Durwith made his way into the alley, his battleaxe and shield ready to dispense justice upon the guilty. "What's going on here?!" Durwith barked as the trio turned to face him.

The alleyway thugs came into better view as Durwith came closer. Three men, each wearing the red masks of the Sail Street Mercers.

Their victim, an older man slouched against a wall ad very visibly beaten, slumped to the ground as they turned their attention to the guardsman.

"What do we have here?" one asks, approaching Durwith first among them. He thumbed a blade on his belt. "Someone who wants to walk away from this, I think."

Durwith growled at the threat and made to swing at the Mercer who issued it. One of the Mercer's fellows noticed however, and managed to make Durwith abandon his attack to block a dagger swing with his shield. This gave the first Mercer the perfect opportunity to draw a shortsword and go for the eyes, Durwith deflected the blade away from his eyes but was still cut across the cheek. Though the wound stung, Durwith gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. There was still work to be done. Before a third strike could be dealt upon him, Durwith finally swung his axe at the Mercer who had threatened him. Had Durwith not been using the side of his axe he kept blunted for non-lethal attacks, that would have been it for the Mercer. Instead the blunt axe head connected to the Mercer's side with a dull thud and the Mercer himself staggered back a pace, clutching his side and grimacing in pain. "Honestly, menacing an old man like that" Durwith said as he prepared to fend off more attacks "Don't you Mercer bastards have anything better to do?".

"Honestly, menacing an old man like that" Durwith said as he prepared to fend off more attacks "Don't you Mercer bastards have anything better to do?".

The Mercers said nothing in reply, the third of their ranks moving to flank him. Durwith's axe had cut any smiles form their face, metaphorically, and it seemed that some more literal cutting was in their future. The fight was no longer a game, it seemed.

Durwith found that luck smiled upon him, though, as the Mercer tripped over himself and fell to the ground. The other two pressed their attack, blades flashing in the low lamplight, but the street thugs could not penetrate the chain mail with their blades.

Durwith laughed as he watched the third Mercer fall over. Not allowing himself to let it distract him though, Durwith weathered a further two attacks before seeing a good opening. With a mighty upwards swing of his axe, Durwith caught the first Mercer square in the groin with the blunt head. The pain was enough to send the mercer crumpling to the ground with no sign of him rising again until long after the fight was over. "Who's next?!" Durwith asked the remaining Mercers as he prepared for another wave of attacks. Once again, the Mercers attempted to strike Durwith. And once again, they were unable to get past the dwarf's armor and shield. Upon seeing another opening Durwith took a swing at the Mercer who hadn't fallen prone a moment ago. But the Mercer had caught onto Durwith's attack pattern and moved out of the way. Durwith cursed as he prepared to weather another volley.

One of the Mercers continued to spar with Durwith, curved blade in hand and threatening to thrust it forward, but they were beaten, it was clear. The other gathered their fallen comrade up and helped him to his feet. He groaned groggily as he was pulled up, and the two beat a hasty, if encumbered, retreat. As they cleared themselves from striking distance, the Mercer squared off with Durwith began backing off as well, and as soon as he was out of the dwarf's reach he turned tail and ran. The three thugs made off into the night, slipping into the shadows of Teres.

Their victim, the older man, struggled to his feet, supporting himself with an arm against a building wall. "Gods bless you, sir guardsman," he stuttered in between gasps, clutching at his ribs.

Though he'd prepared himself for another round of attacks, it soon became clear to Durwith that no such attacks were going to come. One of the remaining two Mercers in the fight had broken off from the assault to pick up his incapacitated fellow while the other Mercer still standing kept Durwith at bay. The Mercers were falling back. Durwith had other matters to deal with, so he let them run. Once the Mercers were out of sight, Durwith turned to the old man and helped him to his feet. "The temple of Melora isn't far from here" Durwith said "The clerics there should be able to heal your injuries. Once you're ready to move, I'll see you there safely".

Arathys looked the paperwork over carefully, filling out each section as he went with the ink and pen he always kept on his person. At the description of his abilities section, he simply stated that he was the pupil of one Mytharion Amontel, and that his training had focused on the arts of summoning and conjuration. As for a statement of why he was here... That was a tricky one, as again. His decision to apply had been more whimsy than anything else. Though he supposed his real reason was to further his beyond what his mentor had been able to teach him, with a desire to seek professional employment once his education was concluded. He didn't have to tell them that "professional employment" meant itinerant wizard-for-hire.

Jotting all that down, he returned to the help desk, eager to put the bureaucracy behind him him and get on with his schooling.