Through the narrow iron door and up the stairs, where no light shines, the moon and stars have disappeared, given way to a night of drumming rain that patters heavy on the broken stone of the city.  The promised wagon is not hard to find-- a simple cart with a canvas cover, a single horse at the front, the contraption looks suitable for hauling goods, and as if the straw-laden compartment will barely hold the few of them in its small, but mercifully dry, space.  "Go, go," mutters the elven girl as an unseen driver-- no, a driver that is not there-- not visible, or not tangible perhaps?-- lifts the reins and whips them lazily to drive the horses into the murky gray night.  The dog that has stood sentinel at the door through all of this watches on from the nook of an alleyway, its baleful eyes and mangy pelt appearing as only a flicker as the cart turns expertly and heads for the road, and then with a few lurches over the broken roads, they are moving at a good clip-- the broad shoulders of the courthouse behind them looming at first over and around them, then gradually beginning to shrink into the distance as an artist may have once rendered it, painted it for a faraway sitting room, sketched it to show a loved one the marvels of the great city.  It is illuminated for a moment more in the flash of heat lightning, a bolt that comes without the peal of thunder that so often follows, and then it is gone into the night among the other hulking ruins of Golgotha's sprawling districts, its winding streets, its creeping decay consuming all.<br/><br/>The man with the lean jaw and the flashing dark eyes is still grimacing with pain as he places Cris gently upon her back on the hay, folding the cloak over her frail body and gently stroking her cheek in an almost brotherly gesture before he turns his attention back to his swollen nose.  "Alright, we've got wounded-- bring any potions of healing, Fen?"  He says as he casts off his backpack and begins fiercely rummaging... "I didn't think I'd need one, blast it--"<br/><br/>"You don't," she retorts sharply.  "Take care of the<i>real</i>wounded, Declan.  Your nose isn't worth wasting a potion on, haven't got 'em to spare.  Get the purification rite, too."  She is unfastening her belt pouch, and draws out small vials.  "These are weak, trust me, but you're bleeding bad from those blades.  Here..." she passes them to the wounded, her hands working deftly in the dark, pressing them into hands easily.<br/><br/>Though Fen and Ox can see perfectly well, for the others it's pitch black... so the one referred to as Declan whispers a few words of minor incantation, spurring a spark of light within a chip of wood that he's rummaged up from the bed of the wagon.  It glows in his palm like an incessant candle, and he wedges it into the wood framing of the canopy overhead to let its light shine down on them... illuminating their rough surroundings with a light that swells and fades as if with breath.  "Always thought I had a handsome face," says Declan.<br/><br/>"Think on it more," says Fen as she opens a wooden scroll case, pulling its corked end apart gently and unfurling a roll of parchment from within.<br/><br/>Declan manages a chuckle, then speaks clearer, seeming to subtly shift from Fen's sardonic handling to addressing the others as one.  "Look, there's much you need to know."  His voice is heavy and serious, despite the slightly nasal tone of the broken nose.  "I know you've been through hell, trust me... but you're with allies.  We've been where you are, and we've survived it.  So hang in there a little longer."<br/><br/>A faint moan from Cris' draws their attention, suddenly.  The girl's cheeks are flushed, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, as she seems to endure what may be a semi-conscious nightmare.  Her eyes open... lovely and fair, dilated wide and glistening, as her blonde hair sticks to her skin.  "Hang in there," says Fen, stroking her cheek.  "Something's got hold of her," she says softly, turning to Malia, Mina, and Ox.<br/><br/>Malia, likewise, feels her skin growing warmer, a semi-feverish haze settling into her mind.  IT's not a sickness, or a poisoned feeling... it's more of an intoxication, a physical reaction of her circulation and nerves stirring to life with adrenaline, fear, and excitement.  Every tactile sensation is piqued as reality is muted.<br/><br/>[perception checks to see if anyone notices Malia's condition... difficulty 15.  Unless Malia says something about it, in which case you can disregard.]