From an unknown spot, Ortos watched what happened after. The female Tribunal screamed, and screamed. And the thief... was killed, if not paralyzed, in a heartless manner by the armored man... man... mage. Yes, mage. Abrogant, apparently from the use of the barriers.
What luck. It made his job so much more simple, having one gone and the concern that gathered around the woman. Though Ortos knew that his mother would chide him - for he should have been going to get the Faldrunium, he found himself fascinated to watch. Who was this Guild of Hospitality representative? Why was he helping the Theocratum? And why did he have such nice armor?
Woe. The name was Woe.
Ortos remembered that. He slid out a new needle, and a different vial. With his thumb, he gently flipped the top of the tiny vial, then slid the needle through to coat the sharp end.
While the two men in league with one another, tried to calm the woman with the slashing knife and fear vivid in her eyes, Ortos crouched and he whispered in the softest voice to the needle. So soft, only his breath escaped and no actual voice. His lips moved behind his mask. The metal of the needle extended like before. Thin, nearly imperceptible in the dark, at the level of ankles. How fortunate it was that both Vito and Woe had taken position to try and stop Sabina from hurting herself or others in her intense fear.
First, Woe.
The needle struck, nearly impossible to feel, as it first tapped against the armored boot, then slid up to find the narrowest space behind the knee that remained unfixed so the man could move his joints still. It pierced in a slow manner, to not alert, until deep enough in the flesh that the nerves would have jolted as if a mosquito bite.
Quick, the needle retracted, changed shape and direction while hidden by the shadows and...
...went toward Vito, to strike his knee as well -
- and Woe, possibly alerted by the tiny pinch to the back of his knee, could see with his Omnivision... something. He couldn't tell what it was, even if he focused directly on it. Something almost slithering, like the thinnest snake imaginable. Like a gossamer string made alive. Like the webbing of a spider... that aimed to pierce Vito with the spider bite he must have felt. For this would make the most sense to a man like Woe.
Not that Ortos knew any of that. Ortos focused until the needle pierced Vito or not, then he let go and abandoned the needle. It shrunk to its original size, on the floor right beside Vito. To see such a small, thin thing among the dark floorboards would require a great deal of detection indeed. The sort of detection neither the Inquisitor nor the mortalborn naturally had.
Ortos slid along the wall, to change position, and then he stepped out of the shadows.
“Boa noite,” he greeted the other two men while he raised his hands in the gestured wave of peaceful approach and surrender. He tried common, heavily accented by Vahanic dialect. “Stop, if you will, stop.”
The figure of Ortos was a tough one to look at. His limbs were wiry and thin, but stretched in a way that seemed too long in proportion to the rest of his body. Of course, that might have had something to do with that: over his right shoulder he hunched with a terribly lump of hard flesh, as if someone had cut open his skin and shoved a ton of moldering empanadas underneath before stitching the flesh shut. It ruined what might have otherwise been a bold and confident posture of a tall man and made his spine curve to one direction to compensate.
Now, visible. Now, detectable. Because he allowed himself to be. Ortos was covered from head-to-toe in black leathers and crimson rubber-like material. It clung to his awkward figure and around his waist he had multiple belts with various small, thin satchels attached. Bandoliers of sturdy leather crossed his chest, with protective holders for many vials. His face hid behind a tight mask of leather that only had holes to see and to breathe through his nose. His eyes were as dark as his bizarre attire, as black as polished obsidian with no distinction between shape and pupil. The hint of skin on his eyelids were just as dark.
“She must be put to sleep,” he said of Sabina. His voice had a grated quality to it as if run over a cheese shredder as he spoke. He repeated in Vahanic, “Ela deve ser colocada para dormir.”
“O sono final,” he said to Vito. The Final Sleep... most merciful. “A maioria misericordioso, Vito.”
Ortos lowered his hands, though he stopped his approach just out of arm's reach of the armored mortalborn. He said, “Friends? Let's be friends? You want... want... want the Faldrunium... I can help. Woe. Vito. Friends, though. Friends first. Friends help.”
