The Night Guard, [Barez]

[Arsala Krokus]

Loud noises, smell of sweat and unwashed clothing, dirt, grime, chickens, chickenfeed, and a large wave of others constantly assaulted Asher's ears. He waited not too far out of the refugee quarter, standing in the shade between two buildings. Unless he'd gotten the description wrong, this was where he was supposed to meet the other soldier, before they began their job. It was beginning to get late, the sun readying itself to set, but these people were insistent on carrying on business.

Thinking on it, he'd never been sent into the field with only one other before, and didn't see other mages too often. Other than those who occasionally crossed his line of sight in the library at the guild, most of his company was in soldiers at the barracks, or the occasional homeless refugee who spoke to him those nights he decided he preferred the stars and his bedroll to a roof and candles. It was very likely whoever they sent outranked him, unfortunately he spent less time in the field than the regular battlemage, keeping himself to what was only specifically ordered of him. He rarely, if ever, volunteered for anything. It made him look a bit lazy to his superiors but there was no point fretting over what was done. He'd established his pattern and didn't see reason for changing at this point.

Most people walking about steered pretty much clear of him, assuming he was a soldier or a mercenary, or worse. Over his shoulder was slung a large arbalest, the wood looking haphazard, experienced, and with the occasional burn patch. He wore a soldier's uniform and armor, and at his side was a sheathed longsword. He had a cloak on, with a hood, though the wood was not pulled up, but rested behind his head. Clearly branded on the cloak was a large sigil of a seven pointed star, and the star was within three circles.

He looked out one more time into the street, hoping to catch who he was waiting for, but soon fell back into the shade again. He pulled out a batch of brown dried leaves seemingly from his sleeve, and quickly rolled it in some rice paper. He lit it slowly, carefully dragging the puff, then blowing it out in a stream. He wasn't sure they had a schedule, so he wasn't even sure if the man was late, but he imagined they had to move soon.

[Barez Damask]

Barez wasn't the type to resent orders, but if he ever decided to take issue with them, he would start now.

The Refugee Quarter was not his favourite place. In fact, barring one misadventure into the colony a few years ago, he'd steered clear of the mess. He planned to keep it that way.

Until now, of course.

He walked with the easy grace of a soldier. There was purpose to the way he walked, a cold confidence that drew the eye. He was dressed as he usually was—a thick coat with many pockets, a Warded sword strapped to his waist, and heavy boots. He was dressed for winter, for battle. He was dressed for a journey he didn't want to take. The sword shone in the moonlight, glinting off lanterns. It left a slight trail of frost up the pant of his leg. It was a path of ice that wouldn't melt.

He walked towards the meeting spot, his eyes watching for movement in both shadows and light. He didn't like surprises. He liked ambush even less.

Eventually he found the other man waiting for him. The mage was smoking something—loose leaf. It assaulted the senses and sent smoke dancing into the sky.

"Master Krokus?"

He waited for a reply.

[Arsala Krokus]

Asher was just taking another puff when he was approached. He blew out the cone of smoke from the corner of his mouth as he pushed himself upright from against the wall to face the man.

"Yes, sir, that's me", He spoke in an easy tone as he took a few steps toward the man. He took one final puff and dropped it, crushing it underneath his heel. He held the smoke in for a moment as he gauged the Mage before him, then finally let it free from his nostrils, "And you're Damask." He nodded faintly.

"We should probably get a move on if we hope to get this done before tomorrow morning, sir. Where you briefed fully or did you just get the gist of why we're here?" He had raised his hands from his sides to hook his thumbs on his belt.

It was going to be a busy night. Before heading out for the foxes, they had to head to an informant first. The foxes, as they'd so named themselves, were clearly under the impression they were smarter than they actually were. Seem how they'd managed to get their hands on equipment enough to be able to raid some of the more comfortable houses in the city, yet the ones with less protection. They targeted common folk who weren't nobles or merchants or in a position to higher private guards, but were living well.

They were refugees, and finding them could only be done by a proxy. Somone in the pocket of the guard but who had an ear in the refugee quarter... There would be no other quick way but through the informant.

[Barez Damask]

Barez clasped his hands behind his back.

While he was ready to be over with this mission, it wasn't in his nature to hurry. He stood his ground, assessing the other man with quiet curiosity. In the end, Barez decided he liked the man—at least from his initial impression. The giant crossbow helped.

As for what he knew...

“We find the informant,” he said quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest.

With that said, he turned smartly and marched into the gaping maw that was the Refugee Quarter. “Were you told where we would met this person or...” He left the question hanging. Barez had a vague idea of where they would meet the man, but something about conversation made all this easier. He wasn't happy to be going into this part of the city, but it helped that he had a capable-looking compatriot with him. The Quarter itself was filled with ruin and decay, the imprint of foreigners everywhere. Like paint over what was once Escovan land. It was a ghetto in every sense of the word.

Apparently their informant was a contact of one of the guards. Barez wasn't familiar with most of the men who did rotation in this part of the city, but he figured it was prudent to stay on his guard. If information was bought one way, it could be sold the other.

And, like he said, he disliked traps.

[Arsala Krokus]

As they walked through the streets, there wasn't any weaving through crowds needed to be done. The crowds, only slightly dying down already knew to steer clear of the two of them. Guards had clearly created a very bad impression of Escovan military to the refugees in this place... still, things like that were more or less only side effects of large influxes of foreigners. Sometimes people reacted adversely, especially those in position to actually do something to the foreigners in question.

"Aye, sir. I know where he's at." Asher said, nodding faintly. "We're heading there now. Try not to blink for more than two seconds in a row dressed like that in these parts. Word on the street is that the guard was going to send in an eight man kill-team to end the foxes, so likely everyone in their pocket is on the lookout. Two of us won't raise too much of a fuss, but I don't put it beyond anyone trying to knock us off just to be sure."

He led them deeper into the refugee quarter, suddenly taking an odd turning through an alleyway and coming out in a main street. Before them was a run down tavern, filth and the occasional dead rodent. As Asher approached the building, it turned out one of the rats was only playing dead. It quickly hopped from it's back onto it's feet and scampered off.

Asher knocked on the door, and was answered by a rumbling baritone, "Who're ye?"

"Your mother." Asher retorted quickly, "Open the bloody door!"

The door opened up, a large man in a black shirt that was almost bursting under the pressure of his muscles came out, as if in a challenge. His eyes fell on Asher's sword, then on Barez's stony face, and he quickly calmed down. "What do you want?" His tone was a lot more agreeable.

"Looking for Tonny."

"Don't know anyone by that name."

"You sure? I could swear that's him over there..." Asher tiptoed to look behind the man.

From the alleyway they'd come from, right behind them, a man was skulking about. The two mages had long since been spotted and marked. Asher, his concentration on the tavern, and the occasional exchanged insult, had no inclination of the new arrival. The skulking man had a bow in his hand, and an arrow pulled back in the string. He leveled it at one of the three men, and released it.

[Barez Damask]

They passed through dark alleys and stinking sewage. Under stooping arches they passed, into the dark heart of the Quarter.

They arrived at a tavern—and an old one at that. It was disgusting, and Barez absently wondered what kind of men would come here for a drink. Lesser men. Refugees. If the rats were any indication, this place would be as terrible on the inside as it was on the outside.

Positively charming.

His fingers fell to the hilt of his sword, more for reassurance than anything violent—though he was pretty sure that wasn't far off. He watched with peripheral interest as his partner questioned the doorman, his eyes eyes straying up into the moonlit rooftops. Initially he saw nothing. And then a shadow—followed by another. Barez tensed, waiting, knowing the moment would come.

It came in form of an arrow.

Barez shoved Asher out of harm's way, not bothering with a warning. The arrow sailed past them, harmlessly pinning itself into the rotting, wooden walls of the tavern. Stepping back, Barez drew his sword. The blade came free with a spray of frost, as if he'd drawn it from the heart of a glacier itself.

From the rooftops, shadowed-forms began to drop, slinking down into the alley, daggers and swords drawn.

“I believe we have company, Sir Mage,” Barez muttered.

[Arsala Krokus]

"Dammit Surly, if you don't let me past this door right now there's going to be blood."

The muscled man shook his head slowly, taking a step back and raising his hands. "Mate, this is more trouble than I'm ready for, and I know ye's one of the guard but this is more trouble than you're ready for as well. Foxes aint a bunch to be rushed at with just two of ye's."

Asher only displayed anger for the first time, his brows coming together in frustration. "I'm a bit more than a guard, Surly, I-" Behind Surly, he saw a blade erupt from Tonny's chest as he sat in the tavern. The patrons panicked and jumped from their seats as the man who stabbed him withdrew the knife.

He was suddenly shoved aside, spitting out savage curses as he unstrapped his arbalest with speed, barely noticing an arrow whizzing past him as he rolled on his shoulder, and rose to one knee. The assault-issue arbalest was already leveled on one of the approaching silhoettes. With the twitch of a finger the quarrel was loosed, flying into the chest of one of the men and sending him sprawling while the others prepared for a charge.

"I count five sir, six with the one skulking in the tavern and possibly seven. We've been expected." He tossed the arbaest aside. It was a powerful weapon with magnificent range, but took too long to reload. He unclasped his cloak, and on contact with his fingers one of the three imprinted circles surrounding the seven pointed star brand on his cloak glowed with a dim light. Asher tossed the cloak aside with a hand, and drew his sword with the other.

The enchanted cloak flew forward toward one of the armed men as if with a mind of it's own. The man slashed out with his sword at it, and the cloak and the man carried their duel into the shadows, with the cloak trying to wrap itself around the man and trap him within. Asher had already drawn his sword.

He decided it would be best to wait for the men to approach, while his mind roved through the options in his back of tricks. He hadn't been prepared for an ambush this early, but such happened. "Course of action, sir?"

Admittedly he was a bit worried when it came to his partner. He didn't know the man's level of skill, and right now their lives were very much intertwined. Pushing him out of harms way had already given a good impression however, and Asher was optimistic.

[Barez Damask]

Barez glanced sideways at the man.

“We kill them, Master Mage,” he said simply.

With the cloak fighting off one man, Barez counted four—plus the one in the tavern. Not great odds, but not terrible either. Nothing he couldn't handle.

He wasn't much for showmanship. When he stepped in to meet the first of the attackers—a man wielding dual-daggers—Barez used the pommel of his blade to strike a savage blow into the man's forehead. The bandit stumbled and dropped a dagger. He would never have a chance to pick it up. With ice running along the length of his blade, Barez hammered the entire thing through the man's chest. When he drew it back, the man crumpled in on himself, like wet paper. Frost clung to the man's wound, with the red blood pouring out like cold, thick slush.

“Although,” Barez amended. “Keeping one alive would help us with any questions we might have.”

He glanced across at the other bandits, one eyebrow cocked.