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It was maybe seven or eight after midnight.   It hadn’t been a particularly busy evening, since many were out at parties, and the aftermath thereof- it meant he’d been able to send Elliot home two hours ago and to complete nigh all the closing chores early, leaving only the cat-wrangling for checkups after door-lock.  The racket from the front was muffled by the solid construction of the doors and brick, but still discernable.   There were no customers the last two hours, everyone was here in the afternoon for Pumpkins & Puffs meet and greet...all the day and week there’s been no left behind objects.  No calls.  There’s no regular reason for someone to be pounding so hard on the shop door, instead of calling the phone and leaving a message like a sane person.  A drunk?  Possible so near campus.

Crossing from back to the front, out the heavy, cat-room communicating door took small count of breaths on long shanks.  There was a mass of personhood out the front, and he parsed the silhouette while laying hand to the lock- a woman unknown in outlandish dress.  A man in pieces, blooded beyond reasonable expectation of drunken roughhousing.  He knew the latter, the missing bones of uniform and body, the blood and sunken mouth-  Scholomance.

’ I don't do well with blood, and guts, and those terrible sounds bones make when they snap.
You didn’t have a choice, this time, and they were your own. This must be another knight with him.’  Quenton unlocked the door and swung it open efficiently, speaking as he did in tones that the sound would carry through barriers physical and hopefully through the haze of wounds as well.  “In.  Both of you come in.   Are you pursued?  “

He waited only long enough for her to get them both through before shutting and locking the front again, leading to the heavy wooden door recessed from the barista stand, “Two flights of steps up to the third floor.  The medical equipment is up there.  Up to the bed-  can you carry him?  Are you hurt?  “

Hy-Brasil was starting to wonder if anyone was going to answer the door. She began to wonder if charge would be opposed to the hospital if there wasn’t any other choice in the matter? She sure as well wasn’t going to just let him die due to stubbornness and there wasn’t a damn thing she herself could do for his crudely dressed wounds. So, when the door finally opened to reveal a scarred faced, long white haired man Hy-Brasil blinked for a moment at him before quickly following his commands.

Shuffling into the building, taking care not to slam any part of Scholomance on the door frame, she shook her head. “No, I didn’t sense anyone on our tails.” She shifted the man in her arms again. Muscles continued to scream out in protest to the weight she was carrying. The burn grew worse and worse with each passing minute but she dare not put him down. “I can carry him up.” Not now when they were so close. “I am fine. All of the blood is his.” She said quickly.

Medical equipment, huh? Well that explained why the Pluto Knight had been adamant on coming here. Seems he had befriended a doctor of some sort. As she slipped through the heavy door, she wondered who this man was, but her curiosity had to be put on hold. There was a much more pressing matter and he lay bleeding in her arms. “You’re lucky your friend was in.” She murmured to Scholomance as she ascended the stairs as quickly as she could. If she hadn’t feared that her legs would give out with the extra weight she would have taken the stairs two at a time. She made fairly decent time considering she had to move up the stairs almost sideways to keep from hitting the poor man’s feet or head on the wall on the way up. Thankfully, the room she was suppose to deposit him in was easy enough to find once on the third floor. 

“Alright, sweetheart, your bed awaits.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. She wasn’t even sure if he was still with her at this point and she was so wound up that she needed some sort of reprieve from the anxiety and stress building in her body. With as much care as she could muster she placed him on the bed. The lack of weight meant the intense burning in her muscles began to fade, but she knew it would soon filter away to feeling a sense of weakness.



The carrying was more trouble than payout. During the carry, Scholomance was jostled and disturbed with heavy footing, and cramped into an angle that forced him to stare down copious blood. His consciousness wavered and threatened to leave him, as did the blood that collected in his stomach. The dry heaves took almost immediately after Hy-Brasil swept him up, and he had but once dumped the mix of blood and stomach acid onto the front of his own uniform (which, naturally, compounded the problem).

Scholomance offered no confirmation, no clarifications while Hy-brasil carried him indoors. He could not speak if he wanted to - his mouth burned with agony enough that speech proved impossible. His tired, desperate gaze swapped between parties while they covered the necessaries, and more than once he tried to escape the other knight's arms. All he could smell was blood - and he wanted to be away from it however he could.

Hy-Brasil started up the stairs with him, however, and he knew he could not flee from her grasp now. The third floor, he said, and she bolted for it. Bitter irony reminded him that he wanted to visit the northerly apartment of the Catfé on many occasion, especially when the barista wore hot pants and stockings. Now he earned that opportunity in the worst manner possible.

Holding his knighthood proved dangerous, but until he felt the approaching aura of an enemy, he would not relinquish it. He doubted Gwen had the strength to deal with what became of him because he lacked the strength to deal with it himself. A second question came to mind, and he wondered if the pain would grow if he released his uniform.

Hy-Brasil laid him down, finally, and he was glad to feel the firm bed beneath his back. Scholomance tried to cover her bloody uniform from his sight but chose the wrong hand to do so; groaning, he used his left. It wasn't much help.

While she got Scholomance onto the bed, Quenton opened a hidden cupboard built into the shelves to pull out two kits- one in a backpack like bag and another in a hard-plastic case.  The first things out were gloves, clean cotton lengths of cloth to lay here and there, gauzes, and a collapsing metal thing that twisted and set into something that could hang fluids and IVs.  To the unwounded knight, "I will need your help.  My name is Quenton."

"After I question him, you're going to use firm hand pressure on his jaw, inserting these gauzes for 10 minutes to get the sockets in his mouth to stop bleeding.  If he bleeds out from all the wounds, or goes too far into shock, none of the rest of this will matter. "  The warning of that already clasped starkly on his own hand.  Pillows un-Fausted went under Scholomance’s boots to elevate his feet and legs.  "Bleeding first, then cleaning and assessment.  "

Why are they here?  I do not know the one, and Scholomance I have been leery of revealing the connection between Thraen and any civilian to.  They are both knights.  I hardly know any knights so close to form awareness to come here. Celsus?  Shangri La?  One of the Mauvians?  

To Scholomance, before gauzes were chipmunking his face, "I need you to power down.  I'm going to cut your clothes off you-  it will save you infection and moving your wounds much.  Do you have any allergies; small motions with your eyes, yes or no?"  Hopefully Scholomance was still with it enough to give answers, otherwise the amount that could be achieved in the first few hours would be limited to stabilizing and field first aid.  

To the unwounded knight again, "Do you know each other?  Were there the missing limbs?  I see an arm and a finger missing, damage to the mouth.  "

As Quenton quickly busied himself pulling out medical supplies, it would be an understatement to say that Hy-Brasil was very much outside of her comfort zone. She knew practically nothing when it came to this sort of thing. It was the exact reason she had wanted to take the fallen Knight to the hospital. As it turned out, she was about to be utilized rather heavily. The only real miracle out of this was the fact she didn’t tend to be the squeamish sort. 

At least with blood, anyway. Anything else well...she was probably about to find out.

“Right. OK.” She said, nervousness rather evident in her voice, but she wasn’t going to run away. What good would it to to have dragged the poor man all the way here to brush her hands off of the situation and walk away? None. “I am Hy-Brasil.” She finally said as she positioned herself by Scholomance’s head, ready to do what Quenton wanted. In a comforting move, she brushed back hair out of Scholomance’s face.

It certainly sounds like he at least knows what he’s doing. She mused silently to herself as she looked down at Scholomance. She hoped he did.

She waited patiently as Quenton addressed Scholomance. When his questioning turned to her, she snapped blue eyes to him. “We’ve met in passing before. He’s helped me out and vice versa, but that’s about the extent that we know of each other. I...I found him wandering the city, so no, there weren’t any missing anything.” She paled a bit at the thought of having to possibly carry anything like a missing arm or finger. But, she really hadn’t noticed anything of the sort just laying around.

She wanted to ask her own questions of the fair-haired man but right now was probably not the best. Quenton seemed very focused on what he was doing and she certainly didn’t want to disrupt that.

I need you to power down.

Scholomance darted gaze from side to side to telegraph his discontent with the command. He looked to Hy-Brasil and knew what would transpire. He hoped she would leave, find herself in the way and return to the streets, and leave Quenton to the operation himself. Instead he solicited her specifically for help, and he knew he would find no continued anonymity from her now. He spat another mouthful of blood onto the pillow, and shuddered from the incoming cold. Fingers grew numb. He lacked the time to play stubborn.

His gaze shifted left to right once again when asked of allergies, and there wasn't more to answer. Anxiety doubled down and he released the knightly power he held, his torn blue coat giving way to a grey leather tank top displaying an eagle over leather strips, and Primevil written into the corner in garish font. Victorian trousers transitioned to black leathers, tied up the sides.

If it turns out that he doesn't know what he's doing, at least someone knows I'm dead.

The thought provided grim comfort. Another spat rivulet of blood, this time down his chin, and he looked to the pair. Blinking several times did nothing to banish the sparks of semiconsciousness surrounding them. Dreamily he wondered if he was watching his own synapses firing. He wondered what

Isaiah jerked awake seconds after passing out, though he knew not how long he spent unconscious. They needed to hurry. He bled from his face for too long, now.

"Hey now! Hold the ******** up! Who be bleedin' all up in my house?" The objecting voice came from a notably large, particularly fluffy Kurillian Bobtail who descended from one of Quenton's chairs. "Ain't no way in hell imma tolerate dis s**t!" The black cat huffed, and bounded atop the bed not far from Isaiah's feet.

"Who drag this b***h in? Was it you?" Faust looked to Hy-Brasil pointedly, then determined that even if she wasn't at fault, she'd make a fine scapegoat. "Woman, what's wrong wit'chu? Who the hell you think you are, draggin' this piece o' dead a** into my goddamn livin' room?"

As commanded, Scholomance responded to Quenton to the best of his ability, though Hy-Brasil was more focused on watching Quenton as he continued to prepare for whatever it was he deemed needed to be done. Her own body trembled slightly but not from an oncoming chill, but more from the adrenaline that was still coursing through her body. It was hard to continue remaining on the high from the endorphin would eventually take it’s toll. For now though, she remained on high alert.

She felt that shift of Scholomance’s change as he disappeared from her senses. One minute the Knight was there, the next, he was gone. 

And as Hy-Brasil’s focus moved to the man who lay on the bed she found herself stunned.

“Isaiah…” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper as she looked down at him. Unmoving.

Her breath hitched. Tears began to well in her eyes as the sight before her processed. The man, laying in bed, possibly dieing…”Oh god…” Her hand, well coated with Isaiah’s slowly drying blood found it’s way to her face. “No. No.” She shook her head slowly, hand over her mouth as she did her damn best to try and stay under control. But the sight of him laying there, missing parts of himself, beaten to near death and looking defeated in so many ways broke her. Tears slid down her face as she hitched a breath again. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to wrap him up in her arms, but it wouldn’t help. She damn well knew it, but it didn’t stop her from reaching out, with ginger fingers, to touch the side of his face.

Another hitched breath.

Another soft sob.

She wanted to scream. Scream at him for not telling her. He knew her identity. Why had he never say anything?! Why did this all happen? Who the hell had he pissed off?

But her fear for him quickly overrode and dampened that part of her. It didn’t matter. None of it.

“Don’t you dare leave me.” She said softly to him as her hand slid from his cheek back to his hair, the only place she felt safe to touch him as her fingers, hands, arms, everything trembled and shook with a greater ferocity. “Don’t you dare.” 


The world felt like it was closing in all around her.

Another hiccuped sob as tears came harder.

A voice.

Her gaze was pulled from Isaiah to the feline, but she didn’t quite hear what he said. Something about bleeding, what was wrong with her, living room, it was all snippets and none of it seemed to connect in her brain as she stared at him dumbly.

This sort of thing I’ve heard before.  Seen.  Felt. “Faust!  Get her out of here! “ It came curt and more gravelled than usual.  Here was a pair of hands that could have been boon, but instead was lost to tears and emotion. Crying, shivering, and blathering emotional things one heard from movies was not a condition that could objectively listen and follow commands. “This is not the time.”

Gloves on, he set to placing the gauzes himself into Scholomance-c**-Isaiah’s mouth.  Then, using a bandaging, Quenton tied his jaw tightly shut as though he were already a dead man in an age at least a century ago.  Cloth shears and the clothes came next.  “ You’re going to need to pick a new fake surname, Isaiah.  You don’t have any.”

Blue strip of tourniquet, palpate the site, disinfect and let dry a few seconds so that alcohol doesn’t burn, bevel oriented up to not abrade the tissues, thumb distal to the site and pulling traction, Setting up the needle should take a minute, no more.  Hang bag.  No more than one for now, with so little blood it would flood him.  He’ll be too cold.  Blanket. Over lower half.     

It was time to tourniquet the other arm again, remove the dressing and see what there was to see.  And how likely it was going to be that Isaiah would survive to have another Flat White with a cat on top.  

"'Aight, you heard 'im. You gonna be a bawly pain in the a**, you gotta get out. Shoo." Soft kitty swats patted her leg with force. "Out. Vamoose. Imma have to handle this s**t since you can't keep yo tears in check." The cat huffed. If need arose, he prepared to chase the squire out before she caused any damage with her bawling.

"Awright, what I gotta lay on, Blondie? His legs? His face?" As he sat on the edge of the bed, he looked to Quenton with ears flatted.

Isaiah did not look at Hy-Brasil. He looked to the ceiling, stared hard at it, willed the paint to flake off and drop on his face while the thin sheen of dehydration turned to beads of sweat. Pain taxed immensely, and he only caught parts of Hy-Brasil's pleas. While he felt her finger, a mix of warm numbness followed the touch. He could not feel his feet from mid-shin down, and this bothered him greatly. For all his choices dedicated to safety and quality of life, he now lay unwhole and edging toward death. Consciousness stuttered again, and gauze was fitted into his face. He coughed, and sputtered blood and spit onto the fresh, dry cloth.

Before Quenton started on setting an IV, Isaiah bent his remaining fingers into a crude and painful gesture at Quenton's dry comment. He quickly regretted it, however, as the skin flaps pulled and woke pain anew. Around the gauze came a muffled moan; adrenaline ebbed, and his tolerance ground down to nothing.

Until he felt the cold greeting of an IV.

Pupils shrank in trained reaction, and for once since the ordeal, he felt able to exhale fully. A bleary glance gave him no indication of the drug, but he knew what it was. Years of experience taught him how to recognize the rush. With it came an ebb in pain level, reducing it to the edge of tolerance. His blinks came slower, his breathing relaxed, his heart grew quiet from its pounding in his ears.

Once he felt fingers tugging at the dressing of his other arm, he shut his eyes. Retching now would only choke him, with bandages sealing its exit. He almost wanted to pass out.

Faust received no response from his offer of help, but the blankets told him enough. Faust, in all his hefty kitty weight, elected to lay on the spindly man right on his stomach. The large Mauvian was afraid of breaking this new twig that the crybaby brought in, so he remained with his back legs on the bedsheets and his front legs draped near Isaiah's opposite hip. He felt cold, and Faust disliked this from a purely feline standpoint - he simply hated lying on cold things, and much preferred warm things.

Quenton’s curt words and Faust’s bats and pushes were enough to cow the woman out of the room. There she paced the landing, her heeled boots keeping a steady rhythm on the hardwood. She let herself break down, let the tears flow and the anger bubble inside of her. Anger for whomever did this, anger that Isaiah had never said anything to her, but most of all anger at herself for not being able to keep herself together. Here she was blubbering like an idiot and Isaiah was in there fighting for his life.

That thought brought on a few more tears. She wiped them away on the back of her arm.

The steady 1-2-3 turn 1-2-3 turn of her steps stopped as she leaned against the wall, head back, eyes up. With deep breaths she worked to calm herself. Eventually, after a few shaky exhales she could think somewhat clearly. Another inhale and slow exhale and she let herself power down. Being the only one powered up in a residence like this could create trouble for them, and they had more than enough of it right now, thank you. The blood stained uniform disappeared to reveal the tunic length blue shirt, black leggings, and tall black boots topped with cream socks. She was clean again. Well, mostly. Her face still had Isaiah’s blood smeared on it and her hands were far from clean, but she didn’t care.

Instead, she turned and stared at the door. The sounds of Quenton moving around inside and Faust talking was nerve wracking. What the hell was she going to do? She couldn’t just stand here. She’d go insane. But what else could she do after being shooed from the room? “I am such an idiot.” She murmured softly, wrapped her arms around her waist as she stood there. It had been the shock of seeing Scholomance shift into Isaiah that had gotten her. It had been the last thing she expected and it had torn her down immediately. There had been no chance to steel herself against the shock, pain, and fear.

Now though. Now she felt helpless and that wasn’t OK.

She found herself pushing the door open and walking back into the room. The sight of Isaiah on the bed caused her throat to catch and tears to well again but she fought them off as she hurried over with a few quick strides. Pushing her sleeves up to her elbows she stood just out of Quentons way so as not to disrupt his flow. “What do you need me to do?” She said as smoothly as she could, eyes leveled at the man as if daring him to tell her to leave again.

Most potentially disturbing of the revelations on removing the bandaging to the stump, and looking over the missing finger, was how precisely they’d been managed. The flesh was neatly folded, bone-wax caps and attentively small, even stitches  who’s certainty hadn’t pulled jagged yet after the first hours of thrashing for walking.   This was deliberate and ….attentive.  Civilized violence.  They wanted him to survive. But what of these reactions he’s having to a needle?  It’s just fluids.  No pain killer yet.  The frame matches for a recovered drug addict, as much as I’d not wished to make such assumptions of a customer previously.  That doesn’t bode well for pain management.  But for the immediate we both need his body to stop panicking.

He was applying new dressings and pressure to the arm stump to get the bleeding stopped as the other came in, revealed as a civilian of unassuming appearance.  At least she’d had some wherewithal to get her signature gone, and stop being a target inside a haven, except that was briefly as unhelpful as before.  Looking at her spiked annoyance at the set of her jaw and defiance in her eyes.  “Forget not you are a trespasser here and authorities can remove you if I choose not to myself.”

“Pertness combined with medical ignorance is even less endearing.”

“Wash your face and hands.  The bathroom is self evident. Use the white towels on the second shelf, and drop what you use into the tub.  In the kitchen is a table, pennies under resin, on it a pad of paper and quill.  Take these and go out for a while.  Power up.  He needs you to send a note to a Shangri-La Knight.  Tell Shangri-La there is a knight patient that needs IV antibiotic, blood kit, and his medical expertise at the Catfe.  Current condition:Serious, not yet stable.”   God willing, she knows how to spell Shangri-La.  

“If you come back after that, power down, stay at the kitchen and get a pot of boiling water going.  Faust, ”  Quenton spared one hand from applying pressure to pat out a space right next to Isaiah’s hip, “Lay along here and be as warm and purring as you can.  The fluids are going to make him cold, in addition to the stress and blood loss.  We need him to stay warm.”

 And your purring is documented for stress relief anyway.  “You know Isaiah, plainly, so if you can check on Tasty while you’re out, that would also be helpful.“

”A moment ago I was useful in here, but now I am not?” She wanted to scream in frustration at the man, but what was she going to do? Stand here and huff at him? Distract him from helping Isaiah? All of that was pointless and she damn well knew it. Of course, that didn’t mean that she didn’t want to not give in to those childish notions. The idea of walking out of there and leaving Isaiah like this was far from appealing.

“Fine.” She said. God did it hurt to say that and concede to this man. “I’ll go take care of contacting the Knight.” She exhaled loudly as she ran a hand through her hair in a nervous action, practically pulling at the red locks. 

Blue eyes flicked from Quenton as the man went to instruct the black Mauvian what to do. <******** cursed. She wanted to vocally unleash her frustration, anger, fear, and hurt. Quenton may have been rubbing the woman the wrong way, but she certainly wasn’t putting on the best face for him either. And really, the man probably was doing the best thing for her sending her off.

As she turned to exit the room once again, she paused and glanced back at Quenton when he mentioned Tastykake. “Considering I just fed her at our apartment before I headed out tonight for patrol, I am sure she’s fine.” She snapped at him. Slowly she shut her eyes, bit her top lip, and inhaled sharply. “Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” He didn’t, but he was the most convenient one to let her raw emotions out on. “Tastykake will be fine.”

She slipped back out the door and found her way to the bathroom where she cleaned up. As told, she dropped the white towel in the tub before heading to the kitchen to gather what she needed. The pad and paper were easily found and she grabbed them both before departing from the apartment.

When the girl reappeared, Faust was half-ready to jump from the bed and slap the s**t out of her. In fact, he even said it himself: "Imma get up off this bed and slap the s**t outta yo dumb a**!" But, to her benefit, Quenton interjected with his own angry sounds and bid her to take up the pen and paper for writing duty. Faust did not envy this; he hated playing messenger.

He also hated playing Sedentary Heat Source when it wasn't his idea. When he turned to settle at Isaiah's side, the cat grunted before loafing. "Imma get a nice, fat slab o' salmon for this," he confirmed mostly to himself before rousing up a purr.

Isaiah didn't look. Even if the one prodding his wounds was Schörl herself, he would not look. Already he felt bile rising in his throat by virtue of knowing what damage now met the air, and he swallowed it back thickly. Soon he tasted it - the bitter, sour saliva crept up from beneath his tongue, and tightened the back of his jaw. His tongue fattened. His sockets still throbbed, and protested this new intrusion of pressure.

Exhaustion permitted no great protest against these actions, however. With eyes closed, it pervaded all parts of him where adrenaline ebbed. Quenton worked and Isaiah grew ambivalent about his own survival. Fight or flight fled, and with it went Isaiah's insistence on remaining conscious. He felt himself slipping. The cat from before laid at his side. Gwen was evicted where he could not hear her cry. To remain attentive proved too exhausting.

Isaiah passed out once more, and this time, did not rouse soon after.