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Although she would never admit it, Ilyse felt disappointment along with her relief of seeing the slave had survived. His being here meant her trip through the outskirts of the market were likely less than unnoticed, and it would be easier to track her through the witnesses that spotted him.When the 'stall' owner spoke she stood, then frowned further at the mention of the slave again. The former knight waited until she finished unwrapping her shemagh before she engaged anyone further. It was far enough out that she could quiet, by one means or the other, anyone who saw her face, and she hated speaking with this on. If she was about to try and replace it, there was little point in keeping it on. The face revealed beneath was of pale skin, and green eyes with a serious look about them, as if they had seen more than could be told.

"He's not mine," she replied apathetically, if not slightly nettled, as she wound the cloth around her hand. The sword-woman spared the slave a glance, only quick enough glance over him once more. If the whiteness of her skin did not betray her as a foreigner, then the way she spoke the common tongue did. Her words were crisp and enunciated, but also brisk and impatient, spoken as if by someone who has walked both sides of the language; its formal and common dialects. Blonde hair was cut at a slant, as if done herself. As Ilyse held the shemagh up, she brushed the stray hairs behind her ear on the short side of her haircut, leaving a lone bang hanging freely. She always hated the hair there. "I want your head cloth, I'll give you my own and ten silvers for the trade." Judging by how far out from the market this merchant was, Ilyse assumed she had more room to haggle.

A simple tug up on the ragged clothes around the woman's torso helped them to come undone as she pulled them off between speaking. Beneath the covering were arms as pale as her face and leather armor that it had been concealing. A blue-sheathed dagger was strapped to her thigh, previously hidden by the low-lying cloth. A sword sheath was still visible by her waist, tattered rags tied around the sheath to conceal its blue color. But only now was the hilt of the sword both visible and easily accessible, a warning to any with tainted ambitions. Ilyse took her eyes off of the merchant as she glanced again at the slave, this time feeling some pity for the abysmally dressed man. "How much for two cloth coverings?" she inquired impatiently. Then after a quick thought she added, "and with what quality?" She wanted to be able to not give the slave a second thought, but old habits die hard.

His eyes widened at the sight of the pale figure undressing herself. It was more than understandable to comprehend the fact that she was wearing so much to cover her skin from the blistering sun. With the scars and bruises of his once pale body (in fact, it was bright pink all over him, particularly his back; sleeping he'd reckon to be particularly difficult with those sizzling blisters) clothing was very much needed. Upon hearing the merchants offer of sheets, he sighed, looking over the colourful fabrics available. A shame really, he was at least expecting a tunic of some kind; whatever, it had to do.

"Okay," he glanced at her rescuer, the woman as foreign looking as he was. "please? Pretty please?" he asked in regards to the sheets.

Umran handed over the gold and sighed faintly in relief as he was given back the book, laying a heavy hand on its well-cared for cover. "Thank you," he said, tone easily portraying the blatant thankfulness of his movements.

Upon the merchant's apparent lack of memory, he slumped, lips pursed in disappointment. I can't spend more money into this, he thought to himself, eyeing the pouch around his waist. I've spent enough of Master's money. "Nevermind," he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. "I'll just send the hounds in as soon as I get back. Please, don't feel threatened by their appearance once they do," he asked, clasping his hands together and tilting his head like... well... a puppy. "They're not that bad! ... If you get past how they look," he added, rather sheepishly.

Considering that said hounds were conjured via necromancy, then, well...

One could easily see why their appearance would cause alarmconcern.

While trying to decide how to approach his master about the current thief situation, the merchant excused himself and began to talk with potential customers. Curious, he peeked towards the source of activity- his eyes widened slightly.

Foreigners? Not that they were that uncommon, but- there was something... strange about them. Especially the woman. He moved a little closer, wanting to hear what their conversation, and was only mildly surprised to realize that he was able to understand most of what they were saying.

That mandatory language course sure helped he thought... then slumped a bit in embarrassment. Though I still can't actually speak it...

The wizard hummed in disappointment, caressing his goatee. Remaining in the city for another day was out of the question, so he'd have to remain pipeless for a while longer. And she didn't seem to be willing to part with her own pipe. What a shame - the woman's wares seemed excellently sculpted. Perhaps, however, he could make use of something else - with more practical applications. The dark robed wizard picked up a wooden ring from the woman's stall, feeling its texture with his fingers. Hardly what one would call a Ring of Power, but good enough for what the mage had in mind. The ring was placed in front of the woman, followed by ten silver coins- the oddly designed currency of the Kritarchy. "I'll take this instead, then, young madam." Elazan said courteously.

"I want your head cloth, I'll give you my own and ten silvers for the trade." Voices speaking in Common? The wizard glanced backwards and noticed another stall - if it even deserved that name - packed with curios and covered with sheets in a vaguely desperate attempt to make a tent. Behind it was a native whose oily smile Elazan would probably be able to clean his boots with. The wizard had already made an acquaintance of the ones in the front. The slave and his rescuer, who was apparently as foreign as the former, made a conspicuous duo. They escaped the guards well enough, but that spell of theirs helped. Which of them was responsible, however? Already guessing the outcome, the wizard observed the curling currents of magic around the light skinned foreigners. Nothing - the spell's imprint had already faded, making it impossible to investigate further. For now. He did notice something else, however - or rather, someone.

An adolescent. While that by itself was already off-putting, the dark skinned boy cradling an ancient tome in his grubby hands had the soft taint of necromancy around him. Not a trained one, however, otherwise the lad himself would have already noticed him. And they were generally old enough to have a beard. And a hat. So the boy was an apprentice. Or a servant. Actually, he was probably both. (Elazan, more than other college mages, had a low opinion of magic users who only did one-on-one teaching, and thought that a wizard really threw down their towel when they decided to become just a few words of wisdom away from dancing brooms.)

One should note that the Wizard Elazan had nothing against necromancy. Actually, he did, out of principle, but had to actively remind himself of that. In fact, he dabbled in it in his formative years, and gave up on the Art due to its dullness but also because making booming, ominous speeches to a mass of indifferent undead was extremely unsatisfying. (Not that hobgoblins were any better when it came to conversations, what being as stupid as a bag of bricks and all. Still, they knew how to cheer. Ah, the good bad times.) Now, however, Elazan was a Wizard of the College, and had to have a slightly different attitude about an actual organization of raisers of the dead. Especially when the dead had most likely been murdered. Especially when it was said that these Justiciars also wielded dark magic. So when the mage looked upon the child and felt his master's mark, he was wary. Could he be acting as an informant for the Justiciars? Of course, that could also pratically be said about half the town.

Elazan looked past the grubby teenager with the crumbling book and spared another glance at the assortment of oddities, carpets and rubbish that composed the stall where he got it from. Maps didn't seem to hold great value in the bureaucratical, static society of the Kritarchy. Perhaps this street vendor, in the lack of a cartographer's shop, was the wizard's best chance of finding a map of the entirety of the Kritarchy while he was still in this town. He idly browsed the woodworker's wares while he waited for the slave and his rescuer to finally finish the quite urgent process of getting dressed, and kept an eye on them out of the corner of his eye.

Farah eyed the coin from behind her pipe, and glanced up at the old wizard as she took it into her hands. She was rarely lucky to get what she worked for for her goods, so ten silver seemed oddly generous. "It is yours, old sir," she teased after inhaling a lungful of smoke. It curled out of her mouth and nose as she spoke. She said nothing more, but watched him and the foreigners he watched at the stall across from her.

Ramez glanced between the two. A strange sort for him not to belong to what was apparently a woman. They were both foreigners, made even more obvious as she partially disrobed to trade headscarf. The not-slave and she stood out like a sore thumb with their lightly colored skin and hair, and while Ramez was struck by the unique beauty, he also glanced around as if looking to see if the foreigners had caught other attention. She carried an assortment of weapons as well, putting thoughts of asking too many questions out of his mind.

He would have preferred the native tongue as humoring the foreign language could only attract more attention this far away from the plaza, but he seemed to speak either language easily enough. He tended to enjoy any attraction his little stall could get, but something about the foreigners had him guarded. "Make it thirty silver and you'll have mine and two cotton coverings," he offered. She seemed prepared and slightly impatient in her trade, so he'd take advantage. He followed in removing his own scarf for the trade. Dark curly locks freed, he stepped back to retrieve two cotton sheets, prepared to make the trade and get the foreigners on their way.

Ilyse gave the slave a harsh look as her eyebrows furrowed in an annoyed glare. "I will reconsider," she threatened at what she took to be pleading from the fellow light-skin. She had agreed to it once, barely, and was not likely to agree to it a second time. In this situation, Ilyse's tolerance for altruism was limited.

When the stall's merchant spoke again, he gaze shifted back to him with little change in the harshness of her look. Her mood had been heavily soured by recent events. She tugged the cloth off of her hand and tossed it to the merchant at the same time she took the new scarf, holding it crumpled in one hand as she, in turn, kept a watchful eye on Ramez. "Twenty," she responded without hesitation, "you ask me to pay a lot for someone who isn't mine. Twenty for the lot, and you even come away with a scarf." Ilyse hesitated in her reply just long enough took a step backward, out of the stall and into the street where she could view all of merchants that lined the road farther down. Her shoulders never turned, but her head craned slightly at the sight, noting the density change for a half second, and she raised a hand against the sun to shield her eyes from its intensity.

This was not her first time in a mercantile district, but it was her first time in this one. In her past, it was her sistren that often dealt with the hagglers, for they knew Ilyse had little patience for them. But without them she had dealt with the traders and traitors, often one in the same she thought, as many would pick your pocket at the same time they shook your hand, on her own. She never liked them.

The hand lowered from her eyes as she stepped back 'inside' and explained, "I am sure I could find more suitable clothing at another stall. Perhaps that would be better," she said with a shrug before ushering Edlin from the 'stall'. A ploy, of course, and one that she had learned from her battle sisters, to get a price she was comfortable with. Some times you had to be willing to walk away from the deal. With how far this stall was from the population, Ilyse figured this was a deal that the merchant needed more than she did.

He flinched as she glared at him. He too glared in return. He was desperate for some Gods damn clothing at this point; if the sun burns and blisters weren't evident enough. He hugged himself with his own hands. Well, she wasn't the friendliest of women, but she managed to dispose a Gods damn spearman! With ease as well! He'd just have to take his situation more professionally; no point in sulking or arguing with the one person in this he could 'trust' to a certain extent.

"Yes please!" He agreed to the notion of getting proper clothes. Those sheets can only last so long before the fabric gets rough on his blistered skin. With that, he followed his saviour.

"Y'know, I haven't seen someone take out a spearman so quickly and effectively." He commented as he followed behind her. "Must speak volumes as to the competency of this nation's military if they can't use bloody spears properly." He huffed in amusement.

The wizard placed the ring in one of his cloak's many deep and hidden pockets, next to other enchanted (or to be enchanted) items such as the Knife of Extreme Buttering, the Wineskin of Substantial Alcohol and the Amulet of Occasional Table before bidding a courteous farewell to the woodcarver. The situation in the nearby stall had begun to change rapidly. The apprentice had left, stammering some word or another as he walked backwards and scurried out of the stall area. The boy still clutched that book of his as if his life depended on it (knowing his masters' ilk, it probably did) but the sudden look of fear in his eyes was noticeable even from Elazan's position. The wizard tensed, for the whelp had surely recognized him for the grand and powerful wizard he was! (Well, at least someone did.) Alright, running off like that was a bit too much, but perhaps the apprentice was unaccostumed to other types of magic than the poor man's chicanery they seemed to have in these lands and had scrambled off to warn his master.

The situation in the stall was going through further developments. The woman and the merchant haggled between themselves about the price of clothing, with the former, accompanied by the slave escapee, making a leaving motion as if she had decided not to buy anything after all. But there was more - a robust man, dressed in fine linens, was moving rapidly across the lower end of the market, followed by a few servants and guards. A ragged youth, possibly a child, who had been staring hungrily at stalls from the end of an alleyway, had retreated into the shadows. A street musician who used to be sitting next to a broken fountain, north of the group's stall, had quickly collected his things and scampered off.

The reason for this mass exodus became aparent a few seconds later. So much for getting recognized for the grandness of his wizardry, Elazan thought with some vexation. No, the boy had not sensed him. Instead, he had sensed the monstruosity that was currently walking in the stall's direction. And the wizard, in his foolishness, only now was seeing the currents of magic that twisted and churned around the iron clad figure. The sands next to the Justiciar's sandalled feet followed a similar pattern as it advanced, the unarmoured hem of its plated robe fluttering with the wind. So these are the famous enforcers of the gods. Impressive creatures, despite the no doubt unfastidious magic that had a hand in their creation. This one carried long scimitars in each gloved hand, barely keeping them from dragging across the ground. It had a mask, of course, the twisted and contorted image of a black scarab. From his position, Elazan could partly see the back of the man's head, or at least the metal that covered it! While the idea of getting a closer look of the creature had its appeal, the context was severely lacking: the mage gripped his staff and prepared himself.

The Justiciar lurched forward, its shadow stretching beneath the afternoon's sun.
"You have breached the law." Its echoing, metallic voice said, loud enough for everyone to hear in the sudden silence but with only the barest hint of a inflection. It faced the wizard, as if inspecting him. Then it turned, swiveling to the right, and sprang in the direction of the merchant's stall, a flurry of hard metal and cold flesh. It was greeted with a barrage of papers, carpets, linen sheets and assorted oddities as Elazan discharged his spell, magically directing the merchant's would be tent and most of its contents at the creature. The wizard knew it would only buy him - and the others- the fewest of moments, however, and once more the wizard found himself dashing into the shadows of an alley. "Fly, you fools!"

In the market, a small distance away from the foreigners and the merchants they haggled with, a young man stalked his way through the recently disturbed crowd. He didn't try to resist the push and pull of the passing people, allowing them to bump into each other before walking on; vanishing into the streets as well-to-do pedestrians reached in their pockets, finding vacancy, straining their heads to find the headscarf signifying his presence to no avail. This was by no means a special day to him; the occasional scene in the market was commonplace, stirred for many reasons he knew better than to actively investigate... usually. But so far nothing had grasped his attention from his routes; in a way, he was out there for the same reason everyone else was. He just used a different means to reach it.

Unfortunately it was only to stay that way for a moment; the pickpocket's height had its drawbacks, one of which was his lack of understanding when other, taller people started to retreat from the area. At the very least he had his suspicions and so, in between the bodies of the departing, he strolled into an alleyway, turned and scaled the side of a building. The thief leaned forward and scanned the street... and there it was. A Justiciar. The young man thought, only half-jestingly, that he should have smelled its arrival.

The pickpocket dropped from his vantage point; there was no reason to give the juggernaut pause on his part. He'd be gone from this place before anyone even knew he was there. Taking to the alleyways again, he considered his options. Muffled by the buildings between them, he could hear the Justiciar speak and then the cry of a foreign man, urging his companions to run. A shiver ran up his spine; such a spectacle was something he could empathize with, though he had no wish to join them. Curiosity got the better of him and, as he neared his way out he instead drew closer to the main street and poked his head out from behind a building to get a glimpse of what was happening.

Matthijs' morning started before the tired sun stretched its arms of light across the horizon. To wake before the early dawn was not a habit forced through servitude, but grown from the days of his youth working on farmland. He'd wake the other servants in the quarters from their death like sleep, shaking their shoulders as he passed by. Much like the animated corpses of the necromancers, they would rise, following not far behind him as they retrieved their morning rations. Dead men could walk, given the right motivation.

Remnants of the night clung desperately to brightening sky, their light fading as he finished a parcel of bread. As the sun rose, Matthijs would be standing dutifully by, waiting for his master, a captain, without a word. Masters were best served in silence. Defiance and lies were met with a snapping retribution, through either hand or whip. Matthijs had forgotten the sound of his own voice, speaking through the nod or the shake of his head, sometimes the occasional grunt.

A decade of tight-lipped, obedient routine had earned him something from all his masters, something far more valuable than gold: Trust. He was seen as reliable, like a well trained sheep dog, happy only when he was working. His stolid façade; they would never know their trust in him was ill placed. His freedom long ago stripped away with his dignity, they had stolen more than just a man from his home. They had taken his only means of joy and love. Hatred for the city, and those who ruled it, burned in him brighter than his home and fields that had long ago been set aflame.

Fit years Matthijs watched his superiors closely, memorizing any maps of the city and the trade routes out to the distant villages. In his taciturnity, he studied and learned, plotting his escape. Though unable to read, the pictures of maps were clearly drawn in his head, burned into his memory like the brand of servitude upon his arm. When the time was right, he would escape, and the maps in his head would lead him back home, wherever that may be. He dreamt of the days where he could once again plant fields of sorghum and wheat, raise oxen and sheep, and enjoy gazing upon the fruits of his labor while smoking his pipe as he watched the sun set behind the horizon.

With the day having long been set in motion, the afternoon sun high and scorching, Matthijs followed his master through the streets of the city. A simple job for the day, though not any less strenuous; keep the master (and any others) well watered and cool. With armor gleaming, sword and shield at his side and, Matthijs' master was already burdened with the weight of cloth and metal. Should the weight become too cumbersome to bear beneath the heat, Matthijs was there as a means of relief. A satchel on his side and a pack on his back, the servant followed the captain around the city, his head lowered. A broken man might have counted himself lucky.

Matthijs eyed the Justicar ahead of them. No good ever came from drawing attention of their kind. Anyone with the least bit of common sense knew it better to turn away or hide. The presence of a Justicar was...unsettling. Power and magic swirling about them, clinging to the beings like a shadow. Hidden behind beetle faced masks, they lacked the essence of life, mercy, and the compassion of men. Matthijs had seemingly little to worry about, being one of the group that trailed behind the iron fisted creature. Yet, not everyone seemed to understand the full consequences of drawing the attention of a Justicar, and so, chaos in the market ensued.

Matthijs wasn't sure why he did it, or what caused him to act. The screams about the downtrodden market, from seller to servant alike? Or maybe the lost, blank stares of the slaves bound in chains nearby? Perhaps it was even the ignorant bravery of the wizard that encouraged him? As linens, papers, and trinkets flew about, servants fled as their masters battled the bombardment of junk with hand and blade. Matthijs dropped the heavy load from his shoulders and followed a new order said to the others, "Fly." And so his feet carried him into the alleyway, not far behind the wizard, and any others that had followed his wise words.