around. He hadn’t been given a direct order, and every movement he could avoid today would be precious, all the more if-

Only when an all-too-familiar voice protested did he realize the commander hadn’t talked about him at all.

»I will not pull your cart for you.«

»Yes you will, General.« The commander’s voice dripped with sarcasm over the title. »Because we’ll beat you until you either move or die.«

Melay still didn’t turn. The threat of violence scared him, and the memory of the fury he’d seen in the General’s eyes when he had seen him humiliated by the bandits the night before. He had to remember he had a new master — mistress — to reckon with now, but the fear ran too deep to easily shake.

It was some time before the cart moved past him, and he kept his eyes cast down, the heavy whacks of a cane or some such still ringing in his ears.

»C’mon.« Mac led him to fall into step behind the cart, and Melay stumbled along.

Gods, it hurt. It hurt so much to just walk. His legs needed rest, but he knew there was no way he would get any — he certainly couldn’t ask for it. One night off, if it was real, would not be enough to recover, as welcome as it would be. And then there was the sharp pain in his ass agitated with every clumsy step.

Would he die? If he never had the time to heal before— would he simply die?

How long would it take?

He couldn’t focus on the dark thoughts; that was the only good thing.

He couldn’t focus on anything. The more time dragged on, the more his entire being was dragged into his tormented body, into his hot and hurting muscles and the exhaustion still sitting bone-deep, leaving his mind no escape.

They weren’t moving particularly fast, but it was enough for him to eventually realize the cart in front of him was gone, and he — with Mac as his guard — had fallen close to the end of the train.

Mac offered him a waterskin, and he managed to take a much-needed drink. Walking shouldn’t have been so exhausting.

He didn’t realize who was walking nearby until he discerned the medic’s voice. He didn’t look up; there was a vague fear associated with it he couldn’t dispel without thinking, and he needed to conserve what energy he had, anyway.

»I’m not going to do it.«

»It needs done.« The commander. »And what slave gets the luxury of a medic not only doing his branding, but looking after him afterwards?«

»He wouldn’t need looking after if you wouldn’t burn him.«

»You’re going to burn him.«

»Or what?«

»Or I will have to do it, Doc. And that will definitely be worse because I straight up do not know how much is enough. Yeah? Are we in agreement now?«