Meanwhile, in the Camp de Réfugié...

[Marcelline Saint]

Late Melora in the Winter of Era XV PF

Marcelline was returning from her day in the city proper, having completed her work for the day. She had no real job, she could not manage to find one, when so much of her day had been spent caring for her father while he was alive. Those days were behind her now. The guards had hauled his lifeless body away in a cart full of the other nameless starved of the ghetto less than a cycle ago. In a place like this, no one could afford to mourn the dead. Mari kept her body busy and her thoughts numbed, hawking what few goods she had left on the streets of Jaedaxia, while stealing long draughts from her flask which was more often filled with vodka than water (when she could afford it). Returning now to the settlement, her flask was empty and the guards were none the wiser.

She was drunk. Today she had sold a necklace of her mother's--a beautiful gold locket Mari had cherished since childhood and probably the last thing she owned worth anything at all. It broke her heart--what was left of a heart that she could still recognize--to see it in the dirty hands of some Imperial scavenger. But, he had paid over a hundred crowns for the trinket. How could she refuse? Mari suspected he had hoped to get more out of her than the jewelry for such a price, but even in times as tough as these she had never once stooped so low as to sell her body. And she never would. It was the last bit of morality she could salvage in poverty. Beyond her small savings--nearly five hundred crowns now, nothing short of a small fortune for anyone that called the camp home--she had nothing left now, save for the clothes on her back and few dry servings of bread and cheese in her room, assuming no one had found her stash and taken it during the day. Everything she had, she had to hide.

The makeshift shanty her father had built when they had first come to this place did not have a lock--who could afford such things? It was enough she could keep a blanket on her bed, the last of the furniture, and most nights she slept in her cloak. It was truly the only piece of identity she had anymore--the beautiful blue, embroidered cloak her mother had given her for her birthday years ago--before the revolution, the siege, when they had lived in a real house and been a real family. These days, it was well-worn and the sleeves were just a little too short for the girl who had now grown into a young woman. The only things that meant anything to her--the money, the coat--were with her at all times. No one could be trusted in this gutter, not even the guards.

With the money, though, Marcelline had dared to glimpse a dream for herself. Those five hundred gold pieces were her ticket out of this hell. She was not quite sure how or when, but the money meant she had a future--which, for a girl all alone in the world, meant everything. As she walked through the littered pathways of the ghetto towards home, she allowed her thoughts to wander towards hope and the briefest smile crossed her usually joyless countenance.

[Crimson]

Snow, like powder, fell freely on Jaedaxia that late Winter darkening. And even as the drunk Saint trotted down the dirty cobblestones far from the majestic, beautiful buildings of the Southern Quarter, she was far from alone. The refugee camp of the City was a stagnant combination of slums built on top of slums. And ever since the seige, it has been patroled by the ever bitter legionnaires who were stationed in what they felt was a winter wasteland until just recently. Even then, the legionnaires forgot little of the Everwinter and most were bitter veterans of the Seige. The locals hated them as well, their foul uniforms and pretentious patrols. They represented the vile Empire and his Prince who resigned them to a quasi-separation from the rest of the Empire's independant cities. Jaedaxia was a jewel, but forever alone. Like a lone star in a starless sky she sparkled but only in the deepest darkness.

Shallow eyes and hungry looks greeted the young woman as she neared her shanty which was in reality less than half a home. She proceeded within and found her items sure enough. Her previous neighbors were filthy thieves, true, but the people of the slums knew to fend for one another and rarely stole from a fellow. Everyone was hungry, but that only meant that the rich, the aristocracy, and nobles were getting fatter shares than everyone else below. That thought made the Saint a little flustered even as the settled into her blanket on the floor. The garment was as cold as ice, but Marcelline only bit her lip as she settled in with her claok draped around her.

And as her eyes grew heavy, her mind settled on a fragment of a dream for herself: those five hundred crowns, her ticket out of this miserable existence. And while she was a girl all alone in the world, that only meant that she would share her success with only herself. And perhaps, at that moment, the Saint actually smiled ... just long enough until she finally closed her eyes.

But then, a dull knock on the door.

[Marcelline Saint]

The cold air of the winter's eve may have threatened to invade the flat, hard bed Marcelline had made for herself this night, but lying down was nevertheless a comfort. The girl had spent all brightening walking the unforgiving streets of the city and had had, quite honestly, probably half a flask too much to drink. So naturally, as the worries of another day past began to melt away in the welcoming darkness of sleep, a knock resounded through her hollow home. "Oof," she muttered to herself, sitting up on her elbows. Her head felt light and her eyes struggled to find their focus through the alcohol. She had to steady herself for a moment before she could address the problem of an unexpected visitor. She took a deep breath as reality settled in once again around her and she was able to stand.

Someone had come a-knockin'. In all likelihood, Mari reasoned, it was another vagrant begging door to door for food or shelter for the evening. Nonetheless, she did not trust it and rightly so. The refugee camp was not a safe place to be in the cover of darkness.. especially when you knew you had something worth taking. And so, she grabbed the old dagger she kept with her at nearly all times and held it close as she cracked the door just wide enough to peer out. "Bonjour?" She called tentatively into the night.

[Crimson]

"Bonjour" came the response. It was a woman's voice, an unlikely thing in the camp. "Sorry to bother you, madamoiselle ... but I am Brother Jean (John) from the Church of Faith." A crack on the half beaten door Marcelline used to repel the elements confirmed this fact. There was a young man in a set of blue hooded robes just standing outside her hovel. "So sorry" he apologized again, but that warm smile never left his face. Did this man possess hope and faith that she did not?

But then, he lifted what looked to be a basket of food. "Just handing them out to my neighbors" he added with a cheery shrug "here you are, if you wish." He tried to wiggle a half loaf of hard bread through the crack Marcelline provided; and when she recieved it, added a small pouch of dried meat and some sharp cheese. "I had more earlier" he said "but I will make sure to bring some on the morrow. Well ... erm, au revoir" he waved, his broken Jaedaxienne evident of his foreign education.

Pulling aginst his hood, the young monk turned to leave. But then, he must have caught one of those cracked cobblestones outside because with a sudden crack he fell. A groan filled the darkness outside and Marcelline knew that the Blue Monk had probably sprained if not broken his ankle. Should the young woman attempt to show him any kind of hospitality, however, he'd smile tiredly, raise his hands in polite protest and insist that he was just fine. When he attempted to stand, however, the extent of his injuries became clear. He wouldn't be able to put any weight on his left ankle for a bit -- at least a good brightening or two.

"Oh damnation" he cursed, then suddenly caught himself. With an embarassed look he added "I mean, forgive me Diana and the Sacred Three. May this injury be used to teach and heal ..." He groaned again, this time after attempting to stand for a second time. "Ouch ..." he muttered before throwing Marcelline a look that could have only been described as one coming from some hungry pup who was lost and alone.

[Marcelline Saint]

The appearance of a member of the Church at this hour, under these cold conditions of winter, did little to hinder Marcelline's original suspicions. "Bonsoir, Frère..." she replied tentatively, her hazel eyes not quite yet refraining their judgment for this interruption on her evening. The cutting winds of a Jaedaxian Melora caused the girl only to cower further into her hooded cloak and away from the elements, but this man of faith seemed little phased by the weather. Despite her hesitancy, the monk, with a smile that kept him warm, passed the girl a meager portion of food through the cracked entryway. Mari had never experienced such seemingly selfless consideration in this gutter and was, quite honestly, confused by the gesture. Why did the man do this? What did he want? What facet of character did Brother Jean possess that she did not? Stunned by his gift and perhaps a little speechless, Marcelline could only manage to utter a small, "Merci.." before the monk turned to leave.

But, before the passage between them could be shut and the girl given time to digest the occurence, there was a CRACK and a groan filled the darkness beyond Marcelline's door. Quickly, her reservations were forgotten and she rushed to his side to see if the man was alright. "Monsieur! Êtes-vous bien?" she called, without the thought that he did not understand her. When he attempted to stand, however, the full extent of his injuries became clear. His ankle was hurt--probably broken--and Jean certainly would not be going anywhere.. at least not tonight. She offered her arm to help him stand and spoke in common, "Per'aps zis iz 'ow ze universe means to zay.. ah.. 'stay 'ome when it iz cold'. Diana iz no match for ze Jaedaxian Winter," and she gave the man a half-hearted smile to perhaps ease his plight however slightly. With such a pitiful look on his face, she knew she could not simply turn him away into the cold night -- especially after he had been so kind. "Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, you must come inside.." she offered, ready to help him hobble in to her meager defense against the elements.

[Crimson]

The young monk smiled back but winced at the pain he was trying to hard to hide. "I suppose Diana's hand is no match for a Jaedaxian winter indeed" he admitted with a sidelong glance at the young woman. This was entirely prohibited. Not only by the order but also by his own code. He shouldn't be looking at her so ... passionately. He felt his heart quicken and he prayed something to fend off temptation with practiced expertise.

Then, she asked him to come inside.

He took in a long breath and nodded. Oh Diana, forgive me he cried silently then slowly half-crawled, half-stumbled into the hovel. When Marcelline had closed the door behind her, the monk suddenly found himself shivering more than he liked. Immediately, he tugged at his cloak and resisted all attempts to look at the girl's backside ... or legs ... or -- no! He said two prayers this time, one against temptation and the other was for Diana to keep him from sinning further.

"You must forgive me, madamoiselle" he said with his broken Jaedaxienne "but I will sit right here" he patted the cold, half rotted wall behind him next to the door "I will no longer bother you. You must be tired" he noticed the bed and immediately realized that the hovel barely had any walls to separate them. He moaned inside but kept his mood as positive as possible.

Oh damnation.