"Ne! I will not go! I ent left Vienda since th' day I were born 'ere. I have a writ! Ye can't do this t'me!" The wirey old butcher yelled at the top of his lungs, standing in the center of Kingsway Market, brandishing a cleaver and a hook at the two mounted Seventen either side of him. It was drizzling, a muggy depressing drizzle, and the officers were wet through. They exchanged glances, unwilling to cast on such an old and well known member of the public, but aware of their jobs. The one on the right, a woman in her late fourties and obviously the ranking officer put out a hand placatingly and sighed.

"I understand Mister Fendin, but unfortunately, the rules are the rules. All unauthorized wicks are to be removed from the city. Your writ, its not...well...its not correct. Your mother didn't have it signed." The officer on the left held the offending paperwork, a crumpled yellowed thing, damp from the rain. He was a young thing, and not quite as sympathetic.

"Rules say that without a valid writ, all wicks are to be escorted out. Now Mister Fendin, come along quietly. No one wants to get hurt here." Turien Fendin pointed the cleaver at the man.

"Ye know me lad! I watched ye grow up on yer fathers side! Ye bought yer meat from me!" Shaking his head, he refused to move.

"I ent going! I have a writ! I have a writ!" Around them, the rest of the city shoppers watched uncomfortably. They wanted to help, but were afraid of the consequences. One woman, a human, called out angrily.

"Leave him alone you clockin' stinkers. He's not harmin' no one!" The female officer shot her a weary, wet look.

"Mind your own business madame. This is Seventen work."

Murmur was weighing out a quart of scallops for a customer out the front of the shop when she heard the commotion. Casting her eyes up the street she noticed the butcher being harassed by the seventen.

"What the bloody erse do those green bastards want now?" she said to herself and to her customer. "S'only Fendin, he ent no harm te no one."
Eyes narrowing, she spotted the meat clever and mentally estimated that this wasn't going to end well. Violence! Fantastic. But the butcher was one of Murmur's own, the butcher, the baker, the greengrocers, they all had to look out for each other.

Grabbing her deboning knife from the counter, she cast a warning glance at her customer. "Can't be too careful. I 'eard about the riots, people sayin' the seventen ent playin by the books. Gotta put up a united front, ye know?"

Keeping her knife close to her side, she slid towards the action, eyes carefully narrowed. "Go quietly? Reckon he's got rights te make as much noise as he wants!" she said in a loud voice, "ent like Fendin is some jobless wick on a corner...he got a trade! People need meat!" she looked carefully at the other stalls, "an' he's one of us!"

Kynth was just strolling through the market when the noise began. Some fellow waggling a meat cleaver and a hook around. "Wow, that's mad, that is." he said, quite loudly, actually.
And this was coming from Kynth. The wick who thought it'd be funny to actually whip a seventen on the bum.

He happily skipped over to the place of confrontation. He considered whipping the female officer on the bum again. Then stopped himself.
"Too early, Too early!"
He sat and watched. "Ooh! What's going to happen? This is exciting!" He clapped his hands excitedly.

Chiaro didn't much care for rain. It was all good and well when she was off duty, inside her massive estate and curled up on a pile of pillows with a good book and a hot cup of tea. In times like those, it was downright soothing. But she was not off duty, right now, and nowhere near a shelter or any place that was suitably dry. It was, perhaps, for this reason, added to the long bout of Scuro's ranting that morning over who had made her particularly angry the other day, that put Chiaro in an unpleasant mood.

Seeing the commotion up ahead, she urged her chrove, Fuzzy-Wuzzy-kins, forward and reigned him in near her fellow officers. It seemed they were trying to calm a particularly moody wick who, like a naughty, stubborn child, didn't seem to understand how the rules worked. While she had little doubt the two could handle this wick on their own, she saw the reactions of the people around her- particularly the rowdy human girl who smelled vaguely of fish- and felt that, given the proper incentive, these people might band together to protect their fellow- gods only knew anything was possible what with all the riots of late. And she doubted those two could handle a thing like that alone.

Rubbing her thumb over the seer stone that had been set so nicely on a ring, thinking forward in the event that she might have to call Scuro- never too far away- for backup, she urged Fuzzy around to cut off the petty human girl, "Stand aside, human, we want no trouble from you. It is not in our place to question the laws, but to enforce them." She offered a sad smile in the direction of the wick, trying not to let her foul meed get the better of her, "We have no power over the position in which that man finds himself, now. He should have had a valid writ of residence."

The woman, a Constable, frowned as a second human stepped into the fray, sharp looking knife in her hand. Shaking her head, she raised a hand.

"Please, keep out of this or there will be consequences. I do not want to have to arrest anyone." Turning her eyes a bit more, she saw a welcome sight. Chiaro Viverti, an up and coming ensign with great potential. Constable Bryan turned back to the wick in question and tried a stern sort of frown.

"Now Mister Fendin, I know you've been here for a long time, no one is questioning that. But the fact of the matter is, your writ is not valid. If you don't calm down and come with us, I'm afraid we are going to have to remove you by force. And I really don't want to do that." Turien looked at her with watery eyes, then the man, then Murmur. He shook his hook at Murmur.

"Your a good one, Muck. They're tryin' to take me chippy! Tryin' to throw me out!" Suddenly, he raised his voice, looking around at the market goers.

"Who are ye gonna get your meat from when they take me?! Who's gonna be here t' take me place? Some golly? I ent leavin! I ent leavin!!"

"Did he say meat? I like meat. Maybe if I help him, I'll get some free!"
He stood up and cracked his whip.
"Oy!" He shouted. "Leave 'im alone! 'E's been 'ere fer years! How else is this 'ere city gonna get its meat?!"

He feigned an angry face. He thinks he pulled a good job of it. He probably didn't. Oh well. If it comes to it, it's a whip on the backside and time to run off, like he did in the riot. That was fun.

"I ent standin aside," said Murmur, her voice showing no respect for the seventen, all of her senses seemingly have vanished, "this is market business right 'ere. Fendin got just as much right te be 'ere as I do. As we all do!" she said to the stall holders. "We can't let em tek 'im, because when will it stop...first it's coz ye ent got a writ, then it's coz yer writ ent written properly, then it's coz ye didn't bow low enough or ye don't wear yer hair the way they want ye to."

When she was a girl, her sisters had clipped pictures of actresses they'd seen on lose papers on the street. It had always been Murmur's ambition to see Lilian Loveheart on the stage, and it was true that she had a love of theatrics, something which was apparent in the way she stomped and bellowed dramatically around the street, nodding at Kynth as she passed.

"Turien Fendin is our brother!" she screeched at the ordinary folk in the market, "'E does ye a decent cut of meat fer a decent price an' ye know it!! An' that takes more work than it sounds. A friendlier wick I ent never met, an that deserves somethin' from us. 'E deserves somethin' from us. An' if that means ye wanna do yer magic on me go ahead!" she held her hands up theatrically to the seventen and in full fish wife mode added, "I can tek it."

"Please, citizens, calm yourselves! This is nothing to get worked up over..." Glancing around warily, first at the apparently mentally unstable Kynth, and then back to the overdramatic, fish-scented Murmur, she grit her teeth. She would not give in to her anger- this meant she would not cast spells that were overly harmful, or dangerous, as her sister might do in this situation. But that didn't mean she wouldn't handle the situation to the best of her abilities. It was probably the human girl's dare that forced her hand.



Her field buzzed with irritation as she looked Murmur over, "Hmm, lovely theatrics, girl, but you're only going to cause trouble for yourself and everyone else, so please understand that I am- that we are- only doing this for your own good." Extending a hand, she focused her field on the human, first speaking the monite for rigor- a spell she had recently perfected under instruction of Magister Ohm- and then muttered the monite for the less complex boils, hoping those two spells might serve to teach the woman proper respect for the Seventen, who only served to watch and protect all of the citizens.

Eran was out doing his shopping for dinner that night. It'd be fish again, he decided. Perhaps not as good as the last one, since he didn't have anyone to help him cook today. He liked help. However, when he got to the usual stall, the girl usually behind it was making some sort of speech about a man he recognized as the butcher. And then she was hit with some sort of spell. No, now it was two. He didn't like magic at all; it unnerved him. Had he not been afraid of going near the girl, he would have asked her exactly what the clock was going on.

The mona danced in the air, a niggling sensation of concern touching the galdori around Chiaro. Last time there had been a situation like this, things had turned ugly, and the mona remembered. The taste of copper filled their mouths as the Rigor spell was cast, a small twinge of ache in all their jaws as the mona announced their concern. Murmur's movements slowed, and she experianced a sensation not unlike cramping in her arms and legs, but far less painful, the spell not quite working completely. A hot flush ran through Chiaro and the back of her scalp stung as the Boils failed. It wasn't noble, not in this circumstance, and the mona were unwilling to participate in another carnage.

Constable Bryan turned sharply, hissing at Chiaro.

"Careful Ensign, we don't want a repeat of Intas! Keep your spells to a minimum." Her green eyes scanned the slowly building crowd with a little apprehension.

"Please, lets just calm down now folks. No one wants violence more tha-" Another wick stepped up to join Kynth, red hair twisted into thick braids and a rolling pin in his hand.

"Vrunta! It's all you tsuters want! Ent fair, we work to provide ye with your food and your clothin, an' you go and try to kick us out! Ye gollies would be on your erses if we all packed up and left Vienda. Pretty sure Muffey or even the Rose could use our services." A few more voices mumbled their agreement, a smattering of cooks and trades people appearing in the crowd, bearing tools of the trade as weapons of choice. The younger Seventen pushed the rain out of his eyes, it was starting to come down harder now.

"Constable...." He said softly, field tense. Constable Bryan shook her head.

"Keep yourself in check Ensign Benstrum. And keep that chrove in line." Ensign Benstrum pulled on the reigns of the black beast, finding her pawing at the ground and growling in the miserable wet ground. Turien shook the rain out of his face.

"Leave her alone, ye clockin' tumble. Ent no reason to cast your voodundun on her fer sayin' what we're all thinkin'." The constable nodded to her partner, and with a little jump, he slid off the chrove.

"Now Mister Fendin, this is your last chance, come quietly. I will not play into this any longer. Perhaps after, we can look at getting the correct signature on your writ." She glanced at the melted and torn piece of paper in her ensigns hand.

"But first, lets just go, alright?" Moving her eyes to Chiaro, she nodded slightly. A signal. Keep your eyes open and your wits up. All around them, the crowd was growing more and more angry. Turien slashed at Ensign Benstrum wildly.

"Ne! Get away from me, ye traitor, or I'll spill yer guts in the mud, ye chen!?"

Only twice previously had Murmur been a victim of galdori magic, and after the second time she had sworn it would never happen again, an oath as good as sealed in blood. The the effects of the failed rigor coursed through her, her blue eyes narrowed and flashed very dangerously.

"We ent dogs, lady!" she bellowed at Chiaro, teeth slightly gritted at the unusual feeling of her movements slowing, as though she were walking through thick honey. "That ent how we work! Punishing us, makin' us have writs, tryin' te keep us in line with yer magic. Ye tried that at the riots an people got hurt. But it won't work, we'll just come back stronger." If anything, the spell made her more confident, blithe anger overrode her senses and whatever fear she might have was wrapped in a thick coat of fury.Murmur felt sure- judging from the crowd, that they would not tolerate it if one of the Seventen attempted to cast on her once more. Somehow, Murmur felt they had the upper hand, and that made her giddy.


Fighting against nothing but the air and the spell, she took up her place beside Turien, her fish knife pointed. She paused a moment to reflect on what she was doing, threatening a Seventen officer- the air was thick with an ominous tension and a buzz of irritation inside of the young human longed for it to be resolved, either by fighting or by peaceful matters- though the situation in an Anaxas had gone so far beyond peace for so long. "An' me too."

((edited slightly for clarity))

Chiaro winced internally at the mona's admonishment, offering an apologetic glance at her fellow officers. No casting for now, then- best not to let my frustration cloud my judgment. She tensed slightly as the crowd drew nearer, a number of them armed with different objects not originally intended as weapons, but perhaps still very effective in angry, determined hands.

"We want no trouble..." She said it quietly, eyes darting around at the outraged crowd, Fuzzy growing uneasy beneath her, growling fiercely at anyone who got too close. Chiaro's hand fell briefly to the hilt of her sword- one of many weapons she carried on her- and hesitated for a moment before settling again at her side. She knew very well that even the lower races could do a lot of damage if they were angry enough- her parents had taught her that. If she drew her blade they would merely be provoked. Best to wait it out- only draw blade if they attacked.

"Please remain calm!" Her voice was stronger, now, with her own determination, "You must understand that we're here to help, not to harm you. Fight us and you will only force our hand, and things will not end well for you. Please, lower your weapons that we may end this peacefully!" She doubted they would listen, but she felt the need to at least try to calm them. While she drew on her sister's strength, she was glad Scuro was not here. Her sister would be more likely to cause problems by losing her temper.

Kynth got a little edgy now. Spells were being cast and he was up at the front of the crowd. " 'Ey! You know he's been here fer years! Tell your superiors, or whoever they are, that!"

Reverting his attention back to Chiaro, he shouted "Casting spells! A little too early for that, ain't it? All we're doin' is shoutin'! No need to get on a power trip!"
Although, the butcher really was pushing it. He's doing more that just shouting.

Constable Bryan pulled on the reigns of her big black chrove slightly, eyes roaming the rain and mud covered scene. It was getting out of hand. They were getting out of hand. Glancing at the fisher woman, she shook her head.

"Ma'am, your actions are not helping. Whilst I understand your concern, there is a law in place. Mister Fendin, you are threatening an officer of the law. Please, I implore you, come peacefully." Ensign Benstrum pulled his field in tightly as he jumped back from the wildly swung blade, sneering. The butcher, tears and rain mingled on his face, cackled at the galdor.

"Peacefully! Ha! Ye'll never take me! Kill me 'fore I come with you! This is my home, and I ent going!" With a harsh cry, he lept for the ensign, meat hook slashing through the air, catching the galdor in the shoulder. Yelping in pain and surprise, the young man fell under the old wicks weight, grasping him around the arms. Gasping, the constable pulled in her field, calling out for the ensign to stop, but it was too late. All around them the air tasted thick and salty. On the ground, the ensign groaned the last of his spell, grimacing as the old wick tensed in his grasp. A surge came from between the two men, and Turien frothed at the mouth, eyes bulging and face red, body convulsing in agony under the close and intense Pain spell.

All around them, shop keeps stared in horror for a moment, before a cry went up. Women screamed and men shouted.

"Leave him alone!"

"Gods stop! Your killing him! Stop!"

Constable Bryan stared at the two men in shock. It was too late. If she had tried to stop it, the spell would have backlashed or brailed. Everyone around them could have been seriously affected. But, as it was, they were right. The close, physical distance between Turien and Ensign Benstrum was destroying the frail old wick. His eyes had rolled into his head and a small amount of blood dribbled from his ears. Turning her eyes to Chiaro, she shook her head, face pale. This was not what should have happened. Raising a hand she stammered.

"Pl-please, remain calm. I cannot...we...I..." All around, the mona buzzed angrily, displeased with the casting. It was like a thick ominous blanket. And still the spell went on. It was only a short lived spell, but the seconds seemed to take a life time.

Murmur's eyes opened in horror as the spell took full effect on Turien. As he writhed on the ground, her hand tightened on her deboning knife. A lost sense of powerlessness washed over her and stung the back of her throat. And then she felt and intense calm stirring somewhere deep.

She didn't understand much about magic, the finer rules of the mona, didn't want to- she hated it. Hated what it was doing to the wick, her peer, hated how the gollies could get away with. Watching the butcher writhing in such agony not a few feet away from the human ripped the young human apart inside.

She didn't think, she just moved, felt the faint prickle of the young male galdor's field and seized the older Wick by the waist who was held by Bestrum. She hadn't noticed that she was crying until salt stung her nostrils, mingling with the hard rain water. Pulling back, she breathed heavily. "Get off him," she shrieked, moving to grab the meat hook from the seventen's shoulder, intending to pull on it as hard as she could.

Things were going downhill quickly, and Chiaro was very aware of the growing tension of the crowd- and then the old man made the mistake of attacking Benstrum, and the officer then made his own mistake in casting, and the mona were more than a little upset and the same went for the gathered crowd. The three officers were walking a dangerous line, and it made a small chill prickle up Chiaro's spine.

And then the fishgirl was yelling at Benstrum and pulling at the meat hook, and bitter anger arose within Chiaro. Grumbling, she slid from Fuzzy's back, making her way to Murmur and Benstrum, one hand on her blade, the other reaching out to grasp Murmur's shoulder firmly. Part of her had the desire to gut the woman, and she could swear Scuro's more violent tendencies were rubbing off on her, but instead she settled on an icy stare, her field simmering and lashing out in warning, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. "Kindly step away from Ensign Benstrum, please, or I will be forced to take action. We don't want to hurt you."

Still distraught and angry, the young human felt the hands of the red haired seventen on her shoulder, looked into her hateful, hatefilled eyes- saw nothing but cold power, lies about not wanting to hurt them dripping from her tongue.

"Yes you do!" screamed Murmur, "like you hurt him." She didn't care about sword at Chiaro's hip, she just wanted to do damage, wanted to punch hard until she punched her festering hatred towards the galdori right out of her system. And so, whirling round, she sent a well practiced clenched fist towards Chiaro's jaw.

As Murmur's fist crashed into Chiaro's jaw, the crowd gasped in terror; already agitated and fearful about what was happening in front of them, they began shouting louder, thinking they were about to see Murmur killed as well.

And all at once, as though rallying around a close friend in a time of need, they surged forward and gathered around Murmur; a few even reached out as though to pull her back if need be. The usual fear that the citizens of Vienda had for the galdori leadership was hidden beneath patriotic bravado and a mob sense of injustice.

((hoo, boy.... fun...))

This was NOT one of Chiaro's better days. As she made to draw her blade, she saw the gathering crowd moving in a protective wall around Murmur. It would not be wise to retaliate, so her hands dropped back to her sides and she took a small step back, raising them again in a gesture of defense. Whole her jaw was sore, to say the least, she would not rub at the bruise that was bound to be forming there in front of these people. "Please, calm yourselves!" She glanced at the convulsing form of the old wick, wondering if he could be helped, unsure if stooping to try would be wise in their current predicament. "Your friend, Mister Fendin here needs help..."

It didn't help that her fellow officer had been the cause for this need, either. At a loss, grasping at straws, and harboring the most minuscule of hopes that the gesture would calm the people and possibly the situation, she ushered her slightly wounded fellow officer away from the dying wick, keeping one eye trained on the crowd incase they should attack. She then began to beg the mona as respectfully as she could to reverse the damage that had been done in a counterspell, then began running over the other spells she knew in her head, trying to pick one out that would help the elderly wick. She could only hope that, while she attempted this, her fellow officers would do nothing to rile the crowd, but also watch her back.

The Counterspell did its work, ending the spell and removing the pain from the frail old man. But, it couldn't reverse the damage already done. Ensign Benstrum groaned, pushing the man off him, leaving the hook where it was in his shoulder. Turien slipped to the ground, eyes open, blood trickling from one nostril and his ears. His chest rose and fell very very slowly. Even as the crowd moved to protect Murmur, the ensign stood up, right arm hanging useless, blood staining his uniform. Stepping backwards, he reached his chrove and climbed up awkwardly.

Constable Bryan looked around slowly, eyes falling on the brain damaged old wick. He was dying, she could feel it. Licking her lips, tasting sweat mingled with the sweet rain, the woman raised a hand.

"Ensign Benstrum, take yourself out of here, now. To head quarters, and the infirmary. Do not leave it. Chiaro, are you skilled in Healing Force? I am afraid healing is not my strong point." Raising both hands to the crowd, the constable tried to placate them as the ensign made his retreat. There were cries of anguish, unwilling to let him leave. Cries of murder peppered the rain sodden scene.

"Please, listen to me. We are going to help him, just stay calm."

"I can try..." Chiaro's voice cracked slightly, coming out more quietly than she had intended, and she cleared her throat. "That is... Yes, Constable Bryan, I will do my best." She hoped her best would be enough; the crowd's cries of murder only reinforced this desire, for if the old wick should die, the crowd would more than likely break into utter chaos. Hands trembling, Chiaro approached the dying man, trying to figure out the exact cause of his ailment, then spoke the monite for Healing Force, praying the mona would repair brain damage and what other tissue might have suffered from Benstrum's spell.

As the mona around them stirred, the sky thundered ominously, before the rain fell in thick torrentual sheets, as though the clouds had split. A taste not unlike warm spiced wine touched the tongues of all around the downed wick, and a faint golden glow emitted from the galdori's hands. The mona danced around, a small almost sad feeling to their buzz. Around them, the crowd watched, pushing rain out of their eyes as Turien continued to lay very still in the mud, glassy eyes staring into nothingness.

Chiaro would feel a sharp pain in the base of her skull, which intensified as the spell worked. It was like a knife being slowly driven into the back of her head, and on the ground, Turiens eyes blinked one after the other. The taste in their mouths began to turn sour, and a faint smell of burnt milk rose to their nostrils. Quite suddenly, the spell ended, taking the pain in the galdori's head with it. Left with a dull ache and an incredible sensation of exhaustion, the woman would see the wick blink again, first the left eye, then the right.

"Whuss happeened?" The elderly man slurred, trying to push himself from the ground. It was obvious to all around that his entire left side was completely useless, from the drooping eyelid and corner of his mouth, to the unmoving arm and leg. Chiaro's spell had saved him, but at a price, large parts of his brain severely and irreversibly damaged.

Murmur, still reeling from the fact she had just punched a seventen and was still standing, realized that she ought to run- a sensible person would run. But then again a sensible person most likely would not have gone and assaulted a seventen and she was still fixed firmly at Fendin's side.
Crouching down she gripped the side of the wick's arm.

"You broke 'im," was all she could say weakly. "'E ent never asked fer this, just because 'e didn't 'ave a stupid writ!"

She looked at her fellow tradesman's sad limp limbs, hanging flaccid and useless and sniffed away an angry tear, snarling like a kicked bander wolf. "Ye bloody awful, clockin' bastards- 'e can't go with ye now, 'e can't even fuckin' walk! You won't get away with this! I won't let ye."

Solitais had stopped while on the street. He took a seat on a bench nearby and had been observing what had happened. By the end of it he had a large coy smile on his face. He was dressed in his finest suit of black, a dark red trim, and shoes shined with fine polish. He held an apple with him and spun it around in his hand lazily, an apple as red as his trim with the taste of purest fruit.

He relaxed under an awning, providing him shelter from the rain. An umbrella resting lazily at his side with a small bag close to hand meant he was on the travel through the city. He took a moment to admire the situation that had transpired. Not seemingly talking to anyone, he spoke out.

"And thus we see why the lesser man must be controlled. Why they must be sent out. It is a troubling parasite that has plagued our world, for we can hardly describe where it came from. A disease that has always been with us hand in hand. Then they wonder why we need the seventeen..."

The wheelchair-bound veteran rolled up to the cynical galdori observer, smoking a pipe and expertly concealing her inner rage. Not perfectly, however: her jaw was clenched tight, and the criss-crossing scars that covered every inch of her exposed skin seemed to stand out even more than usual. She held a ragged seventen sash, clutched tightly in her fist.

The damn fools my seventen have come up with . . . Control the situation, or be controlled by it . . .

She spoke rapidly, almost too fast to understand. Her mind blazed with a fire born of anger and fear. "A dozen obvious procedural errors. Why did they tell him he was being removed before he was disarmed? Why didn't they then disarm him once he started acting erratically, instead of focusing their attention on making idle threats to a crowd and explaining the situation all over again for the street theater? Did they think the crowd would take their side?" She shook her head. "Throw in some shoddy spellcraft, some terrible crowd pacifying lines . . . 'Please, citizens, calm yourselves!', really? Really? Why not just light a match in a firework shed?"

Maria sighed. "The Old Seventen took the time to train it's soldiers . . . " And witness the result. More bloodshed.

Maria had long since lost faith in the gods, but despite herself, she found herself quietly muttering a prayer under her breath, begging their forgiveness.

Just in case.