The fumes bothered Abelard little, having smelled far worse during his campaigning. There was little that smelled worse than feces and vomit mixed with blood, and mercifully the sewers were filled with mostly just the former. Grey eyes saw a tall, lithe figure stride into his field of view. A northern woman, gleaming white and gold among a land of filth and darkness. She seemed as dangerous as any man in the city, but he didn't foresee her taking any action against him. She seemed a wolf on the hunt, merely curious and stumbling upon a traveler by happenstance. 

He removed his blood-red hood, his face hard set and weathered. With his black beard and rough skin, he looked a decade older than his thirty two years of life. Asura's blessings had cost him much of his youthful vigor, an ardent contrast to Set and Ahriman who rewarded their followers with the pleasures and powers of this world at the expense of their very souls. Gripping his staff and turning, he spoke to her. The first time in three days he had chosen to utter any words. 

"You enter a den of serpents and rogues, Asgardian. Go back to the frozen white north what spawned you. You will fine ne'er but misery here by my reckoning." He intoned, his manner recondite and shadowed. His words paled compared to the shadow of those that watched from above, black clad and swords drawn, waiting in the deep to plunge their blades into the bosom of the two traveler's chests. Ibn-vakir had betrayed them and sought the favor of this land's new master known as the Bandit Kazim. 

Word had spread the nomadic tribes had flocked under one banner, coalescing at the central Vilayet river in the deep wilderness. Or so the stories foretold. The tribesmen were great horse archers and wild lancers famed the world over on ponies that frothed at the mouth, joined by ebony spearmen from Kush clad in naught by cloth. Soon the horde, now perhaps hiring mercenaries with their plundered gold, would be a horde of thundering steel that threatened to trample the province into the dirt.

Wailing spirits of lamentation danced around Abelard's staff, visible only to he. He was used to see them, but only when great violence was about to be wrought. He placed his hand on the ivory hilt of his sword, his subtle facial twitch showcasing he was wary of attackers from behind. Coiled like serpents, the assassin's sprung near silently, leaping from the rafters. They found nothing but mist as they landed on the ground as nimble as apes, Abelard disappearing into nothingness. The Priest of Asura stepped out of the shadows behind Anya, sword in his hand. As they approached, the dozen men eyed the warrior woman the same as the priest. 

"They seem to be after you as well." 
[@Penny]