Southgate Medical Clinic soldiered on through the weather and time, managing to hold up their part of the slums with some dignity and poise. Long overseen by the city council and a few shadowy donators, it remained graciously decaying on the outside while featuring state of the art equipment and facilities inside.

Valentine's Day wasn't a respite for the clinic. The day brought in a full measure of suicide attempts, assault and battery cases, and a full assortment of rather delicate bedroom mishaps. Mist had no real interest in the holiday other than knowing it was half price chocolate day.

"Mist! Mist! Oh my gods, Mist! Mist!" Becca shrieked, running through the hallway between the treatment rooms. Baffled, the elf backed out of a room, a wailing child over his shoulder, juggling a laptop.

"What? What's wrong?" he asked, blinking. Becca was in her fifties, a black human woman who had seen everything at least twice, a far too experienced nurse to scream without damn good reason.

"There's a riot!"

"...Call the guard...?" Mist responded, golden eyes wide as he shook his head.

"Mist! They can't do anything and they're trying to set this place on fire and you have to stop them! Mrs. Fallstaff said you used to be a battle mage!" Becca barked, grabbing the laptop from the elf.

Becca may as well have slapped Mist. He stared at her, stunned, and slowly shook his head.

"Becca, I can't use those spells, they're meant to kill. They are battlefield spells, they..."

"Mist, they are throwing fire bombs and they are armed and we are sworn to protect the sick and wounded," Becca snapped, "We can't even get anyone out the back way, they've surrounded the entire block, they're going to burn us alive!"

"Why...? We're a clinic, there's no reason to attack us..." Mist stammered, handing the little girl back to her horrifed father.

"I don't know, they're chanting something about cleansing?" Becca replied, exhaling, a hand over her face.

"Terrorists," the man whispered, his face white, "Those human first people, a lot of them are terrorists, they're crazy."

Mist exhaled softly. Though he never spoke of it, he felt that the humans had every right in the world to be angry, along with all the people of the city. The marketplace alone had become the barrel of fish that every idiot who needed to prove they were powerful shot into at any given opportunity. The first day he had arrived in Rhydin was spent pulling survivors from wreckage and healing all that he could, and nothing had changed since then that he could see. He handed out protection runes like candy, and it wasn't nearly enough.

The very reason he had been cut with runes had been in an attempt to prove the power of Men.

"...I'll. I'll do something. Move everyone into the basements, barricade the doors. Emil is here, he can ward them shut. Let's go," Mist finally whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. He reached out and quietly placed protection spells on the girl, her father, then Becca. With that, he drew in a breath slowly and turned to walk to the front doors.

He was not an imposing figure, tall but without mass. He wore bright blue scrubs, the tunic adorned with Pinkie Pie. His blond hair was tied back. He needed a shower. Mist walked into the waiting room with his head held high, wary but calm.

Security had managed to half-close the old security gate, the windows and glass doors were smashed. The only thing keeping the mob back was the tangle of metal and benches wedged against the walls as a makeshift barricade. They howled and sneered at the elf the moment they spotted him.

A few cars had been overturned and were burning already. The pharmacy across the street was on fire, the security doors and windows proving against the onslaught of the rioters. Mist exhaled as the stepped closer to the crowd.

"Please go," he called, his voice faint and weak at first, but, drawing in his breath, he bellowed the words loud enough to be heard over the chanting and yelling.

"Fuck you, elf faggot!"

Well. Mist certainly had gotten their attention. But they were not listening.

"I don't want to hurt anyone. Please. Go home," he yelled a moment later. He exhaled, ducking a brick, then averting a burning bottle of alcohol off the side. It shattered, but the flames instantly smothered. A few people noticed that. Mist lifted a hand, the runes on his face gleaming bright blue. The fire burning through the pharmacy extinguished moments later.

Mist frowned faintly. There was a strange sinking sensation to the feel of his castings. He had to focus more, draw more power, so that the spells went off as he intended. The image of a weeping lion flickered through his consciousness, then the memory of Mallory's gaze.

"He's a fuckin' wizard!" someone yelled.

"Please go home," Mist yelled a third time. He did not want to hurt anyone. He had hated every moment that he had been called into service on the battlefield. It had been grotesque, violent, hellish, and he vowed to never use those spells again save in dire need.

This was quickly qualifying as dire need. Mist stepped back as the crowd massed around him. Focussed on him. He lifted his hand once more, calling his staff to his grip. It blazed brilliant sapphire light, blinding those coming towards him.

That gave Mist an instant to think that spanned into a miniature eternity. Sitting in the inn. Talking to Mesteno. Mesteno who so casually hooked fingers into the sore spots of Mist's psyche, offered insight, but more importantly, regret to have made those cuts at all.

Therein lay the key.

Mist drew in his breath, lifting the staff in his left hand, his right, the fingers touched over the runes shining over his eye, then to the mandala on his chest. He spoke, the words obscured in antiquity, weaving power into a precise pattern with the energies drawn from himself and the world around him. He let the image of the weeping lion into the weave, stabilizing the effect.

"Stop him, he's casting!"

It was a helpful warning, but the .38 slug was fired before the call sounded. Mist's voice hitched faintly, he jerked against the searing blow to his midsection. A second bullet slammed into his chest.

His inner voice insisted upon sounding like Mesteno. 'If you'd just cast the damn spell, they wouldn't have had time to target you, idiot.'

'I can't kill them,' Mist replied to that phantom.

'I see you totally forgot the all important shield yourself part of that,' it responded, sardonic. Mist winced. He hadn't, but he wasn't sure how much power he would need to alter the horrific war spell on the fly as he had. Which would all become irrelevant if he lost control of the spell because some moron with a cheap pistol had managed to take him down.

It didn't matter. Mist released the spell, pulling a shielding spell with it to protect himself. But...

There was nothing to protect himself from.

It was a hellacious spell, a vicious wall of jagged clawed energy which would sweep a battlefield clean of the living, a wave of sheer implacable destruction, silent as death, an eldritch wall of spinning blades. It would leave an easily disposable pile of dismembered dying and dead in the enemy's own battlements.

Mist altered the spell as it cast it. He retooled the spectral slashing knives into an implacable wall of force, which swept all before it away. There would be bruises, a few broken bones, but the rioters would all survive the onslaught of the cast spell. It carried them along in a rip tide of force to dump them randomly throughout the city.

Exhaling, Mist dropped to his knee, then his hip. He collapsed slowly to the cracked and stained linoleum, dimly aware of the pain. By then, the runes were brilliant, already at work to preserve him. He fumbled for his phone and texted Becca a single word: Hepl.

She'd understand.

She'd been called hells she'd damn near been Invoked when one of the children taken in by one of the Bygone found himself outnumbered, outmatched, and trapped at the back of an alley with no outlet. Trying to get back home with another lostling that hadn't made it out of the city in time, a musteval girl whose very nature served her well enough in the past to make her cocky and overconfident now.

They'd all heard the warnings, the rumblings. They'd all seen the horrible things being done, the atrocities being committed for the sake of power. But very few of them had actually believed anyone could be so...the reality of it was so far beyond the scope of even their understanding they couldn't process it. Tiana and some of the older foundlings, they'd tried to warn the younger ones, but even their words, their experiences couldn't bring it to life.

Now he found himself crouched in the sort of filth he'd sworn he'd never feel on his skin again, shielding the wiry, terror taut body of a girl his own age with his own, praying to a Power with all his heart.

In a rush of Summer she came, sauntered out of the darkness behind him with the scent of harvest and wood fires at her back and the sound of chiming bells, deep bellied drums, joyful singing, and hunting dogs skirling before her. She was leather licked, her armor well made, perfectly fitted, and had obviously seen more than one campaign. Nearly white hair was slicked back, braided tight and wrapped and weighted. The warmth and cheer he knew lived in her was banked, hidden beneath something that twisted his gut tighter than the mob he could hear approaching, something that made him want to fall to his belly in worship, something that made him want to run screaming.

"What's doin' Yonal? Who've y' got there?" With Power raging through her, coiled tight and ready to lash out in response to the rioting and mobs she couldn't soften her voice, couldn't offer comfort or warmth even when she clearly saw both younglings needed it. She didn't even try.

"Vesry. I was running home, when I found her, hiding a couple of streets over. We can't get back. They're coming." For a boy who'd once been used as prey for sport hunting of a nightmarish sort, being trapped and hunted were shattering. That he could form words at all was damn impressive.

Behind him Vesry whimpered, chittering her terror. Reverting to the nature of her spirit. Red eyes rolling in their sockets, if she could she'd have already chewed off a limb to escape this particular trap. She went silent, shocked still when the woman growled in her throat, and the shadows pooling around them answered.

Thorn smeared the palm of a hand across her mouth, pulling down to hold her throat a moment, eyes narrowing in thought. The two had almost the entirety of her attention, though the rising noise at the mouth of the alley were tapping, drawing. " 'Kay, here's the dark. Y'all two're gonna go through a Gate. I can't getcha back all'a way, it's sealed off from the city so nothin', an' no one without the right, or an invite, can get through. Keep tight t'each other, an' run. Y'all run like," she gave a darkly amuse snort. "Y'all run like the Hells're behind you, an' don't stop 'til you get inside. You'll be fine, jus' don' look back, an' for fuck's sake, don' look back."

The redneck barely waited for their nods of agreement and understanding before opening a Gate for them to bolt through.

After the shadows swallowed the two whole she turned her atttention, the whole of it, to the mass of bodies beginning to make their way down the alley. Cautiously at least, the surge of energy she'd brought with her upon her arrival gave them pause.

"Oh now, don'chall worry. I've not forgot you." An odd blend then, misty green hills and scrub covered panhandle plains and red tiled rooves. "Not one little bit."

With a snarl she moved forward, the song in her throat building to rush forward on a wave of Power that had some of the crowd breaking to run, fear sending them gibbering into the night to find what safety they could, some dropped where they stood, stunned or worshipping or frozen in terror. There were some though that did neither.

Quite a few really. Marked with blood and hate and rage and self righteousness, they firmed their knees, closed ranks and rushed in.

Most of them died trapped by red brick and mortar and filth when a blur of blades and bell song met them with unholy joy.

Through the night she fought, blending her own brand of magic with a dance of blades that was all boneless grace and rage held back by rotting string. Those that ran, lived. Those that knelt, lived. Those that raged and fought, most of them lived. Bloodied, bruised, and in most cases desperately needing healing, but they lived.

Occasionally she found Defenders struggling to push back, or even simply hold the tide and joined them. Lending them another set of hands, another set of blades to do the job so they too could move on.

Her Paladin and his two were out there, she could feel him moving from place to place, offering his help as well. In this conflict however Dave's assistance came in the form of healing. He moved from bed to bed in one of the many places where the wounded and dying were being gathered. The twins were at his back, acting as assistants, back up, or protection for him as the need arose.

Tiana was in another place, the oldest of her lostlings with her, offering the support and healing there. Comforting those they could in their own way, in any way the victims could accept.

Thorn's stomach twisted, and her heart wrenched when she let herself look around. Let herself snap back beyond the moment and see what was happening in the city. So much damage, so much lost, the price being paid was so, so very high. Her eyes glittered with tears even as she kicked another rioter in the jaw, dropping her to the ground unconscious.

Memories rose up to swamp her, washed over her and had her changing the blades back into rings. No one else, not by her hand tonight.

The leading edge of her disappointment and rage broke, fell away like glass shards. Binding spells flared out, flashed over and cut loose where she'd meant to do actual damage before. She fought hand to hand now, with no want to wound or kill. Whenever she could, whenever she remembered to, she cast shields to help minimize property damage as well.

When she found people huddling together for safety, or hunkered down waiting for the storm to pass, she offered them passage, offered them Sanctuary and safety.

For a week they trickled in, some with vouchers. Lirenel made note of Des' handwriting and smiled. Some on their own, a bloody mess, which meant a scented handkerchief to the nose when needed.

He let them into his brownstone without question and guided them to a doorway manned by Brandon where his son kept a dreamscape portal open to the Eranesse Estate. With its wards and protections in place, it passed through the insanity unscathed.

Wyll stood on the other side at the Estate where accommodations awaited the portion of resurrected homeless sent to the kindred elf for help. Beyond Wyll, guides stood, horses stamped impatient hooves, drivers and wagons, motorcycles and sidecars rocked and rumbled, ready to receive the afflicted and confused. Estate employees in their burgundy and cream enabled the unsteady to mount or embark for transportation to the facilities.

"You'll find counsellors to assist you with understanding what's happened as best we can. For those of you who suffered catastrophic injury, they'll explain that odd feeling of --uh-- deja vu. We'll help you find new homes either in the city or in any other destination you seek away from here. There's food and shelter, warm beds and lots of water," Lirenel repeated on loop each time the door buzzed and he guided yet another stunned person or persons to the portal. "Be at ease. We'll sort this all out together."

By the end of the week, though he kept in touch with Benji daily, he found himself in desperate need of seeing the Bright Star up close and in intimate detail.