Donovan strolled into the human remains as if doing so was commonplace, which didn't exactly imply a lot of great things about the life he led these days. Aza didn't move to meet him, but she didn't seek to avoid him taking up her hand, either. The fox was already nestled in the bag, amidst all the rewards of its murder.<em>Self-defense,</em>it said sleepily, eyes mostly shut. It looked a little thinner and smaller than it had before. Less fluffy.<br/><br/>Don assured them that Methuseld was off doing something useful, and followed that up with how Dean would rejoin them at some unspecified place and time. That got him a dubious blue glance from both Azas. "But, he... was not Dean killed? I felt so," the girl said, stepping gingerly over somebody's ribcage and trying to not let her cloak snag on the jagged ends of bone or drag through the bloody mud. It was definitely time for new shoes, too. The thought of that was uplifting. Curiously, so was the thought of Dean actually having survived. The fox poked its small black nose out the top of the bag, likewise interested in Don's explanation for this one.<br/><br/>The three of them abandoned that gruesome scene and rejoined the commuting crowd, and to her credit, Aza made a noticeable effort to keep close to Donovan and not be separated or stray. But the sense of security that the big man's presence offered was somewhat offset by the shadowy little doppelganger in her purse. It'd seemed like Don held some measure of control over Dean, though; surely the Knight could handle a single small, shady fox. The animal probably only held a fraction of Dean's darkness. Probably.<br/><br/><em>Dean brought this upon himself,</em>the fox reminded her with another yawn, having squirmed over into its back to hold and examine one of the gold coins between its tiny front feet. "And now, it is upon me," Aza pointed out, pressing close to Don as he navigated them around a camel-drawn cart in the center of the street. She didn't know that Donovan was attributing Dean's state to the foxgirl herself, or at least, to some action on foxgirl's part. Aza would be more than delighted to tell him it all started when Dean called in that Greater Shadow and then didn't know what the fuck to do with it. Aza was a bystander. The most innocent of ones. Like a lamb. Sinless.<br/><br/>With her hood down and only trying to keep pace with the much taller Knight, she didn't see their latest attacker until Don had rearranged his face and was pulling her over the man's prone form. The sight of yet more blood streaming between the foe's fingers sort of made her want to throw up. Wasn't there a limit to one day? She remembered sitting beneath a canopy on a cushion beside the sorceress, overlooking the city arena where slaves and beasts battled to the death for the entertainment of the onlookers. Naturally, Aza had never felt anything like sympathy for those being butchered down below, but she had never taken pleasure in witnessing the sport, either. Gratuitous wealth and food and sex were all fine, but she had no stomach for violence.<br/><br/>'Almost there,' said Donovan as they came into sight of the stables, and at the same moment, the drone of insects rose up in a sinister chorus.<br/><br/>For the first time, Aza hung back a step, making Don have to tug at her slender wrist. "I do not ride, alone on horseback," she warned him. Aza and horses held a mutual disdain. To them, she was small, but smelled like a predator; to her, they were very large, and smelled like horses. And they always disagreed about what the other should be doing. The group would have to double up once they met with Methuseld, then. Maybe one ride with Aza, the other carry the fox...<br/><br/>Don had slowed and then stopped, the three of them standing at the edge of the large open square that laid just inside the huge city gates. Across the square, in the shadow of the walls, waited the stable (alongside which, just out of view, Methuseld was currently besieged). The cicadas hummed, louder.<br/><br/>"What is it?" Aza asked him, glancing up from his elbow, lifting her free hand to push the fall of her pale blue hair back from her cheek. From inside the shoulder bag, the fox was snoring. "Why do you look at me like..."<br/><br/>She trailed off, looking by Donovan at a palanquin being toted past, the conveyance heavily draped and tassled and the servants carrying it better dressed and bejeweled than any commoner.<em>That</em>was the way to travel, not being dragged around by some half-talented thief. If she had<em>that</em>... and she<em>could</em>have it, it wouldn't be hard at all to ask the shadows to come and go<em>get</em>it...<br/><br/>She gave a little shake of her blue head, as if to rid her ears of the oddly-timed, disorienting cricket noise. Donovan's grip on her hand felt too tight so she tried to shake that off too, her gaze following the sunlight glinting off the palanquin's golden inlays, and taking absolutely no note of the new men marching ominously their way. In its sleep, the fox growled.