Legend of Ransera

Kill them all and let the Grimlord sort them out, seemed to be the motto of the mistborn abominations that still haunted the streets of Zaichaer. There were the people who had taken to the skies like Avialae lords under the leadership of the surviving Dornkirk brother, and there were the landborn settlements outside the old High City, at least his sources told him so. He hadn't ventured to the old Dornkirk hunting lodge himself—yet. There were the remnants of the covens who hid largely in the Necropolis, the Sanctuary, and the Grove. Then there were these holdouts in the middle of hell.

If asked, Aurin wouldn't be able to say why he had saved the young private. Well, he would come up with a story when they did ask him, but he was rarely honest with himself. They were both torn and bleeding, but Aurin, at least, was still awake and alert. The private slung over his shoulder reminded him of Arry Venasyr, who had rightly used him as a rung on his ladder to greatness. But nobody needed to know that. Nobody would know that—not even Aurin. Arry didn't depend on him anymore for anything, but his lad suddenly did for everything.

"Halt!" someone cried. Of course, Aurin had sensed the soldier even as they approached. He complied, his hands clearly visible keeping Private von Heune on his shoulder.

Rifles were pointed at him.

He reached out further, his senses hidden from all save those with Knowing tricks more powerful than his. Had he come across a fallen witch, he would have brought them to their coven. But he had come across an embattled soldier, and his mental map of the ruins of the Brass City said Schiller was the nearest safety for him among his own people. The erstwhile hotel had fallen back in the Season of Ash, but had since been reinforced and reestablished to keep the mistborn corruption from spreading. From what he gathered, Major Trier was back in charge.

From what his magical senses gathered, there was a warder within as well as a summoner—he wondered if the latter, at least, was one of the coven witches that had collaborated with the airborne regime. They had not been cast out of the covens, though their brethren below were understandably curious and wary. So, of course this wasn't a philanthropic gesture on Aurin's part. He was gathering intelligence. Perhaps he could even weasel his way onto the Sky Islands as the people down below were calling them. He had met Stefan Dornkirk back in Kalzasi and didn't think it would be impossible to play him.

"Private von Heune needs medical attention!" he shouted. "I staunched his wounds, but I'm no medic!"

There was a visible glitter in the air as two soldiers emerged from the wards, bayonets pointed at him.

"I'm armed," he warned as they approached. This gave them pause. "Plenty of sharps in case shit gets too close, but no firearms." The last was said with a hint of envy. The ability to take something down from far away was something anyone without the ability would be envious of. "I could use a little medical attention myself."

The privates escorted him through the wards, which didn't rebuke him. He was human, ergo an ally—he hoped. Aurin was lead at gunpoint to their clinic, a room that had clearly been something else in the Schiller's hotel days. It was surprisingly clean and well-stocked, antiseptic and utilitarian.

"Put him down here," snapped the medic on duty. No, he didn't snap; he was expedient. "Carefully."

Aurin knelt and laid the injured trooper down on the cot with a gentleness that would have surprised anyone who knew him. Then he stood and backed away a few paces as the rifles were still trained upon him. The medic was taking von Heune's vitals for a few moments before he looked up, noticed the standoff, and rolled his eyes.

"He's injured. He carried a fallen soldier through hell to get here. Lower your weapons. Find Trier or at least an officer."

"Aye, sir."

The weapons were lowered. They looked at each other. One departed, the other remained to keep watch. Aurin let his hands drop to his sides.

"Thanks," he said, though the medic paid him no mind. Aurin winked at the remaining soldier, shrugging and showing, he hoped, that there were no hard feelings. After a few minutes, though, he swayed a bit and dropped into a corbie crouch, light-headed. His guard shifted, unsure what to do. The busy medic glanced at Aurin, then the guard.

"Help him into an open cot."

"Aye, sir."

Meanwhile, his partner ran into someone of import before he found Major Trier.

"Private Dornkirk, sir!" He saluted. "A civilian carried an injured soldier in. You're needed in the infirmary, sir."

The guardsman made a report to Dornkirk as they made for the infirmary; it was, perforce, through the lens of his own suspicious nature: an unidentified man carrying an unconscious soldier. Meanwhile, the medics were working on von Heune and one had Aurin stripped to the waist to cleanse and, eventually, stitch a jagged wound across his shoulderblade. The sterile needle pierced his skin just as the guardsman and his superior arrived. Aurin tensed—not in anticipation of the needle, but at being even more outnumbered—and it took a moment before his grimace turned into a smile. His eyes widened at the name.

"I'm... sorry for your loss. I only met Brenner Dornkirk the once, but he made an impression." He paused. "As for the rest, aside from some understandable vigilance, I've been well-treated."

"He's armed, sir," interjected the guardsman, apparently not mollified that Aurin was playing along and not casting stones.

Aurin offered a wry smile and indicated several hilts visible in his boots.

"One doesn't traverse the ruins of Zaichaer unarmed. No firearms, though, if that helps. I rely more on stealth than blades..." He winced at the work on his back. "Had to dispense with stealth when I found von Heune and his compatriot beset by... well, whatever you call those things. I don't know how to categorize them. Ah, Bauer didn't make it, but whenever I'm stitched up, I can lead you to him.

"Anyway, von Heune was bleeding out so I did the best I could for him and carried him here. I'd heard the old Hotel Schiller was a safe place. Best to know where to run when things go sideways."

Aurin nodded along, face telegraphing the appropriate feelings in response to all that was said. With the hand opposite the shoulder being operated upon, he pulled blades from his boots and tossed them onto his coat, which was out of arm's reach. There were more inside. The guardsman who had remained while the other went in search of authority grunted and pointed down at Aurin's back, his hand getting in the eyeline of the medic working on the foreigner. The medic cut him a scathing look, then pulled several blades from Aurin's belt and set them with the rest before going back to his work.

"Much obliged," Aurin said to the medic, who grunted much as the guardsman had. The ginger's smile turned briefly into a grimace as the stitching continued.

"Shame. I hope tragedy has reversed whatever estrangement between you and his brother. He seemed a prodigious fellow, as well." Then he mumbled, as if to himself, "Should've brought some Gelerian schnapps.

"Herr Kavafis. Aurin Kavafis. Not Kalzasern, but most recently of Kalzasi. That is where I met the Dornkirks before everything went to shit. Pardon." He didn't know if this Reiner was as highbrow as his cousins; didn't seem to be, but Aurin did need to ingratiate himself or else getting out might become difficult. No good deed goes unpunished, as they said. "They drove the Reconciliators out of town after the prince's wedding, but all the same... eventually, we started getting refugees. Some are doing all right for themselves. Others not so much. But I used to have contacts here in the High City, and I knew the lay of the land before it was laid low. I've taken the odd contract to search for heirlooms and the like that were left behind. Also, intelligence on the big nuisance in the sky and your Mist Mutants is in short supply. Now, I'm no hero. I skulk about and avoid 'em as best I can. I'm agile enough to move from roof to roof, too. Live to fight another day, I always say. Gunshots just seem to draw more of them, but blades are quiet enough.

"Broke my own rule and intervened hoping this one might still make it." He glanced to where the other medics were working on von Heune. Aurin sighed. "Still hoping he pulls through and I haven't bled for nothing."

Hazel eyes turned back on Dornkirk as the medic finished bandaging his shoulderblade and began to swab smaller wounds with alcohol to prevent infection. This would have been easier if he had persuaded Arry to lend him his trick in exchange for the glamours, but it was better he was moved on to bigger and better things, anyway. He was practically Deus Aværys now, the little sod.

"Fortune favors the bold, they say. Dunno that I'll make a fortune, but I'll make some, and people will have the odd bits that give them hope things will get better."

A crooked, conspiratorial smirk answered Dornkirk's sally, and one might have imagined he was about to challenge the PFC to a drinking competition. Alas, he did not—yet.

"Contacts, aye," he said, back to businesslike. "I did attempt to settle in Zaichaer before taking my chances in Kalzasi, but I was at a low point in life and it didn't seem as though I was likely to get out of the Grungeworks on my own power. He listed a few of the people he had worked with back then. "I don't know if any of them survived, actually. The poor are always expendable." He scowled at this. "But in Kalzasi, I managed to work my way up to managing the money for a prominent theater and... hoping to do my part to avoid war, I made contact with the managing director of the Pfenning Theatre." Here again, he listed a few names. "I know their Orkhan janitor survived. I saw her in Kalzasi some time ago. Oh, and I met the Dornkirk brothers when they came to Kalzasi. I got to wine and dine them a bit, made sure we had a play on the boards that they might appreciate. Just doing my part to build bridges instead of burning them. Oh, well... schnapps and dine them, anyway.

"I would be happy to know more people attempting to make connections and rebuild whatever can be rebuilt. I have been back to Zaichaer usually once per season, helping refugees get away sometimes. Once or twice, someone wanted help returning to Zaichaer."

Aurin watched the guardsman collect his weapons. Thankfully, none of them were magical in nature.

Meanwhile, the medic finished with Aurin, and said, "If you aren't here, you should have someone with training look at these stitches from time to time. They will need to come out no later than two weeks from now. Earlier if you heal well."

"Thanks, doc," he said. Then, "May I put my shirt back on?"

As the medic was behind him and Dornkirk still looking at him, he smiled at the PFC as he asked. The medic looked at Dornkirk as well; his work was done, so he was only too happy to leave the decisions to someone else.

Aurin may or may not have been admiring Dornkirk's jawline.

"Born in the Republic of Cathena," he admitted. "But that was a long time ago."

Aurin couldn't be sure if the man's gaze lingered a touch too long. He was not above using his body as a tool in that way, but he remembered Zaichaer being a bit more uptight about such things than Kalzasi—at least on the surface. But given the go-ahead, he stood up with a groan at his new aches and pains, peeked over his shoulder at the bandage, and pulled his shirt back on. The blood was mostly dry now; he had stashed his pack near where he had found the soldiers. He would be able to change eventually. As a slut, he was adept at dressing quickly, and barring anyone barring him, he collected his blades and hid them about his person.

"Thanks again, doc," he said to the medic who was washing his hands before going to help with von Heune. Sly fox he might be, but he was sincerely grateful to people who kept him alive.

"Fucking winter will never end," he grumbled as he joined Dornkirk outside. His coat was likely ruined. By the time he got to Kalzasi, the stains would be set even though the tear could be stitched. Ah, well. It wasn't the finery required for formal affairs with Yserloo anyway. He quickly pulled it on and buttoned himself up. "Only a fool turns down a hot meal."

After directions were acquired, he fell into step with the man. "You are correct, though. I might have pulled myself up by the bootstraps if I had joined up. I'm handy in a fight, but... discipline isn't my forte. I do admire heroes, though. The ones who don't die young." Though his tone was often irreverent, there was a note of respect there, perhaps even regret. He still didn't know what had caused that wound in the sky. All his contacts came up with was that it hadn't been Kalzasi or, if it had, it was a shadow operation so top secret that it was anyone's guess where the order came from.