"I don't have any money to give you." Chryss insisted, trying to brush past the men again. Refugees like her, they also saw her as being different - not quite one of them - because she had money. She had been smart enough to bring all her money, to sell everything they couldn't bring, and bring extra bolts of cloth and supplies.

Unfortunately not all the refugees had been so lucky. Most hadn't had that opportunity. She tried to help when she was able, but for the most part, she was genuinely unable to. She had to take care of herself and her father, after all. It didn't take long to figure out it was every man - and woman - for themselves here.

These men would sooner stab her and take everything she had. They saw a nice dress - certainly not a fine one, she had sold all of her truly nice dresses - and assumed that she had money. Truth was, she had only brought this dress out in an attempt to get work.

It hadn't worked. And now she was being shoved back, a knife whipped out as the men demanded her money once more. Somewhere along the lines, she had gotten in way over her head, and she felt the first strains of fear paralyzing her.

Ambrose was passing the alley when he heard the commotion. He looked and saw the men. He stepped forward, hiding around the corner. He quickly drew his bow and notched the arrow. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. He was supposed to be delivering a message to the garrison here. But...he couldn't let this injustice past. It was against everything he stood for.

He spun around, and drew back his bow. "Stop, in the name of the Queen!" He held his bow level and the men glanced back at him. One moved quickly and started towards Chryssa, likely to take a hostage. Ambrose never hesitated. He loosed the arrow, and it flew and struck the man in the neck. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sounds escaped as he fell to the ground. The other man saw what befell his partner, and threw down his knife and ran. Ambrose would have given chase, but the lady's wellbeing was more important.

"Are you alright, m'lady?" He asked as he walked towards her, restrapping his bow to his back.

There was blood on her face. Somewhere in her mind, Chryssa was very much so aware of the fact that there was blood on her face. Also in her hair, on her dress and hands... The arrow had struck the neck, sending blood spurting all over.

Even as the man fell, her only decent pair of shoes received similar treatment. Blood pooled around them.

It wasn't quite clicking in her head that the man was dead. He'd get up. He'd get up and move and leave and maybe even apologize for assaulting her.

It was only the voice that was coming towards her that snapped her out of it. Her stomach roiled in protest suddenly, and she looked at him wide-eyed. "I..." The face of her brother, cold and lifeless, appeared in her mind all of a sudden, and she turned away, throwing up.

Ambrose sighed. Well, that was to be expected. Most women were too frail to handle the sight of death. But it was unavoidable. He had given the thugs a chance to flee, and yet they had remained.

"Ma'am, come with me. Let's get you away from this." He said softly, extending a hand to her.

Chryssa was just breathing for the moment. That was for the best. Just breath. Breath and avoid looking at the dead bodies. The blood on her clothes she could deal with. But the smell that was filling the alleyway… that threatened to make her sick again.

A voice pulled her out of it, however, and Chryssa looked up at him, biting her lower lip before wiping her hand off on her dress - it really was her best dress, and now she wasn't sure if she would ever get the stains out of it - and taking his hand. "That's… that's probably for the best." She confessed.