Ash made his way back to the nonhuman district, where a crowd was gathering in front of Alro’s shop, people stopping in to express their sympathies, often with coin. Many of them touched their forelocks as they passed, or the equivalent. Ash felt a little happy inside, something that rarely happened. He even allowed himself a smile as he entered the guardhouse. Pike was asleep at his desk, drooling onto the report he had fallen asleep writing. Ash took his cloak from his shoulders and laying it over the sleeping man. He looked cute like that. Ash stood up to his full height, his now-visible armor rippling with the motion. It failed to gleam in the low light. Ash turned, feeling himself watched. Sure enough, in the back of the guardhouse sat the elven gentleman, sitting on a stool at the edge of a rough wooden cot. A wooden bucket was at his feet. Like all elves, his build was tall, thin, lanky, ears pointed. He wore a paired sword and dagger, following the convention of most of his kind. As Ash approached, he saw a woman covered in a light blanket, beads of sweat dotting the visible skin, a wet rag across her forehead. The elf looked at him warily.

“May I?” Ash asked, gesturing to the body. The elve’s eyes flickered from Ash to the woman and back again. Finally, he nodded. “Thank you.” The Hunter crouched down on one knee, taking the woman’s limp wrist in his hands. It was hot, feverishly so. Ash laid two fingers across the inside wrist; the heartbeat was fast, like after vigorous exercise. He turned to look at her companion. Even crouching down, he was head and shoulders above the elf. “Magic user?”

He nodded. “Specializes in water magic. We have had...multiple cases of arson recently. I believe they were trying to wear us down, stop us from responding.” He said grimly. “Our squidling was assaulted as well.” He scowled at the unintentional pun.

“Squidling?”

“We call it Octavia. About the size of a large dog. Rubbery blue skin, great big eyes, twelve thick feelers. Quite the little firefighter.”

“Attacked with salt, you said?”

The guard nodded. “Dried her out, skin’s all covered with red and white blotches. She’s recovering in the well out back.”

“About all you can do.” Ash stood up, gesturing to the comatose woman. “She’s got magic exhaustion. Miracles aren’t free.”

“I know.” came the sad reply. “Not enough food, not enough rest. I told her to slow down, to regain her energy, but she would not.” There came a weary sigh. “Her heart is so big it can make the world perfect, for a time.” Ash laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

“I’ll be back. Got some errands to run; I’ll gather ingredients for a remedy.”

The Elf looked up, yet refused to leave his partner’s side, watching Ash leave. The Hunter paused at Pike’s desk; in the end he left, his cloak still draped over the sleeping man.

Ash made his way down the alleyway, pausing once he was out of view of the guards. Reaching behind his back, he grabbed his bedroll from where it hung next to his sword. Calling it a ‘bedroll’ was perhaps generous; in actuality it was simply two pieces of shearling leather sewn together at the bottom and halfway up the sides. Wrapped within was his kutte, perhaps one of the only things he, and many other Hunters, owned with no practical purpose, a thing for the sake of itself. It was made of dragon leather, bleached bone-white, and Ash counted it among his most prized possessions. It hung loosely over his shoulders, the sleeves, such as they were, just covering them. A two-toned grey trim wound around the edges of the garment, a geometric zig zag design between the dark gray borders. Across his shoulder blades and over his heart was red black-bordered embroidered lettering, proudly proclaiming ‘Roki Keep Class 188’. The right side bore a red sash, running from Ash’s sternum to his hip. A similar length of cloth was sewn upon the left side, starting opposite and circumnavigating his ribcage, disappearing into his armpit, endowed with a series of patches like medals on a military man. First came the sigil of Roki Keep, the school that had taken him in, taught him everything he ever knew. Then came a series of black ribbons, marked with five golden lines like a ruler, each representing five years as a hunter. Beyond that, the rest of the chest sash was filled with a variety of patches and pins: good luck charms, memorabilia, and little trinkets of all kinds. A Hunter’s life tends to beat the ability to smile out of it’s victims, but Ash felt a rare thrill of contentment as he put it on, pulling back the thick ropes of keratin that was his hair into a tight ponytail, cleaning himself up as best he could. He walked through the streets, streets that had become familiar to him over the course of several visits, making his way towards the Aririan Bank in the human district. There were several things Ash liked about the Arian Bank: secure, trustworthy, branches in several cities, and accommodating to a Hunter with a bag filled with every type of coin under the sun. He gritted his teeth as he passed into the human sector, attracting disdainful stares and a guardsman shadowing his footsteps. A Hunter cannot, however hard they try, fail to be noticed. While the Kutte presented him a small amount of authority in this neighborhood of fine silks, it did little to hide the mace and dagger holstered upon his legs, the sword upon his back, the steel-capped staff slung over one shoulder. Another factor was, not to put too fine a point on it, that he was less human than the passerby approved of, and only the protection of his caste allowed him to walk the streets unmolested. He came to squat building, doorway flanked by columns of black marble and two men in ceremonial uniforms who were contractually prohibited from saying anything nasty to anyone, although not from giving Ash disdainful looks as he entered the bank and was swiftly directed by a stocky man in a embroidered doublet to a teller’s gated stall, away from the other patrons. Behind the desk was an Automata, it’s porcelain arms resting upon the desk, it’s ball jointed fingers resting atop themselves. It’s overall appearance was of a human female, but large portions of the mechanism were visible; the arms, hands, face, and neck were covered in porcelain shrouding, sections requiring movement made flexible and pliant by some unknown method. Painted lips twitched into a small smile as Ash approached.

“Good day.” he said, gently depositing the coin purse from the last contract on the counter with one hand, the other making a waving motion starting at his temple.

A small nod.

“Need to convert this into common currency.” he said, verbally and in Handsign.

The Automata took it, face gently twisted in confusion.

“Do you Signspeak?” he asked.

It, or rather she, shook her head, methodically sorting the various coins into neat, stacked piles, sweeping them up in porcelain hands and depositing them in drawers below the counter. She picks up a slim fountain pen and begins composing a receipt in neat block letters, the black ink drying quickly on the parchment. Her enameled hands fold the receipt and slide it, along with a stack of brass coins, across the counter. Ash takes both, depositing them into pouches sewn into the waistline of his gambeson.

“Thank you.” He says. “Have a nice day.”

The Automata nods. Ash felt the eyes of the bankers as he left.