Lyon Camaris walked alone through the city, hurrying back towards the Wilwarin Inn. He had had a busy day, for he had managed to get a job working at the docks, but he had stayed overlong, and now night had fallen, and with it the dangers of a large city. The mercenary's hand was near his sword, and his ears tried to pick up any sound other than the eerie silence that accompanied night.

The mercenary sighed as he walked forwards. It had been strangely difficult on him to watch the other dock workers that he had been working alongside. After finishing a hard day's work, they had gone off to chat with their friends, to meet their lovers and wives, to go and have fun at some pub. In other words, what would be considered a normal life for most. Why was he assaulted by these strange feelings as of late? He was a mercenary, and a damn good one at that! These thoughts had no place in his head, why couldn't they leave him alone!? He was a trained soldier, a veteran of many skirmishes. Fighting was what he made his living off of, and it was what gave him freedom! He had no desire to bind himself to the domestic life of city folk.

Or so he had thought...and yet, his conscience told him otherwise.

As the mercenary turned into an alleyway, he did not notice the small gang that waited there, so lost in his thoughts was he. It wasn't until he was within ten feet of them that he looked up, and upon seeing some rather unfriendly faces staring at him, Lyon's expression was one of surprise. He looked from one human to another, then attempted to continue on his way, but found the path blocked at the group quickly formed a wall against him.

"Well, take a look at this..." one of the men, a black-haired fellow, muttered, a devilish glint in his eyes.

"Mind letting me through, sir?" Lyon asked politely, though his hand dropped to his sword, which was concealed under his cloak. These men were drunk, he could smell alcohol on their breath. They would be reckless, which meant that they could be dangerous.

The man laughed at this request. "Nah, I don't think we will...hey, guys, I think this is a merc. You know the one that's always staying at the Wilwarin?" A few of the others nodded. The black-haired human, who Lyon discerned to be the leader, grinned. "Yeah, I thought so. I could spot some filthy sellsword from a mile away." He made a motion to the others, and in a matter of seconds, Lyon found himself surrounded.

"You know, merc," the leader of the gang said, striding forward to place his face directly in front of Lyon's, "I wonder what you're up too. Off to go kill someone? How much you gonna get paid for it? That's all you see when you look at someone, innit? A big fat price hovering over their head."

Lyon's eyes narrowed. "No," he said firmly. "I'm not an assassin."

The man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, so what? You still kill for money, it's the same effing thing. And you know what, I don't really like that. A murderer like you doesn't have a right to be mixing in with proper hard-working people like us."

"Is it considered murder to kill an enemy in war?" Lyon asked, his eyebrows raised. Even so, what the man was saying had cut into Lyon like the edge of a sword. It was true, even if he did have a good purpose behind it, he killed people for money...

"Shut up, merc," the human said. He was now breathing heavily, and a hand reached down towards his waist. "I don't feel safe with a cretin like you around, always lugging around those weapons. So guess what? I'm gonna kill you." Lyon tensed, and his sword flew out of his sheath, but he was too slow; a club smashed into his back, and the mercenary was forced down to the ground.

Laughing, the gang closed in, drawing out all manner of weapons; clubs, knives, daggers, broken bottles. Lyon struggled to fight back, but he was outnumbered and in poor position for sword work. He was beat down, cut, spit upon, and kicked. Another club came swinging out from seemingly nowhere and smashed into the mercenary's face, causing blood to pour out of his nose, and several teeth to shatter.

And he succumbed to the pain and torture, simply laying there as he heard the jeers and laughter, felt the drunken men unleash their frustration and hatred upon him. There was nothing he could do but lay here and die...

How long this continued, Lyon did now know. Pain had numbed his mind, and he no longer felt the blows as they slammed into him, for their was not a single part of his body that was not already in agony. Lyon closed his eyes to the horror and uttered a silent prayer.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the beating stopped. The prostrate mercenary heard the gang walking away, laughing and congratulating each other. Lyon, after making sure that none had stayed behind, struggled upright. He swayed, and immediately fell over, unable to even stand due to the immense amount of pain his body was in. He spit blood and teeth out of his mouth, then lay down face-first on the cold, hard ground.

And there he stayed, alone, unable to do anything but endure his pain and anguish.

Jetemia finished up closing up the shop that he recently purchased and started walking down the streets of the magnificent city of Lómëdor. Although he owned a shop in this part of the country and had been doing so for couple months the routine of closing up the shop at night was still getting bothersome, more than once he forgot to lock the door and a bemused employee was often seen trailing the shopmaster making sure that things ran smoothly. He glanced at flickering light of the street lamps as he made his way off to return to his sleeping quarters. Of everything that had happened today the elemental that was rather good at fitting in with humans shifted his thoughts his future. In retrospect his future didn't matter to himself, he cared little about what he was doing now in relation to what it may lead to, he cared little about plans for the future- more happy to let things drift past on the stream of time.

That was until his foot ran into something.

In the darkness of the evening he hadn't seen the group of men walk past with weapons in hand; if he did he was too lost in thought and failed to see them. Maybe he shouldn't have been walking down the alley that night, even if it was the fastest way to his small room on the second floor of a boarding house that he rented. He utterly tripped and fell on his bandaged face. As he just lay there sprawled across the street, his face flattened as if it was made out of a waxy substance he noticed that the obstacle was groan softly. With a couple of oaths of irritation he detangled himself from the man, a short one at that, and said a word of apology, and took a step away with the intention of leaving.

Well the thing with intentions they never quite pan out. Within that one instant Jet mulled it over that thought that if the man was in such pain that he could not stand maybe Jet should see if he needed any help, plus he would get another story as to why. Jetemia loved stories, even if they don't stay with him for long. He turned slowly on the one foot and moved to help the man. "What do we have here? Would you like some assistance?" he spoke in a slightly metallic voice that asked with genuine tone of curiosity.