The Junkyard

The junkyard had known magic, that much was obvious to any untrained eye, and not the kind of story book magic which pulled rabbits from hats and produced fireworks for starry eyed children. No, this was wyld magic and it's taint was visible from the rainbow puddles coloring the littered ground to the animated teddy bears scurrying through the shadows and the bickering rats who debated each other in scholarly tones over a chunk of cheese. The Junkyard, a word of dread on the lips of Blight Fae. A place of deranged magic and the humans who exuded it from their pores, the wyldings. A graveyard for every wreck and scrap of iron from the Blight and beyond. Rusting piles of the hated metal ringed the junkyard, an impassable barrier warding the sanctum from all faeries. Inside, the scrapheaps twisted and tangled into a vast maze so confusing that any fae who dared the iron sickness to enter would soon find himself hopelessly lost. At the center of this gauntlet sat Adin, fingers drumming impatiently on a throne welded of the same scrap that formed his kingdom. As he lounged, he watched a crow who also watched him with a singly bloodshot eye bulging above it's beak. For the life of him, he couldn't remember who'd ensorcelled it. Maybe he made it last night when he was drunk. Perhaps due to boredom, perhaps on artistic whim, he decided it needed work and waved a hand. Wild magic crackled through the air in crazed bolts of violet energy. The other people gathered, even those completely drunk on magic, ducked or fell flat to the ground as if someone had tossed a grenade. One bolt laced up the side of a discarded mechastrider sprouting a line of pretty daisies from its rusted hull. Another flew wide exploding in a greasy puddle which erupted in a effusion of hopping, croaking frogs. The third did strike the crow, but it was a glancing blow, replacing its left wing with a frying pan. Weighed over by the heavy cookware the bird tilted on its perch and fell out of sight.

"That's better," Adin opined, cracking his knuckles, the seven that were left anyway (wild magic had its cost). He turned his eyes, each a dazzling mixture of blue and pink, on his right hand, a bald fellow with thick spectacles. Nedd looked too straight laced to be an insane aether addict, but that's why Adin liked him. Nedd handled the contacts upslope where magic stuck out like a troll in a dwarven ale house. "She should be there by now, don't you think?"

"I imagine," replied Nedd dryly. He didn't show much emotion but then again he never did and he'd never liked Claire anyway.

Adin turned to the lean figure shivering to his right. "You hear that, Cabriel, she's all yours."

The high elf wiped the sweat from his brow and staggered forward, trying desperately to retain his noble bearing. "You've... made a wise.... decision," he managed. "United, the Seelie Court and Wyldings... can crush... any competition. We'll have the glam trade to ourselves."

"And our replacement alchemist?"

"My liege, Queen Juliana, has someone selected, a talented gnome.... I'm sure you'll find his work... far surpasses this changeling of yours..." he took a deep, painful breath, "so long as you can provide him a lab away from all this iron."

"I'm sure we can work something out, though commuting to work might not be an option," Adin laughed. "About the changeling.... do you intend to?"

"I believe... the terms of our deal required.... you ask no questions regarding her... fate."

Adin grinned as he turned to his number two, "he keeps his wits even when knee-deep in iron, I believe I like this elf." Cabriel somehow managed a diplomatic smile. "Well a deal is a deal, you'll find her in a room at the Boggart's Hole. She'll be carrying a shipment of glam. Keep it, a show of good faith to seal the deal with our Majesty the Queen."

"Very well. We'll send a couple knights to... escort her." the high elf started off at a calm but quick pace, obviously eager to escape this metallic hell.

"Oh and Cabriel..."

"Yes?"

"Don't underestimate her, I Do Not want an angry changeling with a weeks supply of mana out for my blood."

Ignore it.

Leave it.

Focus.

If Needle had learned anything in his time crawling through the Blight, up spouts and drains and fluttering beneath shingles and sewers, it was focus. Focus was what set him apart from the others, that simple, raw ability to grind down the insect brain that half-twitched at every new stimulus. Pixies were amazing little creatures, adaptable in the extreme, brains hardwired for survival and propagation whether it be as the servant of a Seelie Lord or as a member of one of the Blight swarms, tumbling masses of near feral little vermin. The kind that Needle had crawled and fucked and fought and screamed his way free from, laughing the whole time. Because it was funny, all so goddamn funny—the lowest of the low, and still they found ways to thrive. Collect them by the dozen and a hundred more would pop up, bred and born in the cracks and crannies and forgotten places of the city.

But the lizard brain, that little grasshopper-fly impulse to flick to the side when motion came, do crawl and hide or descend on anything that looked vaguely edible... that was Needle's real nemesis. He had to focus, he had to think, he had plans and he couldn't let himself get distracted by mushroomelfsickratbirdloosedoor--
His teeth grit together and he growled, leaning down and gripping his thigh with sharp, thin fingers until tiny pinpricks of blood welled. The pain was a catalyst, something to block out the kneejerk need to react. No one got ahead by reacting—the future belonged to those who built it.

And if Needle didn't plan to build anything, you couldn't kill a troll with a Needle. Sometimes the world needed a little push down the drain.
Not that the pixie did—leaping from rooftop to rooftop, little leather-clad feet pounding shingles and wood, crawling and skittering like a beast one moment only to push off and run like a man, he took an impossible leap and sailed down a pipe, a wide grin showing white little teeth as he felt the wind tug at his wings and hair. It was here that his lizard brain had purpose, that instinct took over—fallingfallingfallingduckrollpushoffdodgefootclimbbootjump--

Enough time to indulge it gave him room to play later, and he would need it as he finally came back to himself, the feeling of Granny's gnarled, rotted bark beneath his fingers.

All fae loved the old tree, but pixies more than most. In it's gnarled branches they tittered and laughed and rutted, in it's rotted core they burrowed and festered with it. Like termites they bored through it but with an almost unconscious level of respect, a quietly retained semblance of the order of things that Needle frankly lacked. As he climbed the tree, legs and knees and hands working with all the dexterity and strength of an expert climber, he worked spider-like into one of the many knots and pushed his way through the dark warrens within. Scent and sound waited on the other side, food and laughter and finally light--

Pulling himself from one of the many cracks in the ceiling, he let himself hang for a moment as he watched the goings on below. The air was thick and warm in here, and heartening—if Needle didn't frequent the Hole, he at least understood the appeal. Easy to lose yourself, feel for a minute as if you were your own instead of a part of the Blight.

But Needle was good at finding lost things, and as his eyes flicked around the room he couldn't help but notice the multitude of hoods. But the hood he was looking for—of course she would wear a hood, she was being looked for, she'd be discreet—only one of them was slipping away from the crowd, being led by the bartender to the back rooms. Only one of them was particularly small, walked like a female, smelled like glam even through the crowd--

“Daaaahling.” He whispered to himself with a wide grin, crawling across the ceiling of the Hole upside down. If he barely made it in before the door closed, the battering of a wing was nothing compared to his glee at having found her before they did. Even as he watched her crack open her little case and start cooking, his lips pulled back into a grin from ear to pointed ear.

“They were right, you know.” He called down after a minute of watching her work—she was good, he could tell that from the moment he saw her crack her implements. Letting go of the ceiling he righted himself in midair, half-floating, half-falling until he hovered with gently batting wings across the table from her, one hand on his hip and his long, leather-covered legs hanging below him. With an impish smile on his lips, he hovered a little closer.

“You make purple look good. Now tell me, precious, what would you give me to save your life?”

Delphi was overwhelmed in this little place and with every broken glass or loud yell, with a staggering creature or another jostle from a thoughtless fae behind her she edged deeper into the relative darkness of the tavern. It was so busy here, so many colours and smells and sounds that it almost began to hurt, the one thing that seemed to be absent was music, oh there was some kind of music but it sounded so dreadfully mournful. Like something was injured and dying, isolated in the forest far from home. The fae here seemed to cluster together, keeping to corners or the long wooden thing that seemed to hold the receptacles for the liquid which made finding someone to approach rather difficult. Hunting was always difficult when the prey kept so close together, if one was to make a move against one of the herd while the others were so close by they would easily be trampled to dust. So she needed to find a straggler, a misfit, one that people wouldn't immediately notice was missing and then she'd strike and take what she needed.

The dim purple glow cast elongated shadows in certain areas of the bar, she idly noticed one light sway very subtly and a shadow to diffuse across the floor, briefly she glanced up to spot a little black skinned thing that looked awfully like a hurtful pixie. Aside from the height it was at and the fact it was also in the middle of the room a pixie was an awful choice, even a dark skinned one she assumed, they were nasty creatures who bit and scratched and she didn't care for being bitten or scratched much. She spotted briefly a cloaked figure but before she could decide on approaching it had already disappeared into a side room, to follow would be far too dangerous for she had no idea what lay beyond that flap of wood that swung wide and closed tight over the opening in the wall. There could be all manner of wickedness laying in wait to capture an innocent unsuspecting fomori.

With a subtle turn of her head she cast her gaze about the room and was able to watch as a third hooded figures cloak flicked into the shadows and disappeared into what appeared to be the quietest and emptiest part of the room. No others followed the hooded thing to the corner to perch on those weird ledges around the flat surface and so she waited for a few long moments, still no others followed nor did they seem to pay this being any mind. A small, somewhat devilish smile slipped across Delphi's lips, she had found the weakest link rather quickly, which was important, the longer she waited the hungrier she'd get and eating a fae here would be; aside disgusting, rather too obvious for her liking.

Carefully turning she made certain her hood remained up and pulled down enough to hide most of her eyes as well as her snakes, shadowed as most of them were by the purple lights and cloth itself. She came to a halt at what she assumed was a safe distance, out of what might have been the creatures limited reach -compared to a Gorgon's- and yet close enough so she might not have to raise her voice to speak and risk attracting unnecessary attention. Despite her bravery and determination she still felt the terror of her youth, all those stories she'd considered myths about elves who hid in tree's and dropped on you from above, pixies who plucked your eyes out in your sleep if you did not pay proper homage to your meals and all other manner of tale came rushing to the forefront of her mind. Reminding her why hr kind stayed in the forests and avoided the fae wherever was possible.

For a moment fear grabbed her by the throat and she simply stood in silence, her hands tensing into the fabric of her cloak, when she finally spoke her voice was as soft as a pure water spring with a strangely ethereal tone to it, it held only a slight accent on the 's's of her words but was neither elongated or overly pronounced. Her voice was clearly feminine and there was a quality that almost compelled those of lesser mental fortitude to listen. "Excuse me sir. Might I trouble you for some information?"

Having only just begun working on cooking up some glam, the ingredients barely mixed together at all in the pot on the cook-stove, Claire was surprised by the sudden voice calling out to her from somewhere above, her grip on the spoon in her hands shifting to hold it more like a weapon than a utensil. “Who was right?” she asked, curious as to what the voice was talking about. The thought that it was merely Lucius messing with her crossed her mind, but it had lacked that stately manner that his voice always had. A quick look around the room further proved that Lucius was nowhere in sight.

It wasn’t until the voice spoke up again, this time from her right, that Claire was able to spot the diminutive form of a pixie hovering off the table. One of the first things that Claire noticed about him was that his attire was rather strange for a pixie, what with the tiny crown atop his head and the leather covering his legs. Usually, pixies tried to wear clothing that was bright and colorful, rarely individualizing much beyond their color preference. “That would depend on what you want, wouldn’t it?” Claire replied, shifting slightly where she stood. “If you want glam, I can easily give you some of that if you’ll just let me finish this bath.”

Fearing that the mixture may have burned a little on the bottom from sitting still for so long, Claire adjusted her grip on the spoon again and began to stir as she waited for a response from the pixie intruder. She was careful to keep her movements from appearing hostile, however, as she knew that pixies could be particularly vicious when provoked, even without a weapon as this one appeared to be. “Do you mind if I ask you what your name is?” she asked casually, leaning over the pot to inhale the sweetly-sour aroma to check if there was anything noticeably wrong with it. It didn’t smell as if it was burned, which was a good thing. Those ingredients were expensive.

“My name is Claire,” she continued, resuming the stirring of the mixture. “I’m supposed to meet my boss, Adin, here for some kind of deal in a little while. He didn’t really explain why, which isn’t all that unusual for him.” The casual slip of her boss’s name was actually an attempt to let the pixie know who he would be dealing with if he harmed her in any way. Usually, that worked quite well on some of the other toughs she had had to deal with, but the devious, almost maniacal, grin on the pixie’s face seemed to indicate that it wouldn’t be as effective in this situation.

Of course, she could always make use of her magic to deal with the pixie if he became hostile, but she really preferred to not resort to magic, especially not in Granny. While she did have finer control over it than most, that only really meant that she could keep her magic from rebounding and control how it left her body. She was still quite unable to control what it did to her target. Combine that with the fact that it used up the glam in her system, and it was really a double-edged sword.

Kalan waited patiently for the arrival of the Prince, he had managed to gain a hold over his nausea but he knew he wasn't operating anywhere near his peak. He had picked his position carefully, isolation for an intimidation factor and to mitigate his nausea and in the corner to allow him to survey the whole bar at once. His strategy had worked so far, pretty much everyone had backed off allowing him to access his situation with ease. And while he had noticed a few interesting individuals, none of them seemed to bear any connection to the Prince.

For a moment, he thought it had been some sort of set up to take him back to the Fortress when out of the blue a cloaked woman approached him. He watched her slowly slink closer to him while he remained still observing when she stopped and stared at least a meter away from him. Kalan remained confused by her pause, ''No, she isn't from Donovan,'' he thought, ''So why, why approach someone so obviously avoiding attention?''. He tried to get a better view of her but her purple hood and the shadows around her obscured her features too much. It was then she spoke, as her words flowed over him he felt the faint stirring of unnatural sympathy in his heart. His initial instinct was to scare her off and continue his wait, but now intrigue and interest swept away his apprehension. He tried to focus and block out the unnatural stirrings but he found himself sarcastically answering before he could get a hold of himself,

''Asking a Grey Elf a question? Brave, stupid and could probably get you arrested'' he managed to stop himself speaking before he could give away anything. He sighed realizing he was probably dealing with some sort of Elf, he knew he needed to gain some sort of upper hand before he was putty in her hands and decided after a careful pause to continue speaking, this time responding in a colder manner,

''But perhaps you would indulge me, what kind of information would you desire, you seem new,'' he leaned forward drawing back his hood and letting his face and armor be seen, he needed to seem undaunted by her but he knew in this weakened state he was going to have a hard time resisting her. Kalan tried to steel his mind in order to prepare himself for the next psychic onslaught but he wondered just how much of an effect it would actually have.

Drezlen: Upslope

North of the festering sink hole of the Blight, the dark enchanted alleys gave way to the crowded tenements of human laborers and artisans, further upslope the tightly packed buildings parted for wide open markets dotted with stalls and ringed by storefronts. When finally, the elevation breached the smog and falcons chased pigeons through the clear sky, the nobles erected their vast estates. Called the Bluemarble District for the turquoise stone favored in its construction, the villas huddled up close against the base of the old dwarven castle like obsequious courtiers jostling for a place closest to their sovereign. Between all this luxury and the soot, smog, and magic of lowtown stood a wall, along it guards in polished armor and decorative helms. During daytime it's portculises stood open, though, all traffic passed under the wary eyes of men whose lives depended upon not letting riff raff past. While the sun shined, commoners could visit the district and even attend the forum, a huge marble depression shaded by monumental archways. The heart of Drezlen's limited democracy, the forum allowed any voting citizen (those possessing both land and testicles) to stand and voice their opinions, often loudly and with generous helpings of profanity, conspiracy, paranoia and accusation.

Today the forum, structured in ascending stone rings around a central podium, practically overflowed with the boisterous displays of pompous men and their inflated egos. Though only one could occupy the center at a time, no less than ten were trying to jab in a word edgewise at any given time. Only the elite of the city's guard, the Grey Elves, kept the entire place from erupting into a melee. The reason for today's conflict came down to a single topic: proposition nine. The current occupant of the stage, the eldest son of a respected councilman, even now argued vehemently against the referendum. "Don't forget," he reminded all present in ominous tones, "they enslaved man once, do you want it to happen again? Do you want your son working for a dwarven foreman or your daughter married off to an elven gigolo?" And so it went, a nearly undiluted flow of racism which met with varying reception from the men in attendance, those voting tomorrow and those merely curious. Divided nearly down the middle, the men from old wealth resisted the proposition, while the more progressive new money, entrepreneurs who'd worked their way up from low town and sweated beside dwarves and gnomes in the factories, supported it.

Saan for his part couldn't understand any of the excitement, but he was a Gray Elf so he didn't understand much of what impassioned humans, love least of all but politics second after that. The whole practice was founded on a jacta, dryn iyn'callada, argument by majority. Why not simply recognize the reality of power, determine who wielded the most, and proceed logically from there?... Stationed at the back entrance of the forum, he devoted only around one percent of his total computational ability to the speech resonating through the forum. The rest of his significant brain power remained bent on possible threats. Every passerby, from nobles in their brass buttons to traders in overalls, received a scan. A flick of Saan's pale blue eyes squeezed gigabytes of information out of each of them. After a look at fully clothed person, he knew the shape of their nipples and whether one of their balls hung lower than the other, but what he was looking for specifically was weapons. Weapons were prohibited in the Bluemarble District, of course, but that didn't mean people didn't try to smuggle them in. With the vote looming, many looked to make a statement and sometimes those written in blood spoke loudest. The Faery Liberation Front had been particularly acerbic in their rhetoric as of late and some opponents of the referendum had received death threats.

Danger that day did not come from a person, though, it came from the shadows. To a Grey Elf magic was like a shadow. It was illogical and for a Grey Elf the illogical did not exist. It was a blackhole, lightless and unknowable, a tear in the fabric of the mathematical grid which should, by all rights, encompass everything. Saan noticed just such a tear opening in the shadows cast by the forum's tall stone pillars. It ripped along the dark snapping the grid lines like a shark swimming through a fish net. The Gray Elf's hand was already on his revolver when it broke out of the shadows and reality reasserted itself with an almost audible snap. Time stretched like elastic, pulled wide by the nuclear focus of the Jarnalfar's attention. The goblin, dagger in hand, was 3.8964712087 seconds from the speaker at his current velocity and trajectory. Saan drew his revolver with such a speed that the front sight scorched the leather on the inside of the holster. He aimed down the barrel and the barrel aimed down the Grid, a single line of the vast three dimensional coordinate system that each Jarnalfar projected through his or her mind's eye. With the Grid, all Saan had to do was compute the right equations. There was no aiming, there was no uncertainty, there was just math.

The bullets which slammed into the assassin were not shots, they were the strokes of a surgeon's scalpel. The first blew out the creature's knee, cartilage, bone, and all; the second pierced the heart's right ventricle (.28345 inches higher in goblin anatomy than in a human of the same body scale but Saan compensated), and the third severed the brainstem to assure adrenaline could not carry the dying creature to its target. With three rounds still chambered, the Grey Elf scanned the remaining shadows. By the time, the goblin's body had stopped quivering, its twisted lips issuing their last word, "freedom," Saan had reloaded his gun, holstered it and returned to standard sentry protocol, calm and composed as if not a thing had happened.

Delphi was uncertain what she hoped for with this creature, though since it neither sounded an alarm or seemed to become openly hostile she assumed for the time it was safe. When he, for the voice was clearly masculine, spoke she was a little taken aback, she had not known the fae could sound so peaceful, so like her. While his words held a sarcasm or passive aggression his overall voice was not the pebbles grating on stone sound or nails on scales she had been warned of. Had she not seen for herself that he bore no mantle of snakes or beautiful tail she might have considered him a gorgon himself, or at least a fomori like her.

A small smile played in the shadows of her hood, while she did not understand what a ‘grey elf’ was precisely he had at least replied to her. She spent a moment considering his first words, before she spoke again. Her voice continued to carry that gentle tune, the lulling qualities as if she were wholly unaware of the properties it held. “No matter who I speak to here it would likely be brave, stupid and possibly get me arrested.” The smile remained on her lips but it was small as a question lingered on her tongue, what was a grey elf?

Before she could query this ‘elf’ had cleared its mind and continued, as he reached for his own hood she steeled herself against what might lie beneath. Fae, her clutch mother had said, were dangerous creatures, they wore their ugly on the inside and kept their monster in their hearts, the fairer the fae the more dangerous they were. When his head fell back she had decided that this was quite a dangerous fae, his skin was the hue of their rocky home and looked as smooth as its well worn surface but his hair was like the snow capped mountains and his eyes the deceptive pools they’d been warned from. Dangerous indeed.

“Where would the metal monsters take people they have stolen and what do they do to them?” She answered, an earnest passion creeping into her haunting tone and glimmering in the hue of her eyes just visible beneath the hood. She decided there was no need to filter, if needs must she would waste the energy –for her people did not name it mana and treat it different to their other needs- to make him forget. “And how would one get there?”

The passion in her voice had made something very clear to him;

He had the upper hand.

Ready for her silky voice, he had managed to hold on to his logic as she tried to charm her way deeper into his mind. He began to analyse her answer, her individual words running miles through his machine-like brain, looking at every possibility and taking into account every situation. It was clear to him now she wasn't from here, nor was she welcome. And she was most certainly not an elf or she would not have the problem she seemingly described. So what was she? Know the enemy, one of the most famous Grey Elf mantras, popped into his mind as he prepared his answer. He had seen many creatures during his time in the Iron Brigade but none popped into his head that could possibly solve this conundrum. He had to know what he was dealing with.

As he begun to weave his trap, he had a moment where he almost understood why the Grey Elves looked down on emotions, emotions were in effect biological jactas; they were easy to manipulate and with a Mind of Iron it is easy to pull the appropriate strings and threads. And yet they are the difference between surviving and living, something Grey Elves sacrificed long ago. The only mercy was that there is no Grey Elf alive who knew what they had lost.

Kalan answered slowly, as if he was trying to hold onto his words,''Metal Monsters? You mean the Iron Brigade? Yes I most definitely know of these ''monsters''. But as for where they take the people they have stolen....,''. He paused now, a smile began to creep along his face as he revealed his hand to her. ''...they are taken to thousands of places based upon race, you would never be able to track them down alone. If you want to know exactly what is going to happen to them and more importantly where they are, then it would be wise to tell me exactly what your people are? ''.

His mind drifted back to Donovan as he awaited her answer, this ''distraction'' had taken his mind off the reason he was here in the first place. The Prince still had yet to arrive as promised but he knew in his predicament any work he could get was work he needed. Had he found a better opportunity? Was this some sort of set up to arrest him? Had the Pixie decided to play a prank? He knew until something happened or more evidence presented itself he would simply have to wait and see. As his mind returned to the hooded woman before him, he wondered whether she could possibly offer some sort of employment, with Donovan nowhere to be seen he should at least secure himself some future work should it all go troll shaped.

She listened as he spoke his quiet and careful words, they revealed little but the title to which the metal monsters held, Iron Brigade, Iron... Iron was the bad rock, the one that made her tired, if they were made of iron then the monsters had used that to weaken and trap her sisters, a wicked trick for cowards. It made sense now why her sisters had seemed so easily defeated, for the pair were formidable and had taken down a manticore alone before.Inside then the metal were likely humans or fae, vile cowards the lot of them, she had heard they liked wearing armour however she was confused for the fae suffered iron's bite worse than they did they not? Such were issues for another time though, to discuss after her and her sister had destroyed this 'Iron Brigade' and returned home together. Until that moment where she had her hand in her sisters scaly hand curiosity could wait.

He had paused after revealing the name of her enemy and what followed she did not like at all, the smile caused her to visibly flinch and the small smile she held to fade into a frown. What right did a fae have to smile? whatever she had done she had clearly made a mistake for these foul monsters only grinned before skinning a hapless Fomori. As he turned his hand over it took all her effort not to flinch further away or allow her snakes to act on barely repressed instinct and bite deep into the silky looking flesh. Dangerous indeed he was and she watched with a degree more caution, her weight shifting to her back foot and her hands loosening from their balled state at her side. She had walked into dangerous territory when she came in here and she had known as much but only now did the danger truly present itself.

When 'thousands' of places were mentioned a part of her heart sank, how many years would it take her to search each one for her sister? She had more questions lined up for him and yet he kept talking, by the time he had grown quiet so had she and she allowed her mind to briefly hang on his last words. It was clear he was making a not so subtle attempt to probe into her familial heritage and it made her uneasy. One did not declare, outside of the safety of the forest, who or what they were for the risk of the hateful little fae digging their sharp claws in and rending the flesh from their scales. If this creature wanted to know what she was it was not for the sake of helping her, fae were not kindly creatures, they didn't 'help' people unless there was something in it for them.

She owned nothing of value to trade though, her siblings always said shiny things worked for the simple but barbaric fae but there were none of those in her possession. As she saw it her choices were limited, she could kill the man where he sat, which would undoubtedly call the wrath of the other 'fairer' species upon her, she could turn on her heel, thanking him and walking away, which would perhaps cause a scene should the other decide he did not wish her to go or there was the third option. In such a space it ought to have been fine with no ill effects to the room, lest someone, or multiple someones decide to strain their ears and have a listen themselves. For a moment one sharp tooth caught the edge of her lip and after steeling her nerves she took a quiet breath.

What flowed from her lungs was unlike most fae had heard in generations and humans only heard about in stories, it ripped down defenses with all the ease of a storm but all the delicacy of a butterflies wing. Her voice while 'enchanting' while spoken was now beyond just simply pleasant, it rippled with the lull of centuries of old magic, each word echoed twice in ancient voices like waves to break upon Kalan's ears and all those who listened. The song itself was uplifting, a good change to the depression she had heard in each note played by the music makers in the streets and this hall. It came like a cooling rain in the blistering heat or that first sip of water after a long hard day, there was something that compelled a person not to turn away, to keep listening as each note was produced and as the song filled the air and pulled at the listener it was then that the 'magic' began to happen.

For everyone who heard or listened it would be different, for those who caught only a snippet it might be flash backs or de ja vu and for those who listened longer it would be like a brief memory playing over in the mind but for Kalan it would be more intense. For him he would be transported back to a memory, one he consciously or otherwise related to the song or the melody and while aware of who he was now he would relive the memory in full. With the sights and sounds, smells and tastes that one had associated with that memory, down to the very last detail. Oddly each note, each word was understandable on a basic level, as if language was no barrier as if there was nothing but the melody and the thought it was trying to convey between the singer and the listener. The memories her song conjured were not simple ones but ones of importance be it forgotten in the darkness of repressed memories or simply forgotten over the length of time and stresses of life in this shameful pocket of disease. She had no say in what the people saw and she could only hope what she roused in Kalan was a good memory, or at least pleasant enough to keep him quiet and not angry, distracted enough perhaps that he would listen to her proposal without asking again her family origins.

Boggart's Hole

Delphi's song twisted through the Boggart's Hole like a wraithly serpent, largely unnoticed as it slipped through the unconscious of patrons leaving unbidden memories in its wake. The satyr bard who'd been providing music from his lute, found his fingers improvising new notes, unintentionally providing backup for the secret melody. The notes eventually drifted over to the torn ears of the giant troll Grogdar who momentarily froze, startling the pixie girls he'd been drinking tea with. Before his eyes wavered an image of a rain soaked alley where a younger version of himself staggered, drinking his winnings away on human rum. Through the eyes of his younger self he saw the pixie pull the bottle from his feeble hands while others flew in cardboard to shelter his shivering body from the rain. Unaware of the music which had touched him, Grogdar wiped away a single tear before returning to his daily tea time ritual. The melody even reached Auntie who nearly tripped over a table leg as a vivid memory of smoke and screams hit her like a charging line of heavy lancers. Slowing from a streak to a blur, Auntie redirected her course to Manx, that penniless satyr bard she'd been foolish enough to hire. With a practiced motion the frumpy dirtgnome clapped him on the back of his horned head. Visions of her people racing toxic fumes as they swept through the burrow still assaulted her, but Auntie pushed them back, even the one that involved her mother...

"Manx you worthless goat," she snapped, "I told you not to work no glamer on the customers unless I gave the okay."

"But Aunty I...."

"But nothing, pack up your lute, goat-boy, you're through."

The Queen of Souls

Cabriel walked unevenly down the alley, his slender elf legs still shaking from his trip through the Junkyard and its maze of steel and iron. A flock of faery children, noticing the rapier at his side, scattered from their play. They left behind them chalk scrawlings of flowers, trees and sidewalk games. Oddly innocent doodles for the oppressive despair of the Blight. Along with them was a familiar image, a ring of two dimensional mushrooms, drawn in a circle upon the cracked concrete. Checking all dark corners for unwanted eyes, Cabriel stepped into the center of the chalk fairy ring and pulled a vial from his buttoned coat. One slender drip fell from the tube and struck the ground between the high elf's polished boots. The concrete, previously stable, wavered like the asphalt roads on a hot day and consumed the faery like a bed of quicksand. The moment his blond head vanished beneath the ground, it stabilized leaving no evidence of the doorway but the chalked mushrooms which encircled it.

The high elf shielded his eyes as he walked from the dark passage into the atrium. Under the warm, enchanted light of magical crystals the highest of the highborn lounged. Courtiers and courtesans, some busied themselves with rare delicacies, magical grapes and roasted cockatrice, while others played with their human toys, vapid, beautiful addicts of magic who laid at their feet like dogs and purred like cats as they were stroked. Cabriel walked quickly past the degenerates. He held his Queen in the highest regard for her sole concern was the continuance of their race, but he could not understand why she insisted on keeping those decadent elves around. Two knights in full mithril plate, relics of an age long past, stepped aside for their senior. Cabriel watched them move fluidly in their metal skins, doing justice to his training. Mithril armor was not like the crude, clunky iron or steel suits human soldiers wore. It molded to the body and hindered it less than even simple leather. Sadly these two suits and his own, were among the last in existence.

Beyond the mindless chatter and giggles of the court, Cabriel found Juliana where she spent most of her days. Beneath the glow of the overhanging prisms, bathed in magical radiance, her face buried in the pages of an ancient tome far older than even Granny Oak. While she read, pixie and wisp servants flew about her like a swarm of bees about their nest. While the wisps provided clear light for her reading and whispered their scholarly opinions in her ears, the pixies made over her appearance, twisting red hair into braids and applying pink nail polish to dainty spread toes and slender fingers.

"The meeting went well?" came the Queen's voice, ageless and wise, from behind the scuffed cover of her book.

Cabriel fell to a knee and bowed his head, eye level with his majesty's ongoing pedicure, "yes your highness. The 'boss' of the wyldlings has agreed to your terms and yielded the location of the changeling."

The book fell revealing a face which couldn't be older than twelve but which contained eyes that had seen centuries. "Well done, my brave knight." She placed a soft small hand upon the high elf's head and warm magic flowed into him, driving away the last pangs of the iron sickness like the heat of a hearthfire upon cold bones. When her voice came again it was close, intimate and for his mind only. He met Juliana's all knowing eyes, as her calm, determined voice penetrated his thoughts. 'You are to go with a pair of knights to the Boggart's Hole. Be discreet and if possible convince her to come of her own volition. Use your glamer to touch her with betrayal as you tell her the truth about Adin and how he has turned on her.'

Cabriel wasn't remotely surprised the Queen already knew all he did about the changeling and her location. There were no secrets, neither of heart nor mind, in the light of her legendary glamer. That's how she got her name on the streets after all, the Queen of Souls. 'My lady I still don't understand... this changeling, why not just kill her and be done with it. I know a goblin assassin who could....'

'NO,' despite being only in his mind, the force of the word hurt his ears, 'the changeling is essential.'

'....But they are just freaks?...'

A clever smile curled across Juliana's youthful cheeks and Cabriel followed his lady's eyes up to the glowing crystals which studded the ceiling. 'Do you know how I created the phoridia, the star stones?'

'Your books....'

A shadow passed Juliana's face and for a moment Cabriel could feel the weight of a horrific memory pressing on the other end of the telepathic bond. 'That's right, my knight,' she placed a hand upon the ancient tomes and gestured to its many brothers and sisters stowed in shelves about the study. 'Records of the ancient time, forgotten alchemy and lost history, saved from the fires of the human rebels at the fall of our people centuries ago, passed to my grandmother from her mother, from my grandmother to my mother and from my mother to me... I have read them all, many times over and others procured by your valiant efforts in the the underworld, Cabriel,' She gave her loyal knight an appreciative smile and he felt a pride enhanced by her glamer burn in his chest. 'Under the life extending light of the phoridite crystals I have learned much. For example.... I now know what the wizards were.'

'Wizards? But they are a human myth, the ugly ones can't bend magic to their will, they can only vomit it from their bowls like those abominations in the junkyard.'

'Changelings have more control, do they not?'

'An anomaly.'

'And so many think, but I've learned differently. Cabriel what I tell you here must not pass from your lips for it will endanger all my plans. I tell you only so that you know what's at stake and why the changeling must be preserved at all costs.'

'My liege you have my oath as always, my true name is yours to call.'

'As you say Kynerell. But first, let me ask you this: what is a changeling?'

'The spawn of some enchanted reprobate obviously.'

'And how did humans live before the War of Broken Names?'

'In their rightful place as our enchanted servants.'

'Well think, my knight, for centuries we bred enchanted humans as livestock. A changeling like this Claire creature is first generation. Those who lived in our courts and from whom the first wizards arose were tenth or twentieth generation and with each magical birth their control over the arcane became greater. The wizards, Cabriel, were changelings.'

'.... that's impossible.'

Juliana looked once more to her books, 'it's all on those ancient pages written in the elegant hand of our ancestors. Wizards are extinct only because humans chose iron and steel over magic. It vanished from their blood over the generations until they returned to the barren state in which we found their savage ancestors living so many ages ago.'

'But if this is true... why not kill her. She's a danger to us all.'

Juliana smiled a knowing smile. Her almost divine confidence flowed across the bond until Cabriel thought he might float off the floor, 'not if she and her progeny are our allies and I mean to make sure they have no other choice in the times to come.'

*edited*

They were barely halfway down the street when Aignéis stopped, heat burning at the tips of her silver elven ears. She threw out an arm to stop Fallon, but dropped it just as quickly. She had seen the Iron Police as their paths crossed, but she had not thought anything of it until she heard the sound of them knocking on the brothel door.

“Stay here,” she said absently to her companion, not really caring if Fallon stayed, followed, or headed on to Granny's without her. Aignéis trusted the girl to use her head, it was why she had taken her along in the first place.

Aignéis took the path back to the brothel with a series of quick, firm strides, managing to arrive just as Myla opened the door with a crease in her face and a finger hooked into the waistband of her skirt. Her superior very quickly stepped between the police and the girl, leaning one hand against the door frame so that they would have to push her aside to get in.

She knew of only one reason why Iron Police would come to her door. Someone had tattled to the wrong people.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” she asked with a flash of sharp teeth. Aignéis allowed the cloak to slip a little from her shoulders so that they could see the pale flesh of her chest, just in case that swayed them to be gentle towards her and her charges inside the weathered building.

Greenlight District

Klayde's remaining eye narrowed at the haughty elf bitch who'd dared step to close to him. In the past he'd skewered faeries for coming within dagger reach, but he needed information and if possible he had to avoid a wholesale slaughter. Killing ten defenseless elfmaids, even if they were whores, would not serve to enhance the Iron Police's reputation among the city's faery loving progressives, not to mention how it would enrage the fae themselves. "This brothel is harboring a faery guilty of code 1-41, assault on a human. Give her up for sentencing or I swear to Dagon and all the Gods I'll have each and every one of you given the iron brand."

Behind his partner, Jaden shuffled nervously in his armor. The iron brand. He'd only done it once himself but it was.... horrible. A stamp of pure iron, in the shape of a pentacle, the hated symbol of both magic and the fae, pressed into the criminal's forehead. For a faery it was literally like being branded with a hot iron. Jaden remembered the horrible smell of burnt flesh, the smoke and the screams, Gods how he'd screamed. After that day, he'd prayed that he'd never need to give the brand again. Now he might have to brand, not some miserable goblin thief, but a defenseless, beautiful she elf. He focused on the alfar, so fair, so deceptively innocent, but he just couldn't look at her and he turned his head pretending to check the side streets for threats instead.

Fallon heard it at the same time Aignéis did, but froze before she could react. Aignéis stopped her and demanded she stay put, but looking behind her she could see the two imposing Iron Guards. She felt sick just looking at their armour. Aignéis quickly rushed to intercept Myla, who were surely screw it up for everyone, but Fallon wasn't going to simply stand by. She knew she was better suited for listening to minds than Aignéis. Using this, she pushed a very clear message into Aignéis' head, hoping that she was being receptive enough to hear it. No, you will need my help. She felt a strong hum in her temples that gave her a slight headache, the price for forcing a message into another elf's head.

She didn't normally refuse orders from her superior, but this had to be the exception. She followed closely behind Aignéis, surveying the two guards and growing dizzier with each step towards them. She could practically feel the iron sizzling on her delicate skin. It was incredibly difficult to try to probe the thoughts running through the heads of the iron-clad men. Fortunately, strong emotions often lowered the defenses enough for Fallon to be able to pick out certain words, and images, though the messages weren't always clear. The human in front was much easier to interpret. He was thinking very angrily, the messages coming so quickly and so loud Fallon's head throbbed. He was enraged. Hearing him say, out loud, "human assault," was enough to confirm her suspicions -- they were here for Whatwashername. They had done nothing else wrong. The stupid girl had clawed the face of an important man. You ridiculous idiot! I hope you realize what you have done!

Fallon quickly withdrew from trying to probe the jumbled and harsh thoughts of the angry guard. Simply trying to understand through the iron was exhausting, but she needed to help Aignéis find a way out of this problem. She tried with the second man, the one who stood behind looking around. He had to be the weak link, he simply had to be. His thoughts were much quieter, so it took some effort, but at least there wasn't a loud hissing sound making her head explode with pain. Instead it was just a flash of an image, a memory ... skin bubbling and burning red. Fallon immediately pulled back and suppressed a gag. The man had a horrid memory in his head right now, but she knew how he felt about it. He was the one they could possibly sway. If she had the energy to do so, she would have tried to tell Aignéis about what she'd found. But there was just nothing more she could do, her glamer was worn and it was difficult enough to just stand there without sitting down and resting.

"You must be talking about what happened today," Fallon suddenly said, letting her face show the disgust she felt with Whatshername. "But I could have sworn she had gotten herself kicked out of here this morning. Did we not boot her into the streets?" She addressed the last line towards Aignéis, so that her superior could answer however she wanted. Perhaps it would be enough to divert the guards' attention. "Please understand," she spoke softly to the guards, making sure she didn't present any defiant body language that would offend the angry one. She barely raised her eyes to look up through her eyelashes briefly at the nervous one. "We simply do not tolerate such offensive behaviour here. All of us expect the best treatment for our clients, and anyone who does not follow the rules ... is dealt with."

Fallon usually depended on her past experiences to get her through situations, but this was unlike anything she'd ever gone through before. And the looming threat of the Iron Brand ... She couldn't let that happen to any of the girls. And despite her anger with Whatshername for endangering everyone, she found herself hoping desperately that these Iron Guards would just leave her -- and the rest of them -- alone.

Klayde's remaining eye swiveled from one elf whore to the other like the roving orb of an angry cyclops. "Perhaps I need to make myself clear. I'll be leaving with the bitch responsible or I'll put the brand to each and every one of you for harboring a fugitive. Then we'll see how your business goes when you no longer have those pretty faces." Klayde's gauntlet moved to the ugly iron cudgel which dangled from his belt.

"Sir... I."

"Stow that, rookie! Now go round the back and makes sure none of the snakes slither out of the den."

Watching her and flittering down to the table, Needle was almost disappointed with how rational she seemed. He had always liked the wyldlings—their danger, their hunger, the raw need they lived with spoke to him as few other creatures did. They were as desperate as he was for something more than the awful smoke and grime of life, and this he appreciated. Still, rationality had its uses, and if she wouldn't be swayed by the simple fun of it then he had other methods of convincing her.

He'd made sure of it.

“It's not unusual for him,” he agreed with a smile, letting his leather-bound feet touch the table and tapping across the wood with soft clicks of his heel, “especially when plotting. Or scheming. Whichever you might call it—either way, he wants you here and didn't tell you why because he's sold you out. They,” he emphasized the word, “want you too. And that's something that neither of us will find a good thing.”

Walking forward to watch her, one foot in front of the other, Needle eyed up her concoction. He'd other chemists, of course, or at least others that owed her favors, but her skill was impressive. She kept an eye on her wares and hadn't sampled overmuch—certainly nothing in the room had turned colors or started walking—and focus and control were something the precocious little pixie could appreciate. “What I want from you instead is your help. By all means, make me some glam—I'll never say no, and there's a great many friends I can think of that would love to sample your wares. But I need a bit more from you than that, and not something I'm willing to discuss here. But I'll promise you this, here and now--”

And then a single note, a woven little thread worked its way from the door and waltzed it's way into Needle's lizard-brain like an arrow through a storm. Just a hint of it—there were doors and clamor and glamour in the way, after all, but it was enough to set him reeling with the way things had been before. The crying and the fucking, the crawling over and under and in the middle of his own kind, shivering in a swarm, as mindless as ants and just as misgiven, adrift in the sea of--

“What the fuck was that?”

In an instant the needle it he held behind his back was out, waving like the tip of a sword towards the alchemist even as he clutched his head. She wasn't an elf—no memories like that could have surfaced from some hollow emotion. She wasn't a satyr, and the one that Auntie had pauper-pulled from the streets wasn't strong enough to pull that up. This was something new, something awful that drew the memories like poison from an open wound, and Needle was dripping with them, gushing. No one should be able to pull that from him, that was his--

Focus.

The bite of the needle through it's little palm was enough, the sharp little tip hissing through it's soft skin enough to make it gasp. Red blood welled where the point bit in, a tiny drop not even the size of morning dew that matted his clenched fingers as he pulled away and jammed the needle into the wood with a grunt. The fingers in its red hair bit into the scalp, enough to draw the thought away and focus. Whatever that was, he couldn't let it distract him. He couldn't. Not when he was this close.

He breathed, and laughed, and looked back to her with mad little eyes that glittered shark-dark in the light.

“Sorry, lovely, I got a bit scrambled. Someone about there's playing with what they shouldn't. But back to my point,” he forged on in spite of himself, trying to salvage something of this, “you need me. Adin's betrayed you, the fae are on their way, and if you want to be something more than a little twinkling star you need my help. Price or no, and I assure you mine isn't high. Just a bit of light ready, bedtime stories and fairy—hah!—fairy tales.” History was a fairy tale, because fairies had lived it. Breathed it. Watched it happen and jotted it down and remembered it in ways that humans would never understand. Most pixies didn't, either, but Needle--

“So tell me, precious,” it said again, propping itself up on it's little needle as it watched her, half-tattered wings twinkling behind it, “if I told you right now that the Queen of Souls was after yours, would you let me fix that for you?”

So far, Lior's attempts at eavesdropping were fruitless, dead leaves on empty plants. No one seemed to be saying anything of interest, or of value today. Lior's face rested on boredom and disappointment. His attention rolled back onto that of the solitary figure in armor; he didn't look friendly in the least. He also didn't look joyful either. Which caused the other was what Lior questioned. Was his unhappy because he was lonely, or was he alone because he was joyless? Whatever it was, he seemed interesting and out-of-place. It never occurred to the wisp that it was a Grey Elf. Their kind hardly ventured into the homely roots of Granny Oak.

Then, he was no longer lonely. The other figure of interest, the hooded woman, made her way over to the lonely man. Lior wondered if they were friends. He found it more likely that they were acquaintances of some sort; they were very similar to Lior. Both seemed to be hiding something, both seemed isolated and out-of-place, and they both interested Lior for these reasons. He was sure they were having a prearranged meeting. It seemed like the most logical thing to him. Still, a little eavesdropping could provide the answer to their relationship. Besides, he might be able to hear some pieces of valuable information because most meetings were of value anyways.

Lior didn't want to be obvious in his snooping, and unfortunately, they were too far for him to listen in well enough. Lior found himself in a predicament. If he came closer, he could be found out, but if he stayed where he was, he had the chance of missing the parts of importance. Lior mulled this over in his head, holding his arms out and symbolically weighing his options. It took him awhile. As a wisp, he was very meticulous and thoughtful; a natural scholar. This also made him a very long thinker, oftentimes taking much longer than others to make decisions because of his thoroughness. After a few moments of thought, he decided to stay where he was. The two were much larger than him, and if they become enraged at his espionage, they might do terrible things to him because of his small, vulnerable size. He feared the potential danger more than he desired the information. That said, he still listened in to the best of his ability, although he didn't get that much out of it. Only certain words made their way over to his ears, and most of the were pointless.

Lior laid back on the hanging lamp, deciding to take a break from his eavesdropping, his fruitless actions. He let his mind wander, when suddenly it wandered into an unknown territory at the cue of an unnatural but beautiful sound. A song that led his mind into the recesses of his lost memories. They were only glimpses, but the fragments weighed down on Lior and consumed him. The little wisp found himself lost in something he didn't know he remembered. He saw indescribable death and inexplicable fear. The rest was blurry and he couldn't make it out, yet he was still overcome with an unbearable sensation of fear and grief. For unknown reasons, Lior's eyes welled up with tears, and alone on a lamp, the wisp began to cry. No one below would notice, unless they were close and paying attention. Lior's groans and sobs were of mourning, but Lior didn't even know what he was mourning. He could only connect his emotions to those fragments of memories, if they were even memories and not his imagination. He couldn't stop though, as if his emotions knew more than his mind did, like they knew what those sudden images really meant.

Lior spent a good minute crying and contemplating, until he was able to regain control of his body. What had just happened? Where had the song come from? Lior became set on finding its source. Perhaps hearing the song again would help him get to the bottom of the mystery of his past. He needed to find out what had transpired. Lior perked up and looked around. Somehow, something within him guided his eyes back to the two hooded figures. Maybe they were the source? Lior was unsure; he would need to do more listening.

As Claire had feared, the little pixie seemed completely unbothered by the fact that her boss was the leader of the Wyldling gang. His remark that Adin had been vague because he planned on selling her out did strike a weak point, however. She had thought it strange that he would have her there for a deal, as even Wyldlings found Changelings uncomfortable to be around. And it was strange that he sent her to acquire the ingredients for glam, as he had never sent her anywhere outside the Junkyard before. In short, nothing he had said or done fit any of his usual patterns, erratic though they may be.

The pixie seemed to realize he had gotten something to stick, as he explained that he wanted her help with something that he didn’t want to talk about. A gentle, melodious tune spreading through the air cut him off before he could finish what he was speaking, not that Claire really noticed. It was just a vague sense that his voice had ceased as her vision was filled with thick darkness. The darkness was accompanied by a burning sensation that caused her eyes to water and her lungs to spasm fitfully, her coughs muffled by the arm she held in front of her face.

Almost as soon as it began, the memory dissipated like fog on a bright, sunny morning, leaving her gasping and rubbing at her eyes as she tried to recover. To get her mind off the experience, she went back to stirring the glam, concentrating solely on the alchemy keep from reliving the horrible, horrible memory. The laugh coming from the little pixie drew her attention back to him and what he had been saying about Adin and his request. Absently, she noticed that his hand was dripping a tiny amount of blood as he spoke, returning to his topic quickly. It was quite odd for a pixie to be more than a ball of impulse, as that was how they usually seemed to be, but that made it a little… refreshing. In a way, they were both true and genuine oddities.

She was a little puzzled by his mention of reading, as it certainly didn’t seem like something that required a Changeling’s assistance. But, he had said that he didn’t want to speak of details where they were, which meant that there was most certainly more to the story than reading bedtime stories. She didn’t say anything, however, knowing that she wouldn’t get the response she was looking for.

His assurance that the leader of the Seelie Court, known more commonly as the Queen of Souls, was after her was a bit alarming. She certainly couldn’t have anything to do with them! What on earth could she have done to attract that kind of attention from the leader of one of the most powerful gangs in the Blight? It definitely didn’t make any sense, but then again, neither did Adin’s orders or a pixie that wasn’t a part of a swarm in some fashion.

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me say know, huh?” Claire said, biting her lip as she turned the glam off, satisfied that it had cooked to completion. It wasn’t her best work, but it would do nonetheless. She began filling her little bottles as she continued. “And, I suppose that even if you would, I wouldn’t want the Queen of Souls finding me. Can’t imagine that would be pleasant. So, where do you want to take me?” While she waited for a response, she grabbed her cloak and threw up the hood, ready to move when the pixie said to.

In a way, it was a little saddening that she would be leaving, what she considered to be, her second family. They had taken care of her in a time when she knew that no one else would have, and it hurt to feel that they had betrayed her like a stray dog. She tried not to dwell on those thoughts and emotions, figuring that it wasn’t the time to be doing so. If all went well, there would be plenty of time for that later.

Aignéis's hand suddenly snaked out and grabbed the wrist of the lesser soldier, even though she could feel the burning pain that his iron gave her. Her eyes had become as sharp and hard as flints.

“There is no way for you in the back,” she said sharply, lowering her voice to a dangerous hiss. “My associate has already told you that the girl in question was dismissed and cast out onto the streets. It is time for you to take your search elsewhere.”

She pushed a sense of certainty into her words so that they would be influenced to think of her words as truth, although the iron against her skin was lessening the force of her power. Her other hand was slowly creeping closer and closer to one of her knives just in case. Aignéis did not like violence, but she was no stranger to it.

This was not the first time that she had encountered humans who were angry and vengeful at the female workers for causing them harm, and on previous occasions she had done everything within her power to sway their vengeance. She had begged, and seduced, and on one occasion killed, but none of those past customers had been iron police. Aignéis worried that there was no way for her to save the girl from the iron police, and she worried that she would have to hand Isi over to them to save the lives of every other girl in the place.

The options were either that or killing the police. At this point she could not say which was the easier task.