Medeia and Torgrin rounded the bend at a full run, Medeia’s longer legs and lither frame assuring that Torgrin lagged behind just a moment. Into a scene of chaos the two were plunged, Garron visible up ahead for a moment before he collapsed within the shifting shades flitting about him.

A warcry of incredulous timber errupted from Medeia as she vaulted over an overturned cart that lay not far from the wharf and its tumultuous host, fishing spears and hooks spilling out of the neglected baskets that had kept them orderly until Garron’s recent bull’s rush. The shout had the effect Medeia had hoped, and Garron’s assailants turned to face this new threat, small though she may be. Little blades held in a slicing grip, she tore through the throng without hesitation, hacking here and there in an almost panicked frenzy.

Torgrin paused by the cart, studying its contents with a keen eye, leaving Medeia to fend for herself for the moment. There were too many assailants for them to take on head to head, and the spilled fishing tools had given him an idea.

Oddly curving blades met Medeia’s, and answered with the same fury of slicing and dicing. Most of the stabs and swipes were turned aside, most likely by the boiled leather cuirass, but not all. None of these were of the fatal variety, however, and she pressed through the din, trying to get to Garron. It was almost as if the blades couldn’t really touch her. The throng pressed in on her, and she twisted and turned, ducked and dodged, pausing only long enough to yell back over her shoulder.

“Anytime now, Torgrin!!”, she thundered, digging a knee into an assailant’s groin, his answering groan bringing a dark grin into play on her lips. “I don’t fancy turning into a porcupine!”

“I’m working on it,” Torgrin shouted back, splaying the fingers of both hands out prone before him. The staves, spears and hooks seemed to shiver and clatter against the muddied ground, as if some invisible force had invaded their metallic workings. Dry snaps echoed as the metal freed itself from their wooden entrapment, rising up into a swirling vortex of blades, spearheads and hooks.

Torgrin’s face was a mask of concentration, sweat dripping unnoticed from the tip of his nose to be lost in the tangled braids of his beard. With an almost imperceptible flick of his fingertips, the swirling mass of metal arranged itself around Medeia and her foes.

“Duck, woman!”, he thundered, leaving Medeia but a moment to fall to the ground, the knives forgotten in an instant as her hands reached up to shield the back of her head. In unison, the metallic host shot inwards, spearing, skewering, and hacking through the unwitting foes above.

Shaded though they might be, even they could not evade each and every assault. In moments, almost all fell shuddering, the prong of a trebled hook caught securely in one’s lip after a bloody pass through the back of his head. Only one remained aright, though he too was pierced through several times with spearheads and assorted shrapnel.

The dark-skinned man looked spooked, like he could not understand what was going on. He uttered something in a tongue Medeia had never heard, and the air before him was split by a blinding strip of white. This widened, elongating into a perfect circle, the surface of the air within its constraints shimmering in a peculiar manner. The shimmers waned, revealing the dark recesses of some foreign soil, and the injured man flung himself through it without a backwards glance. It shut behind him, waning to a pinpoint before vanishing entirely, as if it had never been there at all.

Torgrin watched this all with an air of incredulity. Medeia might have taken the opportunity to watch as well, if she were not now at the bottom of a pile of the dead and dying. His hands dropped to his sides like lead, as if he had not the strength to hold them in stasis any longer. He watched the mountain of bodies worriedly, until he heard muffled grumbling issuing from the bottom. Movement, a dainty little hand shoving an death-stilled leg out of the way followed but a moment afterwards. With a relieved sigh, he plopped to the ground and sprawled like a starfish, his beer gut rising and falling with each breath.

“Had me worried for a wee moment, lass,” he panted, eyes squinted against the noonday sun breaking through the clouds overhead.

A couple of muttered curses and stumbles later, Medeia tumbled free of the dog-pile of death. She glanced at Torgrin’s prone form for a moment, determining if he was injured or not. Most likely, he was only worn out. She’d known Torgrin since she was small as well, and she knew Garron looked to him as a son would a father. “You alright there, Tor?”, she called out anxiously.

“...Be fine lass...”, he puffed, waving a hand weakly. “Nothing a stout pint of ale won’t cure. Now go ahead and check on that lummox of yours over there and see how bad off he is.”

She didn’t need him to tell her that, for as soon as he’d confirmed he was alright, Medeia’s attention had immediately diverted to her love’s unconscious form. Picking her way carefully over to Garron, she settled on her haunches by his right flank. He was bruised and there was a malicious looking cut on his right hand, but she saw no sign of life-threatening wounds or an explanation for his leaden state.

His breathing was shallow but steady, and his heartbeat did not flutter or skip. She picked up his right hand, meaning to study the wound closer, but as she did, she noticed the cut began to worsen, turning an alarming shade of purple around the edges, as if the cut was rotting away from within.

With a yelp, Medeia dropped his hand, and watched with astonishment as the terrible purple began to fade. As a test, she tweezed his wrist with her thumb and forefinger, lifting the cut hand again. Again, the cut began to darken along its contours, and again its return staved off the rotting.

“What in the seven bloody hells?”, Medeia mumbled to herself. She noted the prone body’s hand, which had fallen close to Garron’s own when they fell. A silvery gleam caught her eye, a ring of odd design, a design she easily recognized. Hadn’t that same mark been branded into the fat man’s neck just a few minutes ago? It was pretty enough in its own right, and it didn’t really look as if its owner would be needing it anytime soon. Well, she was a thief, and old habits die hard..

She twisted and tugged at the ring until it finally slipped free with an audible squelch, and brought it closer to her face so she could study the design in detail. Perhaps it was just dumb luck that caused her to glance down at Garron’s hand again, and that glance explained quite a bit. The wound was again festering, and Medeia quickly lowered the ring so that it was close again to his hand. Again, it abated.

Whatever the cut was, whatever poison was used in its crafting, the ring appeared to negate the affects. Ripping a strap of cloth from the dead man’s cloak, Medeia slipped the ring through the strap and wound it around the cut, leaving the ring to rest against the wound.

“Is he still breathing, lass?,” Torgrin queried from behind her, still a bit out of breath, but appearing none worse for the wear.

“He is, but I don’t dare question how long he will remain so.” Fear and worry dominated her features as she turned to Torgrin and continued. “There’s evil in this cut, some sort of poison I’ve never seen the like of before. You’ve some skill in this area, Tor. Can you make out its source, or what we should do?”

“Lemme see, lass. Lemme see.”

Medeia moved back so Torgrin could examine him, showing him the cut, and the affect of the ring upon it. After a few moments of poking and prodding, Torgrin shook his head.

“We’ll have to make haste to Nuana, lass. Learned as I might be, there’s things aplenty she knows to which I am ignorant.”