Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.
The ring of metal impacting marble streets echoed around Quinn's helm, seemingly in an effort to hollow out her ears. Getting on her nerves was, at this point, a bit of an understatement. Of course, the noise was not any more apparent than that made by any other suit of standard Demacian armour, the ranger was simply far more used to, and greatly preferred, the leather she sported on her usual daily routine. Anything else in the army's arsenal, such as the petricite-infused metal currently strapped to her body, might as well have been bricks of concrete.
It was hardly by choice, but amidst the festivities occuring that day in the Great City that demanded her presence, an air of formality was all but required. It wasn't all bad, for all the unnecessary bulk and glamour of pristine plating, crafted gold trimmings, and impracticality of dark blue satin that hung from her shoulders; it reminded her of her charge as the de-facto chief of the ranger-knights, a responsbility she accepted with great honour. The thought would temporarily draw her away from counting the clanks of her footsteps, and she angled her head upwards, her practiced gaze spotting a dark blue dot circling in the endless sky above within seconds. It was always comforting to know she wasn't alone.
Yet, down in the streets where one block housed as many as half her hamlet, it was difficult to feel otherwise, especially as she marched alongside her fellow soldiers - their stern faces and identically polished armour only adding to their namelessness. Quinn subtly shook her head as she looked back down and around her, letting out a sigh.
Soon, but not soon enough, the formation arrived at a rest point, at the edge of one of the many grandiose fountain squares that peppered the capital. Further up the road, flanked by townhouses many storeys tall, the Citadel of Dawn loomed large. Quinn couldn't help but be enraptured by the spectacle of it all for the briefest of moments, breaking from her group as the order to fan out for water was heard. Just as quickly, though, her attention drew away from unremarkable stone and brick, sensitive ears catching the humdrum of everyday life. The laughter of playing children, the salesmen loudly peddling across the square, even the squabble of wandering couples; the noise of life that called her toward her purpose.
Quinn took a step forward, enraptured and pulled in by the scene, only to be shaken out of her trance by a wet, almost freezing sensation trickling its way down her neck and between her shoulders. She spun, on her heel, and ripped her helm from her head in sheer surprise, barely catching the snickers of a few soldiers near the back of the group, and empty water flask in one of their hands. She shivered from the feeling, unable to rid the spilled water gradually rolling down her back. The ranger took a deep breath - she had faced far worse, there was no use in causing a scene in public over a few bad examples - and breathed out. Right, she had to get some water of her own. Into the mess of clicks and clacks she ventured.
"Why's she here?"
"…not even a real knight."
"Shouldn't they be out playing in the mud instead?"
Demacian Rangers had evidently garnered a certain reputation amidst portions of the military corps. A ranger at work was a ranger far from friendly territory, and it was not common for most soldiers to catch even a glimpse of one, at times even throughout entire careers. That, alongside most of her comrades' relatively slender appearances, although good for blending in, had led some to believe their work was unimpactful at best, and a waste of resources at worst. At least, that was all Quinn could reason - none of those silly enough to come up with such theories had been brave enough to say as much to her face. On occasion, though, some would underestimate how well-tuned her hearing had become. Fortunately for them, Quinn rarely did more than merely brush off the unfounded remarks.
Tucking the helm under her shoulder with one arm, she raised her free, gloved hand to the water attendant, signalling 'one' with her finger. A couple of seconds later, she accepted the flask with a nod of thanks, receiving one in return, and began to make her way back to the edge of the crowd. Their break was coming to a close, if her track of time was to be believed. She chugged from the flask as if it were alcohol, by now certainly wishing it was, and dumped the rest of it over her head for cooling - and to hopefully wash away the residual sensation still tickling her spine. Just like that, a sharp whistle pierced the air of chattering soldiers - right on schedule, thought Quinn, having arrived that very second at her initial position in the formation. As the rest of the ranks scrambled to take their places around her, she replaced her helm and sighed again. Seconds later, they were off.
The trek away from the Demacian throne was uneventful, with architecture getting less impressive and more practical the further away from the center they marched. The people, as Quinn noted, did as well, watching wool gradually begin to replace gold, and recogniseable sigils of nobility begin to diminish.
Thirty-two minutes - by Quinn's estimate - after they had gotten underway, the footpaths under their boots had begun making a different sound, no longer marble, these were made of concrete. More pressingly, though, was the unmistakeable sound of a woman, somewhere in the nearby streets, in deep distress. She was unsure if the rest of the regiment didn't care, were too rigid in their objective to break formation, or if they simply hadn't heard. To her, though, it mattered little, it was not a question of a decision for her to make - there wasn't a decision to be made in the first place.
Bolting into action, sudden as the crack of a whip, her march broke into a sprint as she diverted herself sideways through the columns of men, all equally bewildered as she slipped through without a fuss. Even as she broke into the open street, her pace faltered not, for a ranger would not be stopped until the job was done. She had a general direction, and down the nearest avenue towards it she ran. This time, her helm would come off permanently, gracefully let down on the cart of the first apparently reputable salesman she passed.
Valor, dependable as ever, needed little more indication that something was amiss, already flanking Quinn as he swooped just over the tops of Demacian heads, a trailing wind knocking over all but the most secured of hats and headwear in his wake. A moment's contact between the eyes of tenured partners made Quinn aware of his presence, an order coming through in the form of a raised finger towards the source of an audible struggle, and a gesture in the shape of a circle in the air. Search. A dip of his wing was acknowledgement enough, the eagle wasting no time in soaring high up once more.
A repeated downward dipping motion over the same spot, approximately a street over, indicated a successful search. Quinn slowed momentarily, making a quick visual sweep of her surroundings, and quickly picking back up her pace as she turned down an alleyway.
The scene on the other side was not one Demacia would advertise. In a sparsely populated backstreet, an older lady wrapped in well-worn wool found herself harangued by a pair of petty street thugs. At present, one was busying himself by going through the contents of the woman's purse, no doubt his reward for a successful robbery, while the other - knife in hand - threatened their victim for more. Neither seemed to notice that they were being watched from the shadows by one of Demacia's elite, Quinn having chosen to take several seconds to assess the situation before acting.
Lining up her timing with Valor's would be instrumental here, she noted to herself, deciding she had seen enough of the disgusting charade. She raised an open hand to the side of her face, then dragged it swiftly forwards in the air towards the knife-wielding man. No sooner was she finished than when a hazy blur of blue came barrelling down from above, forcing the ranger to match pace by dashing forwards into the light and hence, full view. If not for the weight of her armour, Quinn would have favoured a lighter takedown, leveraging her speed and precision to minimise injury - but here, there was no such luck, although she did have an idea.
As the initial surprise of being found out escaped her target, he moved, as expected, to strike the old woman, perhaps to hold her hostage for his own safety. There would be no such forfeit from the duo, however, for as the blade closed in on the hapless woman and her anticipatory shrieks filled in the air, Valor would strike home. Razor sharp talons found their target, grazing the first thug's hand and arm, the impact redirecting the limb away, before he vanished just as quickly back into the great blue above. Not a second later did Quinn arrive where he stood, quite literally, her momentum amalgamating with the sheer weight of Demacian petricite-steel as she slammed into her target with enough force to throw him clean across the street and into a pillar of concrete. At that, the woman screamed again, though noticeable with far less fear, tones of relief spilling forward.
With a cursory glance to ensure her target was out of commission, her attention swiftly turned to his accomplice, who had gained just enough composure and adrenaline to have disappeared down the nearest alley. Quinn could only hope to tutt under her breath.
"Leave here, now," she ordered, already stepping into the darkness at a jog.
For these conditions, Valor had dipped lower, just above the rooftops. When a soft 'caw-caw' came from somewhere on her left, Quinn followed. The next few minutes involved a series of squawks at regular intervals, leaving the ranger to traverse the muddy, trash filled back channels of the Great City as quickly as she could, all the while greatly held back by the bulk of her gear. Salvation came when those squawks gradually got louder and louder - she was getting close.
A tall fence, barbed at the top, had drawn the pursuit to a closer heat. Quinn arrived just in time to watch her target scale it's highest point, and she cursed under her breath that she had been required to leave her trusty crossbow in the barracks. A stack of crates and a tall dumpster held the promise of a quicker way over, although she had to acknowledge the course was a bit of a gamble. The alternative would take too long.
"Valor- to me!" Quinn called out, striding forwards through the mud, accelerating with teeth clenched. She raised her leg, finding the edge of the crate with her boot and pushing upwards with all her might. It was just enough, taking her higher up and barely allowing her other boot to find the side of the dump. Even so, that was merely the easy part. A quick transfer of her weight, and she was airborne again, propelling herself upwards still. There was no ledge for the final boost she required; instead, she found the side of the building, pressing both legs into brick and mortar and forcing herself onwards toward the fence with a grunt, still barely short a few inches. A backward swing of her arms pointed her chest toward the sky, in some demented half-attempt at a backflip. Fractions between seconds slowed from years to lifetimes, the reality of a broken spine and an undignified death hanging in the balance, albeit a reality Quinn knew, beyond doubt, was not for her. Like clockwork, a powerful upward force pressed itself upon her, both arms accepting a boost from her avian kin. It was enough, and the ranger found herself landing firmly on the other side - the only evidence she had made the crossing being tatters of blue satin flowing like flags in the wire.
With the silhouette of the man she chased now visible, she broke off again with redoubled wind filling her lungs.
By the time she caught up, about a minute later, the man had come to a full stop, hands held up in surrender, with the purse dangling from one down to his side. His face presented utter terror and disbelief, for where they had both emerged with clothes lightly torn and streaked with mud, the man was on the verge of collapse, red-cheeked and breathing wildly through both mouth and nose, while Quinn merely scowled at him as she slowed to a jog, and then a stop, her breathing deep but steady.
"I- I give up! Please, don't hit me!" He pled.
Quinn merely sighed and rolled her eyes, reaching for the purse and tugging it into her grip with a firm yank. She whistled once, sharply, and tossed it high up into the air, where it was caught and sped away from the scene without the slighest of sounds.
"Go home, get out of here," she said, her tone measured and without anger, instead laced with disappointment. The anger came a moment later alongside a threat and the raise of her hand in the promise of a slap, "but next time, if I catch you again-"
The man dared not respond, stumbling off back the way he came as quickly as exhausted legs could take him. Quinn watched, briefly, then carried on stridently in the opposite direction, shaking her head. She'd no doubt have to explain all of this to brass, but at least she had spared herself the insufferable march there. Who knows? Perhaps Dalin had made it to the capital by now. She could certainly use the company.
Meanwhile, several streets down, walked a freshly robbed woman, sore from the terrors of having a knife pulled upon her, and missing her bag. That was groceries for the week, gone! In the midst of it all, calculating her lost expenses in outstretched fingers, she failed to notice the approaching envoy from the heavens. Its gift, a purse freshly liberated, landing gently with flawless accuracy into both hands. She looked up, naturally, but could spot nothing overhead to thank. There was only the sound of a loud squawk, acknowledging a job well done, before Valor was gone with the wind.