Fantasy Gifts From A Moon God

[Malhyanth]

This roleplay is for Malhyanth and unais
Please do not enter this RP unless expressly invited.

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This roleplay is a fantasy roleplay based around a medieval styled world. Within it there are a multitude of races, magics, and roles to be fulfilled.

Religions, cults, tribes, civilisations are all broad and varied, much like the types of people that live in this world.

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Towns in this part of the world were quiet, cozy affairs; warm lights from tallow candles burnt their smokey light out of the windows of the wattle and daub cottages, their thatched roofs perfectly maintained. The cloaked figure that drifted through in this twilight time cast a weary eye upon the grandiose castle that rose from the small hillock to the centre of the town, its guards patrolling the parapets of its walls. Inside, a fierce human would reside, believing himself beyond the grasp of any kind of malificent being. All because he had a few men with sticks and metal blades? It's was almost laughable!

The figure was swathed in a dark cloak, but as he slowly stalked the cobbled streets of the town, any that would see him would notice what seemed like an eerie glow from his cowled face. It wasn't that he actually glowed; the truth was he was so pale, light reflected on him like he was a mirror, and he shone! His eyes, a mixture of near white-blue and deep pink, struggled to remain still as he focused on the hangings from the building fronts he passed, heading ever higher through the town towards the keep. One of these buildings had to hold some form of food, and shelter. What small, insignificant town below a keep did not have at least two or three of the damned things?

The man was tall, and his cowled shape did certainly draw the fascination of those that guarded the keep and its surroundings. It wasn't often that travellers made their way to Stonelm. The town was far from the highways, inaccessible by cart or horse; the last few miles one would have to walk alone along the rough terrain. It was why the stables had been built at the base of the ravine that hid the town and its people. Visitors here generally came solely for business with the Lord, but for this visitor to not seek an audience straight away? That drew suspicion, and these were things the visitor was keenly aware of.

His feet, devoid of any form of footwear beyond some bandage wrappings, the same as which covered the wrists and palms of his hands, padded silently as he came to a stand still in front of his destination. From within, lute and panpipe jangled out, jovial and fun. Laughter erupted briefly, and the buzz of talk filled the air. His nose twitched, sniffing; there was a distinct twang of sour ale, probably spilt some time ago and never properly mopped. There was a scent of food; harsh cheeses, warm bread, some form of meat, like elk perhaps? Something unusual for most, at any rate. He could also smell herbs and spices, and perfumes. Perhaps this was also used as a brothel? It had been some time since this traveller had found himself some friendly company. It was often the only type he could get with his appearance, but he had to remember his mission. He was not here on idle fancy. He was here for business, and business never rested, or took... compassionate breaks.

A large, strong hand reached out, pale as the sliver of moon that was peeking over the battlements of the keep. Those weirdly coloured eyes, flitting back and forth quickly as he tried to focus on its curved form, blinked owlishly for a moment, as if gaining strength from its waxing light, before pushing forward and entering the tavern. The sound swelled as the door opened, and the heat from a fire pit running the length of the inside wrapped around him suddenly and caused a light sweat to break out upon his lip. Those closest to the door hushed, watching the stranger push back the hood of his cloak and reveal and face as pale as a ghost, with dreadlocks caked in a red clay type substance, decorated as the locks were with small bones and skulls of little creatures. The face may well have.been handsome at one time, with a strong jaw and brow, deep set eyes, and a strong, lightly hooked nose, over a curved mouth. His cheekbones would be considered sharp enough to cut parchment. He brought his cloak tighter about his tall frame, and as he gazed at those that stared, the intensity of his look made others turn away. Those inhuman eyes made them uneasy. The scars that marred him like creases to a page, restitched together, spoken of a man that really had little care in the world for his own safety; what was one more scar?

The shrouded figure stepped away from the door, and the silence seemed to follow him like a Mexican wave. As he stepped past a groups of tables, they started to speak in hushed tones, whilst those now surrounding fell silent. The only constant was the lute and the panpipe. On they played, ignoring the new comer. As he arrived at the bar, his height had him looking down at the bar keep, a dainty young thing, pretty, wearing an off the shoulder tunic, and a very pretty red skirt. A rag hung from her neatly tied pinafore.

"Can I help you, stranger?" Her voice belied the lack of social standing. Rough around the edges, unrefined. The man liked it. He pulled from beneath his cloak and pulled from a pouch at his belt three gold sovereigns.

"I vish for a bed for zhe night." He spoken softly, gently, without prejudice or ill will. He could feel the men around him tensing, as he continued to focus his attention on the girl behind the bar. Her brown hair was pulled up in a rats nest of a bun, stray hair flying all over. "I also require food, and drink. "Bring me djour finest stout, and some form of food, I believe I can see bread and cheese is available?" He smiled; the scar that cut into his lip gave him an aggressive smirk, but the girl seemed to understand, and she smiled back.

"Take a seat, darlin'. I'll see what we can rustle up for ya!" The man bowed his head, watching the girl take the sovereigns without much thought to what they were. It was clear in this area, something that was shiny was more than enough to get a man fed, watered and housed for the night! The man turned, and selected a table near a window, to see the keep above in view, but also the moon raising over it. There was another seat at his table, but he doubted he would be joined. The girl behind the bar sashayed over, her rounded hips swaying seductively, clearly not used to strangers in this part of town. She set down a large tankard with a frothy white top, and a dark, black liquid beneath, plus a rough hewn wooden plate with slices of thick, seeded bread, golden cheese, and the meat he had smelt from outside, dark in colour, and very lean. She winked at him, as she set it all down, and leaned against the other chair, looking him over.

"Where are you from, stranger? Don't get many like you comin' round here!" The man withheld the wince at her crude accent, and gave her a half smile, before picking up the tankard and starting to drink; this seemed to work, and she huffed before stomping off. Clearly she wasn't that stupid, and understood when she was given a warning to back off.

As he quietly ate, the man surveyed his new situation.

 

[unais]

She was talking when he came in, and proceeded to do so until everyone else was gawking. And she sat back, and didn't look. She glanced.

She was not interested, so she went back to business. Those with her at the table, however, continued to gawk. She inhaled, setting her arms on the table and sighed sharp and hard. The only hard noise in the false hush.

She was having a hard time negotiating with these rubes. She typically charged what she said, ten to twelve (to fourteen to twenty) sovereigns but the people here looked like they could hardly scrap up a dozen silver. The ones she was talking to were young men and by the cut of their cloth, held onto a little more money than most. Or at least their fathers did. And after their conversation in hushed tones, she lured them over with talk of a cure to their problems. But the three of them together hardly looked like they belonged in this tavern, making her table the most notable with its company. Well. Until that man walked in. Now they're hardly flowers on the wall. One relief traded for another.

Something about this stranger tripped all her traps and she knew she should have made herself scarce. But here she was in the middle of half a demonstration... from which her guests are still distracted. She stared idly out the window, her fingers drumming against the wall behind her as she waited for their fascination with the traveler to pass.

"I vish for a bed for zhe night." She heard faintly. A Vharlen accent? Somewhere far to the east... Or so it sounded. He could be one like her, whose accent didn't hail from anywhere in particular, and was traveled. Homeless; like she was.

She did wish to get up and simply walk to her room without another word, but with people in small towns she wouldn't know if they took slights harder than those in the city. And it would cause her problems on the way out.

Speaking of out... the bright moon would have illuminated the river along this night... and any night-blooming flowers would have been easy to spot. It could have been peaceful to travel to the next town... she would hardly have needed any light of her own. But the rockiness of the terrain barred her, the random staggers in the cliff-side which still dropped further down, and she had no guard. If she couldn't traverse the wild areas here on her own, she'd be on the road, a lone distraction for anyone looking for easy prey. Tomorrow, maybe... The moon would be almost full, still.

Her customers looked back and set themselves to her demonstration again, though they seemed distracted.

"Boys?" She smiled. Brighter than normal, the one where it took a two-second's glance to tell she wasn't smiling with her eyes. "So..." Quietly, approachably. "Going on this little... trip..." Whatever they planned to do. To escape. To run. To travel. Be free. Be rebellious. It was something like that. "I make... things... and I have something to solve a little problem of being weighed down with healing potions." She stared at them. "To keep you alive, for as long as you have it."

They look unimpressed. She would be as well with that pitch. Talking with young men is not always her forte. Her tongue clicks as she notices one of the quarrymen at the table near to theirs is also watching. This is a bad idea... "Let me demonstrate..." A healing potion would stitch the wound in a day's time. At least it would close in ten minutes and keep you alive.

She takes out her small carving knife and runs the blade briefly through the flame. She feels it to check if it is hot. Cool enough. Shows them her arm. It's in plain sight to some of those around them as well. Then she lays the knife down on it.

She cuts a long ways down her arm. A deep wound. Her legs clenched and her toes seized as she opened the cut further, parting it with the knife and the young men balking at her.

"Stop--stop--!" She dropped the knife and took a sip of the vial, holding her wound close to the two of them. She letsgo of the opening, and they all watched it seal. She wiped away the blood once with water from her glass. A line of red where the opening was stayed present. She wiped it again. It's gone.

They don't know what to say. An illusion, she can see them thinking.

"Oh," she made three sharp cuts along her arm. They see the wounds close as the knife leaves her skin. "As well, it lasts to heal you, after, too." She sets the knife down, seeing the trembling in that hand and stilling it there. "So you can take it preemptively." To expected injuries.

Hers are the only ones that do this.

Her mind is split across four things. Watching them. Knowing them. Ignoring this pain. Fearing this pain. Disgust with herself. It was disgusting but her work was more important. She turned her thoughts away. As best she could.

The first boy speaks. "I... this is not..." True...? Is that what he was thinking?

"You... could be a mage--" The dark-haired young man said, grasping, "could have gotten an enchanted knife before you came in here."

She looked at him flatly... a fair suspicion, but not one she appreciated. "Did you see any magic here?" Her eyes run along the plain hilt of the knife, missing runes and carvings. Well. Her work was hardly too far off from magic, but she knew a few ways to allay some suspicions.

And then feels herself talking. "I understand." She put the knife away. "Then how about yours?" Pointed to the knife at his side. A decorated hilt.

Something was crawling up her neck. She could feel it. Something from before. Something she shouldn't let take hold or follow. Something without thoughts, without feelings. But she stayed until he gave her his knife. And inspected the blade. It seemed to be true enough. It cut quickly into the bread she had on her plate. She ran the knife over the flame.

She could feel it crawling, but couldn't stop herself.

"Here." She patted the table, laying her hand flat. Leaving it there until he followed her example.

"Wait--wait--no." His friend started as she raised the knife in a way. The first boy begins to retreat his hand. "Do you know what's going happen if you do that?" He's speaking to both of them.

She looks into the other boy's reluctance. Her eyes quiet, steely, soft. "...If you can't take this much pain, how are you going to survive without crawling back to your womb immediately?" Her voice. She should have tweaked upon her language.

But it seemed to be right. He steeled himself and laid his hand firmly against the wood.

It was only afterwards they noticed she had not pointed the knife down.

He pulled back immediately, coming out of his chair sans a fingertip. It rolled on the table and she grabbed it, pouring some of her potion over it after she cleared off the blood.

He had cried out, and everyone was watching them. Some men stood up, began to approach. His breaths are ragged, noisy with pain and surprise. Perhaps surprise of never having been hurt this way? Well.

It already crawled into her brain, pulled her strings and fingers. Her body sat like a puppet.

"Your hand." She said. Hers is held out as if next he were going to get a slap on the wrist for his whining. "Give it to me, so I can fix it." He could hardly get ahold of himself, knowing no pain beyond this before. His friend grabbed him and forced his hand back to the table.

She knew everyone was staring at them but she focused, honed on him. Grabbing, specifically, his finger and bringing it to the table where she could wrest his hand down, she turned the stump piece in her hand until it was facing the same way. She exhaled, relaxing as the process began to go through. He was still moaning, struggling as if wrench himself from her. "Shh..." She said, as she brought the pieces together, aligned perfectly to her eyes. They knitted. "Shh."

They hold him for a few more moments, before she starts to let go and his friend does as well, picking his chair back up for him.

He holds up his hand and moves it. It works. Drums with the rest of them.

He breathed, relieved, overjoyed. "You're..." She stared fixedly to will words out of him that would absolve her of the mob. "Amazing..." He wiped his tears. Some of the men's demeanors slunk back, but most of them stayed standing until the conversation ran long. Soon, they all sat down again.

She leaned back as they talked to her. Picked up words here and there. The blush along the side of her face was hot, like embarrassment. Like shame.

Why did she do that?

Why would she always do that? If this were to happen again... She would have still done this.

A pit in her stomach. It made her sick.

(She felt something... and her eyes traced to the feeling.

That stranger. He's staring at her.

Something about it... she know she has done wrong.

Her heart picked up as she remembered the feeling she got when she first glanced at him and the impressions it left her--though unimpressed, ignored, she had one feeling that made her want to stand up before.

The feeling was to hide.

And she didn't.)

"Miss?"

Her eyes move easily back to the boys, as if she were listening all along.

"We'll find you. Tomorrow. You'll be here?"

... She removed the man from her mind. "Maybe." She shrugged. "I have a meeting with the Lord tomorrow in the afternoon as well. Come find me any time before I leave... I'll be around town."

"Right. Yes. We'll... we'll figure out a way to pay you."

"I can give you however much you can pay me for."

"Yes. Right. Yes..." 'Thank you', she thought she heard him mutter, but she could hardly think that.

She regretted meeting the Lord tomorrow... But he should have a collection for wealth that his subjects were not accustomed to. Perhaps he would also see the value of her work.

That is... Her fingers tapped against the wall behind her. If she survives the night.

What a silly thought... She looked out the window. Perhaps.

A quarryman approaches her about what just happened. He's interested in keeping some to work in the mines.

 

[Malhyanth]

The noise around the tavern was quite deafening as people started to return to their previously scheduled activities. A noisy game of cards was occurring in the corner, a man to his left had two girls on his knees, twittering with giggles as fake as their appearance, clearly working girls. The table that drew his interest, however, was the one in the opposite corner to himself. A girl, young, was showing off something to some local lads. They were wet behind the ears, barely off their mother's teats, and here they were, buying the next big trick in protection on their adventures. The girl was brandishing a blade. The man turned his attention away as the boys gasped and squeaked in disgust.

His meagre dinner was surprisingly tasty, the bread warm and soft, the cheese strong, the meat flavourful, and smoked. They complimented each other wonderfully. Strong fingers carefully tore each item apart and layered them together, before popping the items into his mouth. The stout the girl had provided was also delicious. Perhaps he had tipped more than he'd needed; money was of little consequence to him, but he understood that civilisation tended to revolve around it, so he took it when it was offered for his "services", or when prey left it hanging off their belts, or had items that were worth something. As he settled himself more comfortably, the cloak fell open, revealing a simple, sleeveless tunic, tight across his broad chest. It was cinched in by his belt, which held his coin purse, a scabbard with a bone hilt poking from it, with what appeared to be a hip ball joint at the end of its carved handle. There were a myriad other pouches and packs at the belt, and within, all manner of herbal items. At his back, a skull cap would hang from the belt, used as the mortar to his pestle; the handle of his blade. His breeches were dark, with straps and buckles keeping them together around muscular legs.

Across his whole form, random bony trinkets sat; one that drew a lot of attention was something that looked like a baby's ribcage about his forearm. Other things, like teeth, skulls and limb bones of small animals were strung together in bangles and bands, as well as three necklaces of varying lengths. On the longest, a whole skull, mouth fixed open, hung to his sternum. The scars that covered him stood stark from his skin, especially the one over his face. His eyes did not meet those that startled at him, and wondered what on earth a person such as this was doing here. They were also, it seemed, too afraid to approach and ask. As he continued to finish his meal, it was the moment a screech when up from the corner opposite him that speed suddenly seemed to occur from him.

The clatter of the chair hitting the deck made white-blue and pink mottled eyes narrow. Was that a mutilated finger? What on earth was going on over there? His grip loosened on the blade handle he found himself gripping. He placed his palms down onto the wooden table, and continued to watch as his heart slowed. The girl was doing something to the kid's hand, and soon, whatever deal they had been brokering was made! He frowned, watched the lads leave, noticing the finger was suddenly whole again. His eyes flicked back to the girl, realising he'd been caught staring, but rather than hide it, he maintained the stare. He raised the tankard to his lips, and took a long pull of it, watching as she was approached by another. It was only when she was no longer watching that he returned to his own musing.

He cast an eye to his own hands, and arms; the scars that laced across his body. Had this girl created something that took that away? There was a certain pleasure to be gained from receiving a scar. All of his had a story attached. Some were old, fabled tales, tales he'd rather ignore, as they had created the beast he was now, but others, newer ones, were the story of a friend, a lover, an enemy. His hand raised for a moment to his face to trace the one that ran the length of his face, from left brow down to his lips. This one, so prominent, was a constant reminder of one whom he'd once trusted, perhaps even loved, and this was the result; a scar that made him undesirable unless coin was exchanged! What an evil creature that one had been.

The albino's quiet musings were suddenly interrupted as the chair opposite him was dragged from its place, and a young thing sat herself opposite him. He stared at her, and she, at him. Her eyes were blue, her lips full, her hair a tumble of blond, her body was curved, rounded. The stared at each other a moment, before she indicated his appearance. "You a witch doctor or somethin'?" Her words took him by surprise, and the expression passed over his features a moment, before returning to their usual stoic set. He lifted a shoulder a little, and made a non-committal sound. The girl nodded, motioning expressively with her hand.

"You must be. Ain't no others come here unless they's can help it. You's is here 'cos you know we ain't well cared for by his Highness." The man tilted his head back, looking down his nose at the girl in a look of disdain at her suggestion. She continued to stare at him, undeterred. The man sighed, realising he wasn't going to get rid of this girl. When he spoke, his voice was even, his eyes boring into her own, though never still due to the albinism, and deep and low, like a roll of thunder.

"I zhink djou 'ave me mistaken." He said, his gaze dangerous as he stared her down. His lack of blinking seemed to make the girl nervous, as she started to twitch a little in her seat, shifting back on herself and looking like she wanted to be as far from him as possible. "I am 'ere for business, yes. But it is not vizh djou." His sudden grin, a sharp smile, with distinctive sharp canines flashing at her, as he raised a hand to point at her. "Djou, my dear. Could not afford my prices. Run 'ome to djour daddy. Before I find a use for djou." His sharp grin was vicious, and the girl seemed to panic, picking herself up with speed before heading off, running to one of the young men at the bar. They left, quietly, avoiding the gaze of the man she had bothered.

The albino sighed, raising his tankard to his lips, and drinking deeply. It really was a tasty beverage, malty and strong. Seeing his tankard nearly empty, the girl from behind the bar wondered over and indicated his glass. Finishing it, he handed it to her with a curt nod. She beamed at him, despite the loss of two patrons. As she sashayed away, the man admired her curves, regretting his earlier choice to send her off. As she returned, she took a seat with him for a moment.

"Was she botherin' you, darlin'? I told her she had you wrong, but she wouldn't listen! I said, he ain't no doc, witch or other! I said to her he is somethin' far more strange." She grinned at him, and he tipped his tankard towards her, in a gesture of thanks. She sat there opposite him for a bit, just watching him. He stared back, his expression slightly puzzled. "I came to say, your room is ready. It's up them stairs, at the back there, and second door on the right." She touched his hand on the tankard, which he pulled away from her touch, before getting up and heading back to the bar, wiping it down and greeting people as she went.

The giant of a man just continued to sit, watching those around him. Those that accidentally caught his eyes quickly looked away. He thought about the girl, wondering what she had meant by a witch doctor. He certainly had a skill set that may well prove useful in some circles for a witch doctor, but his main skills certainly weren't in helping others. Only one was helped by him, and that was the dark shadow that hung over him and watched his movements.

 

[unais]

Relief. When she's finished with her transaction, he's not looking at her. Paranoia and vanity ruled her for a moment, and she's relieved to know she's of no consequence. It even gives her a smile, as she tilts her head down.

So she takes her glance at him again, letting her eyes pass over the room as if noting who else was watching her. That's all she needs. The one glance to note the things she's seen before.

Bones. Bones all over. Unmistaken.

". . . he ain't no doc, witch or other--" Panyin raised her brow. A witch doctor... She took a draught of her water. She supposed he could be. It wasn't the word she thought of when she saw him.

But they rather like to be left alone. Doctors have you come to them. Witch doctors even.

This one is traveling. Out of his element.

She sat, noting her food was getting cold though she'd only ordered bread, meat and water. She ate it numbly, thinking--reluctantly letting her thoughts crystallize and form over these feelings. Feeling distinctly a something holding in her throat.

Someone who knows they stand out but does not hide... Why she gazes and averts her eyes while knowing more keenly where they are than everyone else...

Is someone who has no reason to be afraid. Exposed, different, in the eyes of many. Seen by a crowd of those who could take up a mantle and become a threat in a moment's notice.

It means they pose none.

And that's the tightness in her throat. It's someone that's dangerous, but more than you know.

If the bones didn't give you the indication already.

She drank the rest of her water, and began to stand, stretching her tightness out.

She goes to adjust the linens that have been pulled out over her chest and back. She pulls it through a long vest strung and tied over her torso from under her bust to her hips. The loose shoulders seem to only serve as a reserve for if it were to untie and the whole thing were to fall. Usually over which, she wore shirt or two; but it was hot.

The vest suspended a thick, square bag on her left filled with vials and other small things. The leather was sewn with some veritable skill--not her own, but one that cost quite some gold. On her right hung larger bottles, both wrapped in another thick leather that would keep them from shattering as they tapped together while she walked. And behind her, two small knives tied through the vest at the small of her back. One for plants, one for meat. What hung lower on her right was a proper dagger--one she didn't propose having any skill to use but it helped more often than not.

Her hips carried the weight; she felt none of it.

She started towards the stairs.

She'd asked for the shed in the back, but they'd forced her to buy the suite, thinking it was room that she needed. It gave her an obviousness she disliked, but, arguing in the middle of the inn was just as bad.

She realized up these steps that her paradoxical behavior was absurd. She wasn't going to end up blending in no matter what she was going to do. This is why she planned to make her case and move on. Same as ever.

She stops near the top of the stairs to regard the inn, as if thinking to say goodnight, and to check for shadows following behind.

Eyes fell on him. He glanced at her being the only one who was heading upstairs.

They held each other in a momentary stare. Neither harsh nor yielding. Hardly understanding. Perhaps she felt unwilling to break the gaze, but somewhere she realized it was not a fight she was winning, so she turned with ease and left. She was simply relieved to go without a particular fear.

 

[Malhyanth]

The man sat quietly, his gaze turned out to the window, and the keep beyond. Come day break, he had an appointment to keep, a promise made by the wolf. And the Wolf kept his promises, or else the Man would suffer the consequences of that broken word. As he watched, fires were stoked along the parapet, and guards changed. They did short shifts here. It meant the Lord had men to spare. Men to spare meant idle men, men aiming to prove their worth. That would make his task there in that wretched little town more difficult. And though a challenge was always appreciated... that one seemed more than he cared to participate in.

The ale was swirled within its tankard, its frothy head mixed in with the dark liquid, before another draught was taken. It was tasty, alright, but it was certainly strong. Even a wolf could feel the effect of this! As he sat tinkering with his thoughts, a bell was rung behind the bar. Bar keep girl was telling her patrons to drink up! Peering out the window, the man gauged the time. He figured in a working community like that, it was important to keep the men sober enough for their work come the morning. He watched them file past, in dribs and drabs. Some cast sidelong glances at the stranger that still remained seated, with a hefty tankard, and no chivvying along. He flashed a mischievous grin, and watched the snarls in response. His face returned to a neutral setting, if a smirk could be considered neutral, and he finished his drink as the last patron was ushered out.

"You can stay there, darlin'. I've cleanin' to do, and there is just you, me, and that wild child girl up there a'livin' in this tavern tonight!" The man smiled, more genuinely this time, and took his tankard up to the bar, covering himself in his cloak a bit more, to cover his appearance from the girl. So many scars and weird decoration was bound to elicit questions, and the man didn't exactly feel up to such conversation. The girl seemed to pick up on this, and rather than bother him, she topped up the tankard, and set about her work. The man stayed, to keep her company as she had requested.

The girl walked across the floors, and locked the door, to ensure no further visitors entered. The man had noticed a bell had hung on the outside of the building, so figured further guests wanting to find a room would have to toll for attention. Not that this place seemed to get much foot fall. She took her rag, and a bucket of water from behind the bar. She set about visiting each table by turn, clearing them, and then washing them down. Every move was practiced and well versed. She was clearly someone that cared for her job deeply. Her sing song voice startled him when she called out across the tavern.

"So has a stranger got a name?" The man looked up from his drink, and leaned back on his bar stool as he considered the question. Knowing why he was here, did he really want to give his true name? Perhaps not, but this girl seemed to have as little love to the Lord in his castle as the girl before. "If it helps any, in Leelany." It didn't help much, as he didn't feel much like sharing. However, the girl was quiet enough, and clearly just wanted to fill the silences. He pursed his damaged lips, and made a decision.

"Some call me Zhe Collector. Ozhers, zhey call me Bones. Djou may call me eizher." His low voice rumbled through the quiet tavern. The girl seemed satisfied with his answers and repeated his titles to her self a little while longer. She didn't question the names; she was as observant as the rest, if not more so. She would understand he evasion to the truth, and didn't push for further information. The giant man swirled his tankard one more time, draining it clean. "Zhank djou for djour 'ospitality. I must retire now." The girl looked up from her task, face forlorn, but she nodded. She probably regretted asking questions.

He set the tankard down, and headed for the stairs. He carried no bags, or other items other than that on his person. He started up the stairs, but bare feet padding softly as he took them one at a time. He looked about at the top, and found the second door on his right. The room was sparse, but it was charming. A large cot, big enough for two, a chest at the foot of it, candles burning, a fur rug on the floor. The drapes around the windows, walls and the bed softened the light and sound. The Collector liked it very much. He stalked across to the chest, and shed his cloak. It was folded carefully after the bone shiv had been extracted, and this was set on the pillow. He stretched out his back, now he could relax. His broad shoulders popped and creaked, his neck cracked. He settled on the foot of the bed, and began the task of unwrapping his arms, and then his feet. Something told him he was being watched. His eyes raised to the door he had not closed yet, as he intended to step out for air one last time before he would settle for sleep.

He'd expected the bar keep, but whom he saw shocked him. "Can I 'elp djou?"

 

[unais]

The vest is unlaced and placed on the bed. Another bag spread along the sheets is a long, unrolled pack in which innumerable bottles and vials were tied and pocketed. Every corner of it were filled with the products her labor... or the seeds of it.

She had asked and paid for another three carafes of water, which the woman nicely brought to her soon after she went upstairs. She's already gone through two-thirds of them.

The window is open slightly enough for the mountain chill to be felt in intermittent wafts coming between the warm, hot air bubbling from her lab. Her eyes flick over to check her work.

Boiling, steaming, sublimating, drying, drawing, distilling. More than several potions all working in a seemingly interwoven array of equipment is set to be finished by mid morning. It was started in the evening as soon as she drew up the water, and let to steep while she whittled the hours away downstairs doing business.

That was all the sitting she had done in the last few hours, and her ankle cracks as she moved it, noticing an ache in her legs. She stood, though... watching, adjusting, planning. Her notes were scattered pieces in a loose loaded notebook--nothing interconnected or telling of what she was doing clearly.

The noise downstairs eventually died down, and she felt herself enveloped by that quietness, alone up here with her bubbling toiling things.

Some chatter talked on, and her instinct to stay aware filtered the noise through the door into the conversations from downstairs.

No one else is staying besides them? She sighed, standing to one leg. She came here to sell her wares and swindle coin out of the little podunk stonehold, but she's the one that got swindled. They got her to buy a bigger room, and there's no one else even here. Embarrassing.

After eight days of camping through the brittle paths in the alpines, she knew she had looked bad, but she paused, surprised. A child? She truly paused. She must be older than the barkeep by ... at least ten years...

She stopped to think about that for a moment. There's nothing that needs hard attention. She's been making busywork ever since she returned to this room since with one glance she could tell that everything was in its correct phase.

Perhaps it's all the drinking healing potions that she tested from day to day. These were one of the few useless musings she allowed herself a curiosity over in infrequent times. Sometimes women asked her if potions were good at such things as staving away aging and time, but she never really found the questions worth pursuing. Death and time would come, inevitable; inevitable for all of them except for very few. If they desired such a price they certainly should have looked for vampires.

But they wouldn't pay the price to fully life in the night. Speaking of which... it had fully fallen and in some ways she noticed she hadn't unpacked her things. Her livable things. It's in another bag on the floor.

With no room to put it, lest she covered her bed merely to scoop everything off again, she spotted the drawer in the tiny end table by the bed. It's surface was occupied by a set of burning candles, and she opened it to drop the bag atop it.

She stopped.

...What a...

She looked around but felt no hint of being watched. Felt as though this were some old thing left for a time or impersonal.

...strange thing.

She felt hesitation. And after she set down her bag, reached out and took it. It didn't give her a feeling as she looked upon it--that was enough to make her touch it. It simply... allowed gears to work. Things to be imagined. So she took it.

She would take it outside.

But before she stood in the hall with this thing, she turned it in here, her hands to peruse it in privacy. She ran her soft hands along its edges, felt her them along its sharps, its curves and textures.

Why.

A curse is the first word... but no... she felt no magic from it innately. But she would regard her own magic skills in the lower percent of barely being able to cast simple spells. It could be a latent item. Simply waiting for something.

Her fingers ran over a sign that she knew, and she paused. Stopped her tactile inquiry, knowing now, it was at least not good.

She didn't plan to complain to management... they both had enough to deal with already.

So she started outside with it, but as she left her room, a vague, distracted thought weighed her steps and she approached the next door carefully. She thought for a moment she had slowed simply because the door was open, and only two of them were supposed to be here.

Well... three.

It is him. But...

He looked at her and she froze, having been caught staring for no reason.

He responded in an unexpected way.

"Can I 'elp djou?"

"Ah-" Immediately.

Just get caught staring why don't you. It was only for a moment.

She couldn't tell that tone. Sarcastic or not. It's not really the words she would have expected.

Needing to explain herself, she looked at the object in her hands and felt, almost without volition, words . "Is this..." She started to hold it up. Stupid. She saw him come in. She knows it's not him but the almost facetious question continues. "...yours...?"

It's a carved skull. Runic. Cut deeply in every inch from crown to mandible. Marks made with care. Made with time. Marks that are painted. Colored with design and intent. It was nested in a room, in a dark silk cloth which she hadn't thought to take with her when she decided to be touting this around.

She was going to throw it in the garbage outside.

Her hand stays in the same place as she holds it out, but the rest of her starts to lean back as he gets closer. He's large. Much broader than he'd seem from thirty feet away. Actually... immense. As he comes up close to her, she turns her head away without moving her hand.

Well maybe this is why they thought she was a child.

He's beyond tall.

She exhales as he takes it from her, and stands weightily on one of her legs which was already standing. There's no need for her to back away.

She watches him turn it in his hands, waits for him to find the things she did. They both know it's dyes and colors are not patterns of this town. It's marks are not a language that have not been seen in the streets and the signs here. Though she felt no magic, she is no mage, and the mark she ran her hand over... the one she knew it meant to dispose of it...

 

[Malhyanth]

The girl was small, but what she held out piqued his interest. As she asked the question, he wondered how long she thought he'd been in the area. One slim, pale brow rose, as he unwrapped the last of his bandages, carefully folding them, as he had with his cloak, and leaning across the foot of his bed to place these on top of the chest. He stood. He realised then how much of a small firecracker she was; he'd believed her bigger, but perhaps it was the huge personality she had shown in the tavern's interior that had made her seem so much larger than life.

He brushed down his bare arms, hands feeling the familiar story of scars that stood stark against his skin, remembering her potions and hexes. That finger... His face set into a hard frown as he approached, recognising the skull. He took it from her gently, inspecting it. "Vhere did djou find zhis?" The skull was larger than any dogs; any "wolves" skull. This was something more. Something he recognised in his own reflection. He brought it to his face, and stared into the empty eye sockets. "'Oo vere djou, brozher?" His tone was morose as he turned from the girl, taking the skull with him, turning it this way and that in his hands, eyes narrowed at it. It sat comfortably in his hands, as large as he. The carvings made a lump raise into his throat. This was a warning. The girl below had seemed so kind, but to store something like this in a guest room? He placed the skull down on his bed, and went to the chest, shifting the items he'd placed upon them onto a chair against the wall, and he stood, gathering his resolve. His shoulders rolled, and he pulled the lid open. The hiss that escaped his sharened teeth belied its contents.

The giant of a man turned from the open chest, turning a hard mottled eye at the girl in his doorway. "Is zhis some sort of sick djoke?" The words were like iron, and his eyes flicked only for a moment towards the blade on his bed's pillow; a bone that held a horrendously keen edge and sliced so finely, the body remained in shock for a few minutes before blood would start to pour from the clean slice. His large hand reached into the chest, and withdrew, with an almost identically crafted skull. This one was slightly smaller, and it made the albino's heart burn. A snarl seemed to take over his smirking face, and he turned the skull over and over in his hands. The sounds of footsteps had escaped them, and the Bar Keep was suddenly behind the girl in his doorway.

"Don' mind those thin's!" She said in her sing song voice, leaning against the door frame with her sweet face pulled into a smile. "They're all over this town. There is a myth or somethin' that wolves used to run this town, and these are all that remains of 'em. Stops 'em comin' back." She said it with ease, and hadn't seem to notice the hardening of every line in the albino's body, the sharpness of his look, the slight hint of teeth in his expression of disdain. She just giggled, and waggled her fingers as she pushed off the door frame and sidled past the other girl, and headed to the room at the far end of the landing. The tall man continued to stare down at the skulls.

He knew it would seem odd for a man so covered in bone accessories to seem to be so affected by the sight of such skulls; to an untrained eye, they were as large as bear skulls, and as sturdy. But they weren't. His nostrils twitched as he scented, and he placed a hand to his forehead, palm heel pressed, whilst his fingers splayed. He then pushed the hand out, and forward, forming a fist before punching himself into his chest. The skulls needed to be set to rest. He took them into his large hands, gently, like they were live animals, and he turned.

"Move." The word was both command and a warning as he pushed past the girl, not caring if he hurt her as he rammed past her. The door of the tavern's owner's room was closed, so The Collector had no issue with taking these outside. He knew the girl would follow. She was going to be fascinated by his reaction, he was a big chap, whom made it look like nothing rattled him, but these things... these were not good for... well, for his kind. He needed to put this pair to rest. They needed to be together! When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned, and left through the back door, finding a hefty key left in the lock.

Outside, it was starting to mist over. The garden to the tavern was generally quite well maintained, but it wasn't where he was going to put these two. He walked forward, and found a set of steps that went down the sharp incline behind the garden's manicured hedging, down to a small stream. He looked over his shoulder, up to the ramparts. No guards were over this side of the wall at this time. People were generally heading into their beds, as the Collector had been about to. Whether the girl had followed all the way he wasn't sure, but he pushed through the hedges, and down the stairs to the stream.

Falling to his knees, the giant man dipped the skulls into the water, setting them down and trying to clean them of the painted runes. It didn't work well. They'd clearly been in those chests for a while, and whatever magicks had been used on them was deep seated. His belt was still around his waist, and as he raised the larger of the two out of the water, he presses it'a forehead to his own and whispered to it, taking one hand and reaching into one of the larger pouches, and bringing his hand out again covered in the same red clay as covered his hair.

They were not the same clan as he, but he could release them. After whispering his words, he smeared the forehead with his paste, filling as much of the carvings as he could. He set this down, and repeated it with the other. Once completed, he smeared the red clay up his forehead from the bridge of his nose, and under each eye. He used his hands, and dug down into the silt of the river, before burying the two skulls deep into the water, and covering them over. He stood, and again he placed the palm of his hand against his forehead, fingers splayed, a few growling words whispered once again, before he pulled his arm out in front of him, and brought it round into his chest again, as a fist.

The Collector rolled his shoulders, feeling a weight lift from him he had released had been building. He had to keep that under control. Tomorrow was that one's day! Now though, he had more reason to carry out his contract; what he had found this night had shocked him to the core. He walked up the steps speedily, and tried to ignore the girl with the potions as he swept back into the tavern. He was filthy now, his hands red, as were the smears across his scared face. He stepped to the bar, where there was a hand pump for water, probably from the stream below. He hand cranked it a few times, before the water started to pour out. He washed off his hands, scrubbing at the clay. It was hard to wash off, hence its use on his dreadlocks. He couldn't be a white giant after all! Something had to break up the pale!!

He could feel her eyes on his back as he washed himself. How much had she seen? How much did she understand? "Djou are not to tell zhat girl I 'ave done zhat." The words fell from his mouth before he realised they had been bidden. He looked over his shoulder, the mottled white-blue and pink were hard as diamonds as he stared at her. "Do djou understand? Vhatever djou saw, djou forget. If djou value djour life."

 

[unais]

He stops in front of her. Her eyes stay cast to the side, not unusual behavior from her, as she tended to avoid others' eyes. She did this as if hoping she would be

That he stood at two arms' length made it easier for her to look at him. For a moment. She cast her eyes aside anyhow, as she typically did. It was a hope of hers not to be remembered if she did not see their eyes. But she raises her head to him as he speaks directly to her. She can't help it. She's willfully rude, but tends to err on accidental politeness.

"It was..." her eyes begin to run over his face, starting to see him for the first time. "...in my bedside drawer."

But as he shifts his head to look into the skull's eyes, she posits her gaze away.

Who were you, brother?

He's talking to it with kinship. Oh. This was certainly a good idea. Her eyes begin to lift again. Start to take him in her sight.

He looks at her.

And now he's blaming her. She pulls a face.

The barkeep impeccably comes to elucidate things. She was mistaken. It was not a lone artifact. In fact... it was ritual. This place... beholden to wolves before, hm?

The knots inside her that turn as she feels the anxious and dangerous start to twist as the girl behind her talks. She keeps her eyes on the man... watching his form changing, the resting beast's muscles becoming hard, edges becoming rigid and sharp. She feels the barkeep leave behind her, and starts to back away, unsure as to what would happen next.

She hadn't edge back enough, and hit the door bodily as he moved past her. It didn't hurt, but she was surprised.

A breath of disgust. She walks to the stairs, wondering where he was going with it. But as he left her behind, she felt an ominous air close in the wake he left. She felt sick, as if something were to happen after this. And tapped down the stairs after him.

The door is open, and she sees from the opening, him staggering through the yard and disappearing under a broken arch beneath the rampart wall.

But did it go anywhere...? Her feet took her lightly out to where he went, though she paused, as the cold hit her bodily as well. She was wondering if he simply was leaving the premises, leaving all his... things behind. She continues, feeling breezed through. Looking fully covered but feeling as though she were in her smallclothes.

The area behind the wall opens out to stream area, offset from the rest. She's pleased to know this--also feeling somewhat betrayed she could have been harvesting ingredients out here instead of staying indoors trying to sell to small boys. She stops her urge to hop down the steps in haste, but is reminded at her place on the stairs with the uncloaked figure sitting under the moonlight there.

His tunic and skin shine readily as if glowing. She looks up to see how bright the moon is. Full, in a stark night.

As his movements are frantic, she stays away, but then his movements slow, become practiced, easing her to step, slowly, down the stairs. The chances of him turning to pounce on her for witnessing feel lower as she watches him, time moving on. Mundane curiosity she thought she had abandoned long in her youth. His movements feel ritualistic now.

He pours himself deeply into this. Has no regard to leave any of himself behind as he does... this. She almost feels... something within her own self.

What was it to pour oneself so deeply into something that it briefly became a part of them? She poured something into her work but... But what she feels now is watching, as a separate party privy to something else, and as he stands to return, she jumps out of the way before she's knocked off the steps.

It's an utter cold out here. She can feel it through the stones under her shoes and feet. She can picture her fingers as they grow numb and clumsy with her traipsing around the river in the dead of night till morning. After a longing stare down the riverside, she collects herself to head inside.

The heavy warmth of the building brings with it a feeling of bitterness for her, wishing she were outside as closes the door behind the two of them. She leaves the key by the door on her way in.

She goes to warm her hands by the fire, already cold as the dead. Idly, she finds herself watching his noise. Watching his hands. The clay brought her more than curiosity, and she was surprised to watch it not slip off with water. Was it silt from--

"Djou are not to tell zhat girl I 'ave done zhat."

She paused in warming herself.

"Do djou understand? Vhatever djou saw, djou forget. If djou value djour life."

She is a fearful creature. One that is small, and helpless in the world without other things to protect her.

And yet. Certainly it is bodies she is afraid of. The physical being. His largeness. It was the same with others. She fears them and takes their threats so long as it is with the body.

Yet it happens. The words that come out of their mouths. The look she finds when she sees their eyes.

Something in her balks. It resists.

She avoided eyes not only to not be seen, but to remind herself to be afraid.

Her head lilts to the side, non cutely. Regarding him. "Oh?" She rids her hands of what she is doing, stepping forwards. Towards him. "Not even a... 'Thank you, without you... I wouldn't have even noticed this, and would've gone on my merry way'?" She reaches into the sink and picks up a finger of clay that barely remained at the bottom, observing how it rubbed between her fingers, wet and pigmented. "Not even a, 'I'll trade you, to keep your mouth shut'?" She stares briefly. "Can I have some of your clay?" He doesn't seem to like that. She steps away, implacable. Of course his go-to negotiation is to threaten. Just look at him.

She's facetious. It's long since she thought creatures to think of anything but themselves first. It's unreasonable to consider others before the self. The self, all selves are bodily, soft, susceptible to harm.

But she was still going to hold it against him.

She starts to hurry up the stairs, ready to be rid of this situation. To head to bed and head out in the morning at first light to harvest everything this side of the river.

Yet up the steps, words still come. Slip as if she were inebriated. Words that are comfortable with her. They come to taste her lips often. "Besides..." She stops at the top of the stairs, before she would disappear in the next step, "what are they going to do?" Her eyes are on him, roll away as she continues up past the wall where he can't see her. "Kill you?"

She locks her door out of anger rather than fear. If he wanted to get in, a flimsy little door and lock wouldn't keep him out. But she felt fine. And she checked her things before she headed to bed, in a rare act of reasonable decisions.

 

[Malhyanth]

The albino watched her, as she approached and questioned his statement. His lip lifted in a snarl, and his chest rolled with a grumble, a sound reminiscent of a growl. He took the bucket after she had taken to putting her hand inside to sample the clay he had washed from himself. The snarl came forth as he hefted the pail, and took it to the back door, opening it once more, and throwing it, and it's sticky clay substance, out into the garden's manicured lawns. He entered again as watched her as she pranced about, seeming coy, but measured; she was much more crafty than he had anticipated. When she suggested a bribe to keep her mouth shut, the man lost an inch of his control. The pail was slammed down on the bar too where it had been, and he gripped her throat with the other, drawing his face close to hers.

"I shall tell djou, if you value djour own safety, as party to vhat I 'ave done. I may 'ave done the act, but zhe people 'ere vill not discriminate between zhe doer and zhe viewer." His voice was low, his breath pushing her hair away from her face, and he released her, letting her go to the stairs to escape him. He leant himself against the bar as she called down to him. Her words were purposeful, playfully tugging on him for further information. His growl was low, and he rolled his shoulders and followed her, his steps purposeful. She was going to regret winding up the beast.

His legs took the stairs two at a time, and he was beside her at the balcony to the staircase in no time. He gripped her shoulders and shoved her bodily back into the wall, slamming one hand above her head as he leaned in close, his other reaching for her mouth to cover a scream, before gently caressing her cheek to calm her. She tried to hide how he made her feel, but what she didn't know was she reeked of it. Every pore of her skin released the smell of fear and concern. His nostrils flared, and he breathed deep of her fear.

"Djou like to play a dangerous game, little girl." Fingers twirled into the hair of her temple, admiring their colour, something he was so devoid of. A vicious, sharp toothed smile started to spread across his features as he leaned in closer to her. "Do not zhreaten me. If zhis town knows vhat I did before my task is complete I VILL be killed. And my task is dangerous enough as is, vizhout a little waif like djou getting involved." He sighed, breathing deep of her scent once more, before releasing her hair, and pushing away from the wall. He turned from her, a low chuckle, one with little mirth to it, and more of a sound simply to fill space, to fill silence. "Do djou fear me? Or do djou zhink djour silver tongue can keep djou safe from most situations?"

The tall man left her against the wall, and entered his own room once again, leaving the door open, inviting a continuation of the conversation if she wanted it. He headed to the chest at the foot of his bed, and investigated the other items inside. The same nest of silken cloth, but also a number of nuggets of metal, the age old myth that one needed a silver dagger in the heart to kill he and his brethren. He chuckled again low, pocketing the chunks of silver into his pouches on his belt. The cloth stank, some sort of oil had been used to make a pungent scent, but that was going to be just as obnoxious to a Man as it were a Werewolf. He closed the lid to the chest, and set his items on top of its wood again. He worked the buckle on his belt, and took it off, setting this to the side with his other items too. His sleeveless tunic was untucked from his trousers, and he stood at the window, watching the men atop the ramparts of Stonelm's castle.

"Vhat did my brozhers do to upset djou?" He mused quietly.

 

[unais]

He took her musings as threats. Ugh.

More than ugh. Struggles to turn her head even to the side.

Her mind scrabbled. She swallowed his breath and breathed his skin as it came near her. She didn't want to but her brain went through the ingredients as she inhaled. Blood and clay. The clay evoked of the cliffs of Tarthe. Hot running storm rivers with a deep red color. The old, hot smell of iron. Human. Animal. She could taste it in her mind. Then his skin. Grime, dirt. His own skin. His sweat had something familiar. It was earthly. Ghastly. Beastly. A taste she had before. One or the other.

Her mind was driving her mad and she had to focus on what was happening. A yelp was slammed out of her in the hit, but next she found the roughness of a hand and smelled his skin all over. They both stare through the last flickers of light in the hallway that seep through her orange hair. Fascinated with it catching color. And he breathes her. More heavily than she breathes him. She struggles to pull her head away, though she cannot move. His hot breath covers her as he talks, and she sees the meal they had, as if shared. And blood. And meat.

His teeth, wet, and sharp, catching the light and her stare.

She thought over her words as he talked at her. Had she not mentioned she was not going to tell?

She... hadn't. She skipped straight to the part where she was angry.

Her temper. Her temper. And her tongue. Besides not being able to keep her mouth shut, there was something else. It crawled in the back of her brain, and neck, and made her do things she shouldn't do. Continue where it was.

Like he said... it was as though she had something that made her play with fire.

He brought her back. She felt herself shudder as he breathed into her again. She was surprised she stood after he let her go, but she did stumble, after him.

"My silver tongue seems to be what gets me into most of these situations." Silver. Not so much as a chaotic tongue. Her throat raw and scathed. She rubs it, trying to control it. Return her voice. "I'm just--" She pauses, glancing toward the barkeep's room. Speaks more lowly as time goes on, sure that he would hear her no matter how softly she spoke. "...surprised you're mortal." She's catching her breath. Yet still she talks. Stands in his room as if he weren't going to turn and rend her down right there. "So a little town like this... still poses a threat to you? I thought..." Quieter.

"And you walk around like that?" Gestures to him. "I thought at least your self-healing would stop you from getting killed if your sense of preservation is so muddled." Stop. She's doing it again.

He turns to her, and she hisses, sudden. "I wasn't going to tell anyone. Don't you think I know that? That I'm just as much risk here?"

 

[Malhyanth]

The Bone Collector stood and listened to her prattle. If it weren't for the fact she would likely be missed tomorrow by the Bar Keep, she was small enough to not ruin his appetite for tomorrow. Below his skin he felt the roll of the Beast, itching to be released as the moon climbed higher. It may look full, but its power was not at its strongest yet. Tomorrow, as planned, he would fulfil the contract and leave this place, and hope to never return. He sighed, and crossed his scarred arms across his broad chest before he turned to looked at the girl whom had followed him.

She certainly did have a taste for danger. To follow him, despite the previous treatment, suggested little care for her own well being; had she worked out exactly what he was? Or did she simply guess he was something... different? Perhaps she believed the talk of wolves taking a human shape, or perhaps she knew of people whom hid a monster in their skin. Whatever it was, she was holding her cards close, and only giving him hints at what she believed him to be. "Immortal? Bah!!" His laugh was harsh but genuine, and he gave her a coy smile. "Vhat exactly makes djou zhink I am un'armable? I am albino, not magic, zhough people often mistake the two conditions." He chuckled again, thinking back to her potions and witchery. His grin darkened as he watched her, unfurling his arms and placing his hands upon the window sill below his behind, swinging a leg forward a little in a playful manner.

"Of zhe two of us, I believe it is djou 'oo 'as zhe better trick vhen it comes to vounds. I simply 'eal. Zhere is nozhing special about that, 'Ot 'Ead." The man's face returned to a more neutral look; he realised he had not managed to absorb her name yet from their greeting. He had a face, and a scent map of her in his head; the earthy tones, mixed with a twang of chemical trace, plus her own delicious flesh scent. A natural smell of a woman that travelled hard, and, like he, no doubt rarely found someone to clean up on a regular basis. For the Werewolf, however, regular bathing was the least of his concerns. Staying alive in a world that had forgotten his species and their ancestral promises to the Land, and had driven them to near extinction, at least in his form! There were few born to this life now. The Collector believed of his own clan, he was the last of True bloodlines. He'd met a few Bitten, but they were deformed creatures, consumed with hate and Infected blood. The offspring of such unions were often deformed, or devoured long before they made it to a stage they could care for themselves!! His eyes were the only thing to change as he though of his kin, a melancholy haze over the mottled white-blue and pink that decorated his orbs.

"I zhought it vas obvious from my appearance, I can be 'urt, and zhus, killed?" The man spread his arms out from his sides, before raising one to pull the hem of his tunic up, revealing the raised, laceration scars that traversed his toned torso, deep furrows and mounds of knotted flesh, all intersecting, and telling a story of abuse and torture. The shirt was dropped once more, and the man lifted his chin slightly, to reveal the deep rope burn scars around his neck, the result of being leashed, and the attempted hanging to "kill the monster". "I can die, little girl. Can djou?" He looked her over again, admiring her form; she looked reasonably toned, but not in a way that she could defend herself. She'd proved then to him earlier by freezing when he'd pushed her up against a wall. He remembered back, once more, to that finger, and he arm, which held no trace of a scar.

"Vhat stop the story from being formed? Vhy remove zhe best part of a fight?" The man ran one hand up the pitted and rough road that was the arm of the opposite side. It was almost as though someone had wished to play tic tac toe on his arms, mixed with the same deep welts he'd show upon his naked torso. He was not conscious of them, until someone came along and showed him a way to stop future ones. It disturbed him!! Scars were his story. The scars were reminders of his encounters. Hell, he may even offer the girl the extra space in his bed, and offer her a blade to join the others! He tilted his head to the side, considering her body once more; or maybe not. She looked the type to take the opportunity bared and use that blade to a more deadly purpose!!

 

[unais]

She stared at him impassively as he spoke, but saw something... something she balked at.

She saw in a few of those movements... the shuttering of the eyes, and the tired laugh.

Herself.

She winces with minor disgust, as does one seeing a mirror and noticing but the flaws.

"Hot head? ...Did you just call me that because my hair is red?" She reached up to touch it in a rare form of awareness. What an... infantile insult. She made a face, not sure what to think.

Both their faces slip back to their select stoicisms.

"I zhought it vas obvious from my appearance, I can be 'urt, and zhus, killed?" She watched him quietly for his explanation. He was beginning to stick his neck out. She was trying not to cut it with that tongue of hers.

Her eyes coasted across his keloids, the welts and stricken flesh. They only stayed where she could see it twisted. Where it was not left to heal. Wounds she would know. Seen and not felt. Mostly.

She could see torture with a glance of the eyes, and pick it out among clean wounds. Honorable fighting, if such a thing were done.

Her expression is kept resolute, but she is... surprised. That he's got a comparable life to her own... She's not so vain as to say she's the one who's suffered most here--but her tortures were those which didn't leave many scars upon her body. He gets some raise of her eyes, as the only rope marks show themselves. That, she did not expect.

And yet her head lilts.

"...I didn't say invulnerable." She wouldn't remove her eyes and be mistaken for one unable to witness him. She saw it. She would see all of it. All that he showed of his story of scars. She stared, implacable. Unable to communicate her feeling. Unable to feel pity, sympathy. But rather familiarity. Perhaps empathy. She knew he wouldn't understand what she had felt. No matter how she felt it through her eyes. Something almost to a shred of kinship--or shared scars. Because her forked tongue worked both ways. "Gods and demons can be wounded."

And she had never seen a werewolf die. Clearly he was one who fit the bill of nigh unkillable.

"I can die, little girl. Can djou?" A question that blindsided and confounded her as to how it could be asked. "Vhat stop the story from being formed? Vhy remove zhe best part of a fight?" Touching his arm.

Glances at hers, having already forgotten... she'd cut her own in just a few hours ago and forgotten the slight. She supposed to the layman of herself, it was a puzzle. She lifted her arm, running her fingers over the underside of the flesh in the most rare observation of herself.

"'The best part of the fight'?" She paused, adamant, "...the best part of a fight is surviving functionally in tact. Because for you..." Paused, again, aware of her showing emotion. She collected herself. "...Because my story would end with one rope... or one mark." She unknowingly reached up and touched the mark of the headsman's axe on her temple. She scratched it. "Yours... does not."

She finds him staring when she looks. In a way she does not quite decipher. Sizing her.

It incites her to step forward, answering more. "...I would say you could survive that story more easily than I." The story of a fight. "But are you trying to say... I survive the world more easily than you?" It was a thought that cut deep--having felt the world trying to crush her at every corner of her life. She stepped forward, unable to feel herself stop. "...You think I cannot die? ...Wouldn't one swipe from you eradicate all doubt?" But she stepped back, slightly. "Look at me." Her hands, laughably small if compared to his. Very old, very dark, scars from her youth mark intermittently on her hands, arms, fingers. "Am I not mortal? Am I not... a mouse, like pestilence waiting to be wiped out? ...I simply don't want to die, and I despise pain."

She looked at him. Willing him to understand but not believing it were to happen.

 

[Malhyanth]

unais

The Collector watched her curiously, listening to her words, especially when she spoke of Demons and Gods. Did she think him one of these? That he was not. Yes he was strong, could take a beating, and survive being rigged up to choke to death, but there were things he feared; the sharp blade, the bow and arrow, the axe's head, the macs and flail. Anything could end him like it would end her; though being bigger, he would require a larger amount of effort. He shock his head, his cot, playful smile returning. Demons and Gods indeed!! She did not seem to agree with him regarding the affairs and intricacies of a fight; fair or otherwise. He again looked his his arms, so criss crossed with welts, furrows and knots.

"Zhe best part of zhe battle is to see djour opponent fall, vizhout causing zhe final devastating blow to djour own body, yes. But zhe scars from his fight. Zhey are a reminder of him; a final message from zhem as zhey pass on." His fingers held for a particular moment on the scar around his threat. This one was less of a fair fight, and had resulted in the massacre of the town they had resided. The tying of a leash had been bad enough, but to then use it with a winch to pull him from the ground; flailing because his limbs lost the earth, and adamant he could find the man in charge if he could only reach out with his arms. His flailing had elicited the reaction he had wanted, and when he had felt a hardness below his hand, he had taken advantage, and changed his situation for good.

The girl...

The was something about the way she viewed him that suggested she hadn't escaped her torturers how she had wished; she hadn't felt their life crushed by clawed hands that could have rendered the features of a face obsolete in seconds. She hadn't been able to detach, simply by willing it. Werewolves were sturdy, they continued when others would fall, but at a price. "Djou ask me if I zhink you are mortal? I zhink djou were terrified when djou felt djour freedoms removed; but I zhink, as I did, zhat freedom vas just as scary!" The smile that passed over his features was genuine; his eyes were soft as they gazed at her, and a hand reached out as she stepped closer, into his aura, and he squeeze her shoulder in a reassuring way. Or at least he hopes it would seem reassuring.

"Djou, 'Ot 'Ead, are pretty perfect as you are."

 

[unais]

Malhyanth

She began to understand.

The stories he valued to carry with him were stories of those who had left the earth. And stories not only told that he had suffered, but stood to tell that he had survived. She did not think herself one for poems, but she understood the art there.

Momentarily she wondered if it would have been better to wear her memories upon her flesh; to look upon them and reminisce, as pages in a diary, and be able to be separate from it. To close the book by forgetting, though knowing, comfortably, it would always be there. What she had instead was a tangled mess inside her mind. Chaos where she tripped over the wires every now and then as she moved without trying to touch any of them. They suspended her, she realized; now never allowing her the power to leave them behind.

"I see... Your scars are a reminder that you survived. That a story has already ended." Good. Bad. They were merely the reminders that would not be forgotten. Not held inside. Hers would go on and on and on, as if not yet ended.

He seemed to build a persuasive argument as to why one would value the scars built upon their person. She was not against scars; it was the wounds she tried to stave off. A scar was a scar that she would leave in place. Before, merely as a reminder she was foolish and clumsy, but now faintly wondered if it'd be a reminder that she yet lived.

"Djou ask me if I zhink you are mortal? I zhink djou were terrified when djou felt djour freedoms removed; but I zhink, as I did, zhat freedom vas just as scary!"

"I--" It was hard to look at him for a moment.

She knew they spoke from common ground but to have the reality of it thrown in her face was disarming. It was terrifying, she remembered. She felt no comfort in finding sudden freedom. Everything felt tumultuous, and she waded in that chaos for the long time without feeling freer of it.

She asked him to understand her. But when he came and dropped kindness into her lap, she didn't know what actually to do with it.

Her hand went to his as it touched her, in an instinct to move his hand off, but her thoughts interrupted, and her hand stayed on his. The weight of his hand immense upon her shoulder, was an odd sensation. It became less unwelcome as time went on.

"Djou, 'Ot 'Ead, are pretty perfect as you are."

"How can you--" the pause, her hand resting as she thought. She caught herself looking at his face, and saw him without as many edges as before. Then she found herself without knowing what to do. "… be saying that… Weren't you cursing me just minutes ago?"

Finally, a smile faintly across her lips. She took her hand off his, gently, leaving his hand where it were in the last vestige of kindness she could offer. She wanted to be kinder. She regretted her guards weren't all fallen, and knew they wouldn't, not now, but desperately wished she could return some of this trust, or kindness--whatever it was.

She feared somewhat she couldn't do that; and that her tongue that spoke already lashed the last leavings she had of trying to reciprocate something.

 

[Malhyanth]

The werewolf chuckled at her. He removed his hand from her shoulder, feeling the tenseness of her body from the contact, though the hand that had raised to remove him had dwindled once it reached its destination, and had instead sat upon his large hand. He pushed himself off the window sill, returning to his full height and looking down at her from his height. That red hair was very tempting to reach out and ruffle, bring back her fiery nature, but he withheld. Her question made him stop, purse his lips in mock-thought.

"Oh yes, of course, I vas cursing djou, djou're right, I couldn't possibly change my mind about djou as djou continue to 'ound me and speak." He looked at her sidelong, his head shaking a little. "'Ot 'Ead, sometimes, certain zhings must be said, in certain situations. Zhat situation 'as now passed. Zhe outcome still stands, and I expect djou to ad'ere to zhose terms. Else ve bozh could suffer zhe pain djou are so fearful of." The way it was said was not mocking, simply a statement. What was past was past; the lessons had been learnt, the result stood as law between them. He turned his back to her, looking out the window at the moon, flooding thr keep in light now as he stood, contemplating the events soon to occur.

"Tomorrow shall be a day I vill not forget. May'ap it is time djou 'ead out, to djour own tasks." He turned to look at her; the hardness had suddenly returned, in the lines of his body, to the edge of his quivering eyes, the set of his features. He gave her one last look, before moving away from her to his cot, and reaching for his blade, testing its edge. It was keen, sharp, ready. It was time the man matched the blade, and he started to meditate on the situation that was to come.

"It 'as been pleasant to meet djou 'ere, little 'Ot 'Ead. 'Owever, after today, I do not believe we shall meet again." He refused to look at her, like the bond they had shared moments before had been a mistake; he'd forgotten himself, and now he was going to pay the price. His hard eyes, like gems in his pale face, looked at her. "Djou did me a service today, it vill not be forgotten." He offered her the blade. He hoped the meaning would be clear, and he would not have to explain. He removed his tunic, reveal the latticework that was his chest. He indicated a spot above his heart. "Allow me to remember the story? Zhis time togezher? Not too deep, I need to be ready for tomorrow. But enough it will mark."

His look said if she did not, he would take it upon himself to do it, but he would prefer it be the girl whom had revealed further reason he needed to carry out his contract tomorrow; for helping him lay his brethren to rest, though she may not have realised the importance of her find.

 

[unais]

She made a face, but there snuck in an unwilling smirk, knowing he was right but feeling vindictive of it. Things changed within minutes. She simply couldn't handle it in the reality of her life.

"'Ot 'Ead, sometimes, certain zhings must be said, in certain situations. Zhat situation 'as now passed. Zhe outcome still stands, and I expect djou to ad'ere to zhose terms. Else ve bozh could suffer zhe pain djou are so fearful of."

She was quiet a moment. "I know..." Also a statement. No hard words in her voice. "I won't..." It was a strange pattern of hers not to tell. "I won't have anything to say." If someone were to ask her.

It was time to say goodnight, she agreed... Goodnight, and, goodbye. They both knew.

His movements changed. Things were ending as he turned away from her. She was tight for a moment, knowing it possible for him to be ending this exchange with her death, but hesitated to believe it. They both stood, knowing the same things, feeling the same ways. In silence.

There had been a moment of vulnerability, one where they both felt they forgot themselves, and now they had to see to it that tomorrow wouldn't know this.

But they wanted to remember.

She was right; as he turned with the hilt pointing her way.

"Allow me to remember the story? Zhis time togezher? Not too deep, I need to be ready for tomorrow. But enough it will mark."

She took her breaths, looking at it, willing herself not to look at him as if she were questioning. She listenedquietly, and with certain pauses, raised her hand to take it from him.

He could feel her blood pumping. She kept her breath as even as she could, as if trying not to let on--though they both could tell her condition.

Her resolve was clear, but her grip tightened, faltered, tightened on the dagger as she looked onto him. She stared. Alert. Awake. Finding something. And she looked at her hand, breathed to still the slight tremble there. Decided how to cut.

She raised the knife slowly, almost to his shoulder, and paused... turning the dagger so that she would be cutting across. It would cross herself. And it would cross him.

It was strange. She didn't want her line to lead away. If she had pulled the stroke away, in a stronger cut, it would lead out of him. She imagined him looking down at himself, his fingers tracing the cut, and it leading out from him. To forget her. She wanted her mark to lead inward. Where his fingers would cross his chest, as if the mark would cross his veins, and come back to his heart. And he wouldn't forget.

She wished she had more skill to expertly cut, a living, breathing being whom she wasn't trying to kill. But she couldn't, so she cut deliberately. Straight as a surgeon. Slowly. Clean... and as the cut become long, she pressed it deeper.

There was another shake that made it to her body, but she refused to let it in her hand. To unnecessarily mar the mark she was making and cause more pain.

It had to make a mark. She was fearful she wouldn't make enough of one.

She worked to deepen it in her slow cut, and then as it ended, the knife trailed and left the line clean. From beginning to end. She worked without the skill of combat, so with the precision that she could muster. It left a clean mark, from left to right, that deepened in the center as much as she could bear. The ends were wisps, and the last edge of the knife had touched the other side of his chest.

She exhaled, measured, as she let him take the knife from her, and watched the wound--her wound--until it beaded and bleed.

Her eyes hadn't met his since he had looked away to the bed. Now that there was blood, she looked at him again, and this time, saw color. His were blue and pink. Her eyes stayed there for a moment, and flicked down, and up, struggling to stay in contact.

"...I know..." A longer beat. A flicker. Her stare quivering. "We won't be seeing each other again... I don't think."

She didn't know what to do with her hands, looked at the one that held the dagger, and let herself touch the wall as she led herself out. She stopped in the doorway, and turned her head.

Her mouth ready to speak but no words. "...Goodbye..." The next phrase, absent, died at her lips. It was too late to ask for a name to remember by. She paused, finding herself unable to let go at that. Yet also knowing not to hold on too tightly. As she turned away, to return to her room, let a title barely breathe through her lips. "Werewolf..."

 

[unais]

Morning.

She woke later than usual. The sun was already up, fully, by the time she was.

Her tinctures were done. Distilled. Steamed. Cooled. Ready to be moved on or simply ready. She taste tested them all before packing up, and heading out.

The barkeep gave her a strange look on her way out as she passed her the keys to the room.

"So..." The barkeep had a way about her that couldn't quite be placed, and in response stared implacably. "Yew an' the ol' big guy?" Her smile was wide, and interested.

She wasn't too taken aback by an accusation, but the content of it made her balk.

"Um. Yeah..."

"Oooh, tell me. Was he wild? He seemed very... strong."

"Nn... y..." She simply backed away from the woman to leave, preferring to leave more things behind than this slightly unpleasant conversation.

"Oh, darlin' I was just having a fool around!"

"It's fine."

The cold outside was terrific, though the middle of the day. The fog that the river had breathed out since morning was dissipating, but its soft wetness collected on her as she walked toward the castle.

She unpacked her furs today and wore one under her linens, covering her thighs, and the rest sat over her shoulders, under her cloak.

Her access to the castle was easy, as she had an appointment. She had no choice but to make one when she came--not having intended to see his Lordship, but rather to justify her visit. Whether things worked or not, she hadn't a care. It was a ruse to maintain normalcy and be undisturbed as she came and went.

But her bargaining nature came into play as she stood before his Lordship and presented herself.

The court caller introduced her, and she bowed.

"Your Lordship... I come before you selling potions, which I believe could be beneficial to you in many ways." She pulled out the dagger, and dropped it, bowing. She remembered what had happened at the tavern. She held out her hand to him, "May I borrow a short knife, your Lordship? One that shows you that neither poison, no enchantment is being used here."

She was alone in the middle of their audience chamber, where a pair of guards flanked every side of the room. One of the guards obeyed the Lord's bid, to which he approached her and handed her a knife. He backed away, and she found herself having to focus back on what she was doing.

Her cloak was pushed to the side, her sleeve was rolled. "Sir, what I offer you and your court is a healing potion beyond compare." She slashed her arm, hardly feeling it. A sharp knife.

Her mind felt elsewhere. She felt the candlelights. Saw the soft flicker in her hair as it was wrapped around his fingers. The candles whose light lashed across his wounds as she stood there, seeing his scars.

She returned, feeling the pain in her arm now that it understood she'd been cut, and it bled. She presented the wound to all around her, then held up the little vial, and drank. A flask of water wet a cloth she held and she wiped the wound clean, and pressed to skin to display no opening. The soft, pure whiteness of the soft forearm unmarred by the previous infringement.

His lordship's posture had shifted from a reclined position to one of more attention. There was a bit of a stir in the minor audience she had, in the other guests who waited in the doorway for an audience. She smiled, but ducked her head to hide it. It wasn't that she liked the attention. That she liked eyes pointed to herself. It was her skill she wanted on display. To be understood for what she was doing; whether it was envy, admiration, hatred, awe. She wanted to be her skills. When eyes were on herself, she shrank with annoyance, unsure as to what people were looking at.

"If you'd like..." She gestured modestly to one of the other guards, who came forward at the Lord's behest. She showed the bottle, and drank from it, before offering it for him to drink. "To show his lordship there's no trick here... simply what I've made, and continue to make again." She allowed the man the knife, rather, and he waffled with it, unsure as to where to cut himself in his armor.

Instead, he turned to her, and held the knife to her face, wherein she raised her hands. But she saw the look in his eyes, and shifted her gaze to the Lord. She saw him sitting, unperturbed, so she lilted her head up. He began to drag the blade down the side of her cheek. Closed her eyes.

Felt herself against the wall of the tavern as he breathed her--

She opened her eyes as the blade stopped, and tilted her head, staring at the soldier while the wound closed. The cloth was given to him to wipe her blood away. Short applause. Then the Lord of the castle bid the guard to remove his helmet, in return for the act that seized him. She took the knife and smiled without her eyes.

"Allow me." She heard an uncomfortable shift all around her with the other men, and paused to look directly at the Lord. "Your highness, feel free to take my life if I take that of your soldier's." At this, the evidence, there was a long pause... and he nodded for her to continue.

She slashed knife hard, across his throat. There was a moment. He bled, there was noise, and he choked and... lived. Wiped his wound.

The audience bid her to bow, and she did, to two sides of the room. Even the Lord was clapping. But there was something about him. He touched the regalia around his neck for a long time before he spoke. "Does this... potion of yours... does it cure disease?"

Ah. Not an uncommon question. "If the disease is that which takes its leave on its own, then it does speed up the process. However anything contagious--it would simple stave it off. And anything deadly... if it's still present, it cannot do anything."

"But you are skilled at making cures are you not? An... unorthodox doctor at will?"

Something was telling her to be careful. "In a... way... I suppose that could be said..."

"You seem extremely skilled. And what other things can you make?"

Her triggers were being tripped, but she spoke. "Other things?" She spoke broadly, to all crowds. "I can produce invisibility, breathing under water. I can make your nightvision like a cat's. I can make--" She thought she saw someone. Someone she had said goodbye to. Swallowed the choke of saliva, and couldn't again look, as she had already turned her eyes to face the front. "...Many things. I have quite a skillset."

"Miss Alchemist," He was starting to speak a bit carefully, a bit comfortably now. The way he adjusted himself to sit up reminded her of a cat, comfortably spoiled. Playing with its food. "If it pleases you, what sort of trade were you looking for for these potions? For I believe I may have a better deal that may not compare to a price that you may have been looking for."

She was quiet. Stared at him. Held the words 'oh, really' in her throat. She was in court. There was still a smile, but her eyes held nothing but politeness. She'd known she had stepped into this, but only now realized how deeply she had gone since she started.

Let the polite words, "Oh? Your Lordship?" play their part in the little show they now were putting on. A show she was now playing puppet to.

"Yes, let's have more serious talks of inducting you as my court alchemist... or doctor. You've shown much skill here--I'm sure that you could find a comfortable place to be seated here in my court at Stonhelm."

Her smile pulled to one side, and she managed at least a single attempt of escape. "Oh, your Lordship, I'm not sure a traveling alchemist such as myself truly suits the role of staying in place. Would it not be uncouth to have someone such as me staying within the castle?"

"I insist." He waved his hand, and two soldiers encroached.

She bowed. "Then I have no choice but to... accept this gracious offer." Her voice was cold, polite and perfect for court. "My Lord." But she let the hatred slip into her throat. She knew not one of them knew or would hear it. It poured from her, lined her neck with the light sweat that formed as the soldiers escorted her away.

And trapped her. In another room in the castle.

Things were quiet for a long time. They fed her lunch, and water.

The sun began to fall. Then... twilight.

The alchemist found herself walking with his Lordship, speaking with him. Rather, listening while he talked at her. Two guards flanked them at all times, and soon they were joined by four. He took her to a room lower than she thought it'd be. It opposed the rest of the castle, and was strangely hidden, with strange walls to walk past. Easily found when walked towards, but from a distance, unknown to be other rooms.

"You may have been who I've been looking for... for a long time."

"Is that so."

The room he brought her to had decorated walls and paths on the way over. She was observing, finding it all strange. Finding a pit in her stomach, but not one that killed her as she had spoken to the werewolf.

The candlelight... Her mind drifted, unable to feign holding onto the man's words other than any significant threats.

He introduced her to the room. Regalia and furniture of royalty, she imagined, much like a smaller royal bedroom. But she were separated from most of the room with bars of iron, and stood on the outside, looking in on... someone.

A shy, heaving mass of flesh. Small, younger. The deformed young man, shied at their approach, trying to act normal, trying to act something... but unnerved as she stared, pointedly, trying to decipher him.

As a cloud of mist covered the evening light, and he hunched to four limbs, agonized, and growled, with pain.

Howled. He struggled with a transformation, hair falling out in tufts--which she now noticed all over the room. And threw himself against the opposite wall, in pain, his claws growing. His features.

She winced, not knowing how to feel. The irony palpable for her.

"...It happened a long time ago, in the forests as a child." He touched the bars somewhat affectionately, though she couldn't tell with these high court types. Affection, or affection for their own status. It really fell into the same thing for them.

She numbly spoke. "...you're keeping me here... until I cure your son of Lycanthropy."

"You seem more capable than any doctor. Don't alchemists work with the body, and blood?" His words were hardly coming as suggestions.

She was quiet. She felt herself against the wall, someone holding her hair, breathing her hair.

And a hand around her throat.

"I'm sure, for someone such as you, and someone so young... You'll be able to find a solution. You'll have plenty of time."

She stood, watching his convulsions, his madness, from behind the bars.

He watched with her, equally far away. "Plenty... Yes. There's a full moon tonight, so... you probably have until next cycle to get started with your first batch."

That brought her back, slightly. The full moon. "...It's tonight?"

 

[Malhyanth]

unais

The pain was dull to begin with. His eyes stared at the concentration in the girl's face as she battled with herself, trying to decide on the best way to make the reminder of her. His smirk tugged a little at his scarred face, amused by her dedication to the task at hand. Her red hair fell about her as she concentrated solely on her task. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but as he thought the fleeting fancy, the pain suddenly built, and bit into his chest more. His teeth bared, and breath was sucked between them, but it wasn't a wholly pained sound. There was an enjoyment to what was happening, a ritual, and he curled his fingers into the bedding of his cot, his head falling back as she finished her task.

The hot feel of blood flowing down his chest brought him back from his feeling of ecstasy at being marked. She was looking at him with a face of concern, confusion, avoidance. Her mouth worked, but its seemed the silver tongue had lost its gilded edge, and his sharp grin spread across his face as he listening to her, the fingers of his right hand unraveling from the bed spread, and touching around the wound. She'd gone deeper than he had expected. Tingles spread through his chest as he touched the area, and he smirked, his flickering eyes raising to stare into her own. He said nothing. He didn't need to. She said enough for both of them. He took the knife from her, seeing the slight tremble to her fingers; was this the first time she had inflicted such a wound? He'd seen her happily slice herself up when that potion coursed through her, knowing the pain was even more fleeting than he was feeling now. His licked his lips, almost unaware of the motion as she finally captured her words and turned away, heading for the exit. That was when she said the word, and he realised she was far smarter than given credit for. His grin was true as it spread across his face, and he looked to the window. She was a vixen, that was certainly true. Had he known it to be possible, he would have said she was descended from the fox, as he was from the wolf. He stood, the wound on his chest tugging and pulling, and his grin widened. This was going to make his task more interesting.

He stepped to the desk in the room, and found a jug of water. He looked at his naked appearance in the mirror before him, and again, his right hand raised to press around the wound. Blood pooled before it bubbled over. He was healing already. He went to his possessions on the chest, and pushed them up onto the cot, opening the trunk, and taking out the silk rag. He sniffed at it to try and identify the oil that had been worked into it. It was some sort of herb oil that he actually found quite delicious, and had used before in his own crafting; whatever tales were spoken of in this northern inbred town, they clearly had very few scholars of note!

He used the silk as a wash cloth, wiping down his broad chest, staining it as much as he could. The girl would enter after he left, and find the room devoid of the skulls of protection, the silver ingots, and this bloodied cloth. She would know, then, perhaps she should have reported him, but it would be too late. The cloth thoroughly soaked and daubed in his blood, the offending area of the new scar clean, he returned to his pouches. He took a small one, and returned to his mirror. His face was set hard as he dipped his dampened finger into the pouch, raising out a salt agent, mixed with numbing herbs, and a reactive agent to his blood; a herb called wolf's bane. He spread his legs to brace himself, planting himself solidly to the ground. He forced his finger into the wound and wiggled it about a bit. His task done, he thumped his hands down onto the desk as a growl bubbled up from his chest. He released it low and slow, rolling it with the fizzing of his flesh, the acrid smell that arose around him. His teeth grit together, and he stared at his own eyes in the mirror, bringing himself back from the edge. The Full Moon was always so difficult to resist.

When the intense pain subsides his stood straight, and inspected himself. The fizzing substance had formed a thick pink tinged foam within his gifted wound. It was numb to the touch now, but the tugging sensation was still there, as he moved his chest abd arms about, but that element of twinging pain was gone. He grinned, knowing the scar would bulge and knot, and he would remember this evening in his meditations. His grin faded. It was time to prepare. He moved to the door, and ensured it was locked. He dragged the furs from the bottom of the bed's layout, and piled them onto the centre of the floor, before removing the last of his clothing, the dark tight but flexible material of his trousers peeling off like a second skin. His legs bared, as marred as the rest of him, carried him to the small nest. He stood there a moment, stretched out his back, and rolled his shoulders, pops and cracks filling the room. His legs crossed as he lowered, placing hands upon his knees, and closing his eyes.

---•---•---•---•---

Morning had been and gone, the girl whom tended the bar had knocked on the door, and murmured something, then had left, finding the door locked. He heard footsteps move from the other bedroom down the stairs, laden with gear. Below, chairs and tables moved, voices started to fill the bar, and laughter. Outside, birds sang their songs. Children ran about, laughing. People haggled for the best price on their wares, doors opened and closed. The clank of metal as guards moved about. Sounds changed as people whispered about something happening in the castle. Something had come that had sliced the throat of a guard, but the guard had not died.

Mottled eyes opened.

What was she doing there?

His stoic face deepened into a frown as he removed himself from his medative state. He felt still, dark, and his mind had entered the state required to carry out his task. Around him, an aura of darkness clung. If was like a cold caress of something dead for any that got too close. His scent, for those adept enough to smell it, had altered; there clung to him now a scent of decay and death. Too much blood so there was a metallic twang to his once wholly earthly scent. He looked to himself in the mirror, and saw what only he would; around him, a dark haze. And those glowing eyes. His Dark Master, whom he had pledged his flesh to, if he failed his mission. Dark, wispy hands gripped the broad shoulders of the werewolf. The black smokey edge around his silhouette in the mirror licked at his skin. But that faceless head over his shoulder, breathing into his ear, giving him his directions. 'Feeeeeed meeeeeeee' it whispered, over and over, a silent hiss in his ear, a hum of noise and knowledge at the back of his mind. People would die today, and this deity of destruction, this dishonourable spirit, would see done what must. Since that night this spirit had found the cowering, choking werewolf, it had clung to him like a cloak, used when required, speaking untruths to him. How it was a God, how it carried souls to the Under Realm, how it would protect the beast, and make him strong. That the wolf never need fear death, nor pain, because it would never allow their union to end. This demon wrapped itself around his heart that night in the forests far from this place, and nestled there, only to be removed by that which could give this beast a different purpose, give him meaning. Instead, it had directed him, found him a job as a mercenary killer, where what he was, what flowed in his blood and hid beneath his paler than white skin, was valued; an assassin, a murderer, a killer, a beast.

Changing quickly, and covering himself fully with his cloak, no longer able to stand the glowing eyes at his back, the werewolf gathered his things. Now was the time; the sun was disappearing, and he had to infiltrate. His steps were fast down the stairs. He had prepared himself, and laid one further gold coin on the counter top as he reached the bottom. His hard features said to the girl 'forget this face', and her fearful eyes told him she would. Her mouth worked, like she wanted to speak, but she couldn't. He turned, and walked out the back door, away from the busy body of the tavern, and away from whatever inane words she wished to speak.

Once outside, his task struck him full. He looked at the walls which flowed like the river, dissecting the town from its Lord. Not for much longer. He followed the wall, and kept his hood low over his face, placing his arms inside the sleeve of the other and almost appearing like some giant monk. The aura of 'get back' that surrounded him made guards look the other way; the demon that had gathered the werewolf into it turned their faces with that sickly cold touch. They ignored his passage. He stepped into the castle, his steps sure and quick, and his nose began to twitch. There was a scent here; one he had hoped would not be. It was still fresh. His teeth grit together as he entered into the great hall, where an empty throne greeted him.

"What business do you have here? The Lord has finished taking visitors today. GUARDS? Why is this man he-----" The speed with which the blade was drawn, readied, and then plunged into the throat of the courtier and twisted took mere seconds. The startled brown eyes blinked into the hard, empty mottled orbs of the albino. The smile that spread across the scarred face was like that of the devil, and even around the blade slammed into his neck, the man tried to scream. Bubbles popped around the bone blade, and he watched the colour drain from the man.

Removing the blade, the man fell in a heap. The knife was flicked clean, and the werewolf entered the centre of the grand audience chamber, where audience benches sat to the side. No guards had yet entered. It was time, he could feel it, prickling at his senses. He sheathed the knife, and removed the cloak, and his articles of clothing there in the hall. As he stood in the centre, two guards walked in, noting a disturbance. The corpse as the door shocked them, before they levelled their spears at the naked man, pale as the moon outside, stood in the middle of the hall.

"Hoy!!! What are you doing there?!" The Collector turned, his devil grin in place, and started his change. He grunted and leant forward, as his limbs lengthened, his face stretched. His joints popped out of place as their bones stretched and changed, before being sucked back into their sockets. A tail lengthened from his back, lashing about. His features shifted in his face, and a snarl ripped his his chest as he grew in stature, hitting at least 8 foot in height by the end of the transformation. White fur glowed in the fire and candle light. The roar reverberated through the castle, and long, curved claws made short work of the guards dumbfounded by what they had witnessed.

The nose of the beast twitched, and he could smell her; she was still here. His claws raked over the walls of the castle, screams going up as he made his way through the place, following her scent, so closely mingled with that of his prey and his deformed child, his true target. Maids and servants ran from the beast that tore through the royal quarters. Claws rendered the drapes with the crest in its embroidery, his snarls echoing around. Her scent powered him on; it was so wrapped around his brain, he could make it out like a beacon, leading him on. Doors that had been cleverly hidden into walls were smashed apart, to reveal their entrance.

Below, the Lord ordered his men to protect their chamber. He pointed an accusing finger at the girl, as the deformed beast in the cage heard its brethren, and made pitiful human-beast calls back. The Lord demanded it shut its face, threatened its life, but still it called to the beast that rampaged above. The guards swallowed hard as they left through the doors and took their place to protect it. They had never signed up for fighting such beasts, and their resolve was weak. As the demon beast clawed his way through to the inner royal sanctum, the first guard was spotted by those fierce mottled eyes, and claws swiped up to take him off his feet. The razor sharp weapons forced up into the meat of his throat and jaw. The man gurgled, before the other hand of the werewolf came up and tore at his chest, pinning the man to the wall, and tearing the jawbone from his head, throwing the hunk of flesh at the other guard, whom screamed and wet himself, dropping to the floor, and crying. The demon in the wolf's heart urged him on, and he leapt across, jaws closing around the screaming head and crushing the sound out. The two guards closer to the inner sanctum had more experience, and both rushed forward with their spears, burying them deep into the creature's exposed side. The howl of pain that erupted was laced with fury, and the clawed hands reached out for its new prey, and grabbed the head of one of the guards, holding him still as the other hand was pulled back and forced through the metal breast plate of the armour. Pulling out, the man's heart beat in that clawed hand a moment, before being squished to a pulp, the body dropped. The last guard begged for his life as the wolf towered up to his full height, the spears still stuck out of his side like pins in a cushion. The teeth bared, and the man sank to his knees. The clawed hand whipped around so fast, the body remained kneeling whilst the head was smashed against the wall behind it, before it too, slumped.

Drenched in the blood of the guards, his own pouring down his side, the werewolf smashed the wooden poles down, leaving the bladed tips where they were, the barbs on such weapons would simply tear him to shreds if he tried to extricate them now, in his wild state. The door was open to the chamber beyond, and the werewolf could see his prey, cowering behind that radiant beauty of red. Beyond, the yowling creature reaching through the bars for the wolf.

"Releasshe 'er." The words were barely recogniseable through the wolf teeth, but the Lord sank to his knees. He was blabbering, begging for his life. The wolf couldn't focus on the girl right now, placing a large clawed hand, almost as big as her torso, against her chest to force her carefully to the side. The mottled eyes of the man she had met the night before collided with hers for but a moment, before the snarl split his face into that of the demon. The Lord soiled himself, and the werewolf gently took the crown from his head, a deep laughing snarl filling the small compound. The crown was flimsy, and the beast's hands made short work of balling the golden metal up, and flicking it beyond into the cage. The Lord begged at the wolf's large paws, reaching out to him. The foot paw was placed against the Lord's chest, and forced the Lord to the floor, a crack reverberating around the room as his hips were forced in an unnatural way to get him down. The man screamed, but the wolf ignored it. He wrapped his large clawed hands around the barred door to the boy, muscles bulging and standing beneath the bloodied white fur. The fierce yank took the door off its hinges. The Lord was forced into the space by that large foot, sliding him bodily across the flagstones into the straw of the cage.

"Zhissh issh 'ow ve treat beasshtssh." He declared, as the son leapt upon the father and started to devour his flesh. The werewolf turned, and looked to the girl. He sighed at her, and grabbed her by the shirt front, forcing her out the room. Whilst the deformed boy ate his screaming father, the white wolf stepped up behind him. Murmuring a wolfen prayer to the Dark Master wrapped around him, the pure white wolf curved his clawed hand, just as the boy looked up to him with a growl to protect his meal. The claws raked across the face, neither human nor beast, and dragged bone and flesh away. The son slumped as the father's screams slowed.

Turning from them, the wolf strode past the girl. She would follow. He had a feeling, now, she always would. There was something about her. She was useful, and the wolf could see a use for her. He followed his trail of destruction, back to the hall, only casting glances back to ensure she was keeping up. "Go, get djour zhingssh. 'Urry!!!"

 

[unais]

Something colossal sounded. The noise rather faint from where they were, but it had force, even at the faintness where it reached them.

There was rumbles next.

And screaming.

Scratching.

It was here, was it?

She stayed still, listening, trying to piece together what was happening above. She couldn't quite feel the ground here. On the earth, over wood, the weight of things shifted as people moved. She could feel them there, sense them if needed. But they stood on unflinching lime and stone mortar. Really, she looked at the floor now, wondering when she would feel something. There were some pitter taps of the metal shoes. Soldiers running. But she didn't expect to glean anything from her connection to the ground. So she listened. Carefully.

Except the floor did move. It was heavy enough to shift the stones beneath her, just so.

A soft scraping grew louder. The splitting of wood, and stone clattered to the ground nearby as the wall down the end of the hall split open.

Her curiosity was winning over her faint... fear.

For if she was caught up in something else... something that didn't recognize her... or something bigger than her little life... then hers would be forfeit. Her heart beat.

The Lord pointed her out as the source of this intrusion, and she had enough of herself to shrug unhelpfully. His screams joined the son's wailing. She moved to step away from the manic claws lashing between the bars, but his Lordship held fast onto her arm, holding her before him, to which she felt the tug of pure emotion. Annoyance.

This room doesn't face the other entrance. But she could feel a footstep down the hall. It was a sound heavier than a man falling.

Their voices were blocking her, and she had to catch sips of sound between their breathing, screaming. Clawed for this thirst of what was happening. What she couldn't see.

She heard hard screaming--from beyond the door this time. Then briefly, crying. The sound was choked out, with a wet, sick noise--with a hardness that tightened something in her. She seized.

The guards at their door charge at the source, and the room reverberated. A howl that shook the room in its pain. She felt ripped outside of herself, her head. She couldn't see if it was over. The hard, quick noises of men being tossed told her it yet still lived. Nothing else could move the hides of men so quickly, and something hit the wall in a clatter of its armor. The sound from there was undecipherable, but it left someone pleading for their life. She understood a thought of mercy, but there was a hard sound again as something else hit a wall meatily. She covered her mouth. The clatter was soft.

Not for long.

He stepped into view.

The stark red against white took her gaze first, going up their tendrils, finding barbs until she found the rest of him.

The bars behind her shook as the son threw himself against them with renewed force. He stepped closer.

"Releasshe 'er."

Her mouth went slightly agape. He recognized her.

He was conscious.

Her arms came to her chest as his hand reached out, and she was nudged aside.

Ah.

Blood traded from his claws to her clothes and dripped thickly down her arm. She could smell its hard, metal taste. But she breathed his blood. It sang to her senses stronger than even the human's blood making rivulets down to her hands.

He smelt of death. Not because of the fresh corpses which she was sure still pumped blood and littered the hall. It was an old death. Ancient. It caressed her, curious of her. It was something that was not him, nor the wolf.

She ignored it.

The twinge of a man was still there--she could detect it. She breathed in short breaths.

Their eyes touched and his gaze cut clean through the miasma that crawled, drowned, surrounded the two of them. That drank the death that followed her. It pulled her fear back like a cloth.

An albino man produces an albino wolf. Why hadn't she made that connection? The white fur had surprised her.

His snarl cut her thoughts next, so close that it felt in her brain. His teeth glistened, wet and sharp in the light. The teeth of a man hanging over her as her breathed her scent, smiling with sharp teeth.

She saw strange things. She saw a man mostly now. Hidden within the body of a beast. A guttural laugh she heard the other night. His laugh. A mild show of immense strength. The same that had pressed her easily into the tavern's wall.

She did wince at the loss of the crown. He could have let her sell it for a pretty penny that they'd both surely need after this.

But she failed not to flinch as the snap she had heard was that of a socket breaking in a pelvis, and she covered her ears this time--the screaming becoming too much. She started, as the iron was ripped heavily off the bars and started to back away, but improbably, the boy waited for him. They both watched as the Lord went in, to die undignified. She watched the mess, unperturbed by much of it.

Then white wolf looked at her and sighed.

Sighed! Was her involvement such an affront to him? It wasn't as if she had walked into this purposely! They had said their goodbyes for a reason.

With surprisingly deft claws, he picked her up by her shirt and forced her outside. Her eyes strangely went across his chest, checking for something above the heart.

Plainly placed outside, she... didn't know what to do. Supposed she shouldn't be watching, so she looked at the hall and peered at the massacre she had only heard before.

Broken wooden shafts, several bodies. She saw one slumped oddly, no head in sight, and remembered the thump that had turned her stomach. Another lay facing them with yet another decapitation, but the way the blood spread out in two directions, suggesting it had been crushed between two things. There had been blood all over his face. It was the first sound that made her sick.

He walked past her. She hurried to catch up with him, uncertain.

They walked in an odd quiet, back to the audience chamber as if they had just taken care of some quiet business and planned to stroll away.

That he looked at her twice along the way suggested something strange to her. It invigorated her hurry... as if she were not to be left to her own devices, now, alone suddenly.

"Go, get djour zhingssh."

She ran before his behest was shouted after her. A raising and intermittent cacophony of more screams came behind her as people entered and promptly left the hall wherein now a werewolf lurked. But the ground shifted behind her as she found her way to the stairs. She looked back as she climbed.

She felt that he was annoyed to be playing chaperone to her.

The screaming was shrill and raucous as they approached people apparently still in the hallways. They cleared, luckily, for she was not sure what he would do if they stayed.

She attempted, finally, to duck into a certain room, but found the door locked. Probably to the same effect as the others. He reached over and, expectedly, tore it from the frame, wherein the screaming of those inside was fantastic. She stepped forward, holding one hand out in the chance to postpone him, ordered at them, "Get out. GO."

Her things, some had been knocked off the table and she picked them back in her pack, not having unpacked anything herself. She caught herself checking, frequently, as to what he was doing, and found him rather still. There was something in his eyes. Thought.

She talked. "Can you climb easily in that body? Even if you don't scale the precipice of cliffs, steep sides will work. If you can make it up the ravine quickly..." Improbably. She didn't know how werewolves traveled. "It'll be impossible for them to catch up until four days time. There's no short trails that go up, and no horses or soldiers that could make it up quickly." She resumed tying her things. "And there are settlements up there which won't get news until then as well."

The top of the ravine is dotted with windmill settlements, and a long set of towns along the road leading out.

She didn't know if she was talking about him singularly or theoretically... both of them.

"Do you want me to delay... distract them...?" She didn't want to do that. "Or split from you...?"

There was noise in the hall. Clatters. Soldiers.

She goes out to the hall. Stares at the two men there. Only two.

"You should go. You don't need to die here."

 

[Malhyanth]

unais

As the girl raced off, the werewolf collected his things, wrapping the cloak around his clothing, to reduce how much blood stained them. He followed the girl, hearing the screams going up. Only twice did he had to drop his items to take care of guards brandishing weaponry. He was sliced across his thighs, and then another spear was rammed home into his shoulders from behind; the first insult was taken care of with a swipe of the claws, the head of the guard rolling off down the corridor as his blade flailed wildly for a moment in the headless body's grip. The second insult was harder, as the pole standing up from his back made it difficult to manoeuvre. Breaking the wood, the shaft was used as a weapon right back, pressing against the metal, the full weight of the wolf leaning into it, crushing the metal work around the guard's chest, his screams disappearing into wheezes as the breath was squeezed from him. He dropped to his knees, clawing at his chest, and the fastenings, lips turning blue, tongue and eyes protruding. The werewolf snorted at him and gathered his kit.

Watching the maids and servants flee from the room the girl had disappeared into, he found her inspecting her damaged kit. His snarl was genuine; how dare these people fiddle with her stuff when she was off with the Lord! Sure she had been here to sell, clearly from the amount of kit she had with her, but she was almost one of them! Almost taken in by the Lord's cruel rule, and stolen away into the castle to live out her days experimenting on that boy. It took the wolf a moment to realise she was talking to him, speaking of climbing. She had a good point. He went to the window, taking up a wardrobe with ease and judging its size in comparison to the window. His eye trained in, he launched it. The glass smashed easily, the wood of the wardrobe smashing against the lead and iron fittings. These were easily bent out of his way, and he leaned out the window to gauge the drop. He could leap across to the wall, over and down into the river bed, and start his ascent further down.

His mottled eyes turned to her, and pointed to his kit with one dripping, oozing claw. "Tie zhat to djour bagsshe. Let'ssh go." His face was taking no argument. He watched her fasten the last of her kit and stuff his own meagre possessions into the kit. She went to indicate his injuries, but his roar silenced her. "Do not argue. Zhere issh no time. 'Old on, now!!!" He helped her up onto the window ledge, making sure her rucksack was secured to her safely. He took her arm, and heaved her up, to lie along his spine, hoping she could avoid the blade that protruded from his back. He grabbed her other arm, and pulled her hands together. "Do not let go, or djou vill fall, and djou vill die."

He leapt into open air.

He could hear her freak out, could feel her tight grip about his throat, but he ignored it, in favour of making the landing. Two guards started towards the werewolf as he landed, illuminated by the firelight, and the glow of the full moon above. His snarl reverberated around the ravine, and he uppercut the first with his savage claws, knocking the man over the edge and into the courtyard below. The man behind threw his bladed spear, which was deflected off course as the werewolf raised his arm to protect the girl on his back. Blood spurted across them both as the blade bit deep into his forearm flesh, and he growled, taking a step towards the guard. He was young, and naive; he drew his sword, and dashed the beast. The werewolf waited, before smacking the blade into the courtyard below with his first hand, and following with a swift punch from the other, claws extended; the kid's face disappeared into the slash of claws, his jaw dislocated, and hanging from only one hinge. The werewolf felt kind of bad for him, but he'd intended to stop them, so he could not feel bad.

The wolf stepped off the edge of the wall, and landed on all fours, the girl laid across his back. He took off, on all fours, and raced towards the river, splashing down into it off the short cliff that dropped down into it. He followed it down stream, away from the tolling of bells, screams and shouts to find them. He ran until he felt he could run no more, and started to heave the pair of them up, till they reached a ledge within the ravine's walls. He stopped, letting his cargo down to sit aside from him as he breathed deep, his back, side and limbs pumping blood, turning the white beast near black with the thickness of it.

"Ve mussht vait a moment." The wolf managed to growl out, his face flecked with blood and foam from his exhaustion. He stood, rolling his shoulders, and testing the face of the rock with his claws. He'd scale this fine alone, but with the girl and her kit, it was going to take a lot more effort. He snarled as another wave of pain threatened to cause a black out. He slammed his clawed hand against the rock, and pressed his forehead against it.

'Gooooo. Gooo nooooow. Beeeefooooore yoooou loooose tooo muuuuch blooood.'

The werewolf stood straight with a roar, and once again offered his hand to the girl, boosting her to his back, to get comfortable and hold tight. He launched himself up, long claws piercing into the rock face, and he scaled it, hard and fast. Claws were torn out of their beds, paws sliced on the sharp rocks, but still he went on. Foam and drool poured from his panting mouth, blood stained as the injuries to his body took their toll. The girl upon his back was no doubt saturated as well! The top was in sight, and he forced himself on, breathing harsh.

Soon as his clawed hands felt the flat top of the ravine's plateau, he heaved one last time and threw himself down on his face into the dusty grassland, breathing deep, eyes rolled into his skull as he tried to regain his strength. He shrugged the girl off, dragging the rest of his body over the edge. He lay, spread on his uninjured side, and his wild eye stared into her own.

"Get zhem out."

 

[unais]

He smashed the window. They were jumping. Out. Already.

It had just been a suggestion.

She stood there dumbly with his things, having picked them up as he traded them for the wardrobe. At the suggestion of both, she stuffed them among her own.

He dragged her around his neck to hold on. Despite the roughness, the essential suggestion of care evoked a message m to her about him being a gentleman.

It was that she was simply unused to care at all.

"Do not let go, or djou vill fall, and djou vill die." She didn't need to be reminded. She would have no help at that--the rest of her survival would depend on the strength of her hands. And her grip not slipping from herself.

She didn't quite fancy herself one to be surprised. She had seen so much. Usually, too much. She had known he was a werewolf.

But she had never been flung through the air from the height of a tower and been comfortably expected to live. It was a bizarre spectacle to witness the world from this height, from a momentary suspension through nothing.

The drop was quick, and they landed hard.

There were two trying to stop them. It took quite an effort to not be thrown off--and as she was tossed about, noticed the new spearhead in his back was cutting gentle slices into the underside of her arm. His roar went through her body, from her arms to her head. Hot blood split over them. She made a small noise of disgust as a young man was ended for his bravado.

She laid her face in his back as they left the castle, and heard them start to cross water; felt the air change from cool to wetly breathed, and felt the flecks of cold water that splashed up to her skin. She felt his body rolling under hers in harsh, swift movements. Her chest becoming sticky with his blood as it seeped through. Their journey then began an ascent.

She willed herself not to look. Whether they failed or fell or were a long way up, it wouldn't matter. She had not to look and simply needed to hold on. The weight of all their things was pulling her off of him. Endurance was her only strength in physicality. She had hardly anything else in terms of physical skill. So she would endure.

They stopped for a moment, and she opened her eyes as she was set aside. She figured they were camping here for the night, and began to unpack something from her side bag.

His movements made her look. He was testing the rock. The hold of it. It was difficult for him. His balance was off, and he had to drag she with her body along and all the strange things slung from them. Alone, he probably would have pranced up the cliff in no time flat.

He seems seized with the sudden pain, all his wounds becoming apparent again and stands, roars his pain. The rituals that impelled him before seem present here, and she drinks something quickly before he has her back with him, and propels up the cliff with renewed vigor.

Blood pumps down his side, onto her legs. Down his back to her chest. The warmth shared between them made it seem almost natural.

The world of stone opened out to a long, moonlit plain. The air up here felt finer, like a soft current washing things away.

Impossibly, they had made it all the way up the ravine. And lay here on the plateau. A scale that should have taken a day, only took him an hour--pumping with blood, adrenaline, and whatever else had spurred him on.

She looked momentarily at the view behind them. At the small lights going out from the glow of Stonhelm where people still searched for them. She dragged herself, moved steadily away from the cliff, and he rolled, showed her his wounds.

"Get zhem out."

Oh. She could do that. She retrieved her boning knife, a long and thin blade which had not been lost in the fray, and looked at the two in his side... but she walked instead, around to his back.

All had been severely moved since their incision, and she was surprised to observe they had chosen coincidentally ideal weapons for piercing the tough hides of beasts such as he. A soreness in her arm alerted her as she raised her left hand to brace and examine where to cut. This one had been cutting her arm in the last hour. It moved the wound unnecessarily down, but she only needed to cut one side then.

She disinfected her knife and made the incision outward, aligning the knife with the inside of the wound and cutting it clean. The blade popped outward as she moved it toward where she had opened it, and she tossed it aside.

She took his shoulder to lay him down. "You can lay down now." Looking at him, she thought it an oddly unnatural position for a werewolf to be lying flat on his back.

She then knelt by him to treat the other two which had been inflicted simultaneously. These wounds were somehow more tangled than the other, and she moved them a bit, ignoring any complaints, but found that she was meant to cut deeper to extract them, AN daughter did so quickly.

She touched the space around his wounds. "And I suppose you don't want any more help with these?" Perhaps the one in the back could be stitched--it was clean enough, but she had no idea if he even desired that.

He didn't need to, possibly?

She went through her bag. She had one experimental potion, and knew it worked but just… the one. She held up the vial in sight for him. "It's not a healing potion. Have this."

He turned his head from her as she went to give it to him.

Unbelievable.

She tried again and heard him... growling? At her?

She poured it through his bared teeth and jumped back as she could. "It's just supposed to restore your blood (loss). It won't patch your wounds." She bit back the words 'so you can bleed more'.

She wanted nothing more than to breathe just a moment, and wait, but it would be a waste right now. Her clothes clung to her in a cold, sticky fashion and she gathered up their bloodied things, which turned out that just everything was ensanguinated.

"I'm going to start a fire." She told him, and drank something else that had her scampering around the open area. She found blown back drift woods and light twigs to gather into a pile which she set a spark upon until it fed and blazed softly.

She found something else in her bag and offered him some salted fried meats she had for simple traveling. She left it by him, unsure if he was going to eat it.

The had practically followed the river up the cliff side, so water was nearby. A low stream separated from the larger one that poured down to one of the main rivers at the foot of the ravine.

She was worried she didn't have enough salt to wash all those blood out. Both linens she had been wearing were soaked through in the front. She placed those in the water. The furs she had under had some blood. But fur was not a huge concern. Furs tended to gather blood and was not unusual to have old stains. She placed the edges bloodied into the water. She soaked her large cloak. And his. Most of his clothes had spots, some larger than others, but she was able to make a salt paste for his stains and left them wet lying on the rocks before they were going to go in.

Only her left pantleg had sustained blood, but it was half-dyed red, and she wasn't sure if the thick material could be washed out. She tied it to something to see what could be drawn out through the stream by morning. Even her belts and garters were bloodied, and she was really unsure about that. She tried the salt.

She then washed the blood from herself. The water numbed quickly, and she was lucky to wash such large areas that fingers weren't needed. She had brought a simple cloth to act as a towel, and wrapped the dry part around herself as she slipped back on her shoes. It was a sheer cloth, and she only wrapped it for warmth instead of modesty. Even a shred of cloth was enough to feel warmer.

She returned to the fire. Her bedroll was laid out already, though she had lost the blanket and extra cloths which were supposed to go with it. She had one fur left that she had been using as a scarf, and she laid it across her shoulders, now as she tried to warm her feet by the fire.

It was quiet. No doubt chaos in the hold below, but it couldn't be heard. It was breezy up here.

She let it be quiet for a long time.

"…thank you… for giving me the chance to get my things." She had been looking at him for a while now. Watching him breathe. Watching the blood become dark, dry patches. Looking at the scars under his fur. Unknowingly looking for one over the heart.

Paused. "Are we wanted criminals now?" And she had just had her old record cleaned...

 

[Malhyanth]

unais

The pain was excruciating. He dug claws covered in the blood of others deep into the stony earth beneath him as she set about her task, removing the horrendous barbed spear point from his back. He felt it scraping against his ribcage, against his scapula, each time she wriggled it against his body to free the barbed edges. They had been expecting him, he was sure of it. She threw the offending metallic item away, and it clattered against the ground, making his wild eyes open a fraction to look at its vicious edges. Had he removed that himself, he would have made an awful mess of it, and been holed up for weeks waiting for body parts to return. Sure, it took a lot to kill him, but it would have been a close call, and had he survived the extraction done clumsily by himself, infection would have been a real possibility.

She placed her hands against his shoulder, and gently helped lay him flat on his back. He could feel now, as the adrenaline was wearing off, the clattering of the pair of spear heads in his side. It vibrated through his body and made him dizzy. Again, as she started to carve into his side to safely extract the barbed metal work, he clawed deep into the earth to avoid retaliation from his wild side. His eyes slid closed, and a fine tremor of shock started to affect his body. He'd lost far more blood than he had anticipated. His head swam, and glowing eyes hovered above him; that Dark Spirit tutted at him, with a low laugh. 'Nooooot thiiiiissssssss tiiiiime woooooooolf' it whispered, hissed words like a breeze on the air, hidden as she extracted the first barbed spear with his low grunt, and the second shortly after. Relief and endorphins flooded him now that the stabbing sensation was removed; he could feel his side sucking a little, and hoped he'd not done too much damage to any internal organs. A full moon could accelerate healing in a werewolf to some degree, but this level of destruction was going to take time. His eyes remained closed, and he heard the girl mention a potion. The growl rolled from his chest, but he felt too weak to bat her away as she started to pour some foul tasting concoction between his gritted teeth. He choked a little, and his long, pale pink tongue lashed a few times from his snarling maw, trying to dislodge the taste.

She spoke of fire, but his head was swimming, and the albino didn't really register much beyond that. He heard her rummaging through her things. Heard her walk away. It would be best if she left, got far away from him. He wasn't safe to be around, and he had never expected to find her again so soon. As he lay there, pain flooding every nerve to its end, blood pumping more and more sluggishly, he started to drift into sleep. He forced his eyes open, however, when she spoke again. He couldn't sleep. He needed to stay awake, make sure he made it through the night to morning. He ignored her thanks; she had deserved the chance to continue her craft, and it may well be what saved them. Plus, if he was honest, she would need a use if she were to follow him. And she would follow him. The Dark Master was telling him that. She was stuck with him now, and there was little the werewolf could say about it.

"Djou, maybe. Me? Zhe onessh 'oo sshaw my fasshe did not live." It was said simply, and devoid of emotion. The wolf gradually got himself to a seated position, before rolling up into his quadrupedal form. "I need vater." He murmured by way of excuse, and he slowly staggered to the small stream. He noted her things, only now realising she was practically naked. Not that it meant anything to him; nakedness was a very natural form, and to him, it was clothes that were unusual. He wore them as a courtesy to the prudish humans he had to live amongst, but feeling nature on one's skin was simply exuberance itself. He entered the stream lower than where the clothing soaked, and simply let himself flop into the freezing water. It hit him like shock, and he gasped into it. The water flowing off his body was black, but eased to deep red, bright claret, and slowly to pink, and then clear. His fur returned to its ghostly whiteness with little prompting. His wounds, thoroughly cleaned out, would need his powdered tincture to clot, and start to heal. Should he request her help again? He would have to, but first, he needed to be human.

He crawled from the water, as the change started. Joints popped painfully, sockets shifted with sucking sounds, fur seemed to withdraw into his pale skin, his face shrank back as he grimaced. His tail shortened and disappeared into his back. Feet shortened, as did his limbs. Left on the bank of the stream, the naked albino glowed in the moonlight. He rolled onto his back, aware grit from the stream was likely working its way into that back wound. He tried to look down at his wounded side, and snarled, only this time it was a more human sound. His forearm also throbbed from being sliced so deeply. He was lucky his fingers were still moving. Struggling to his hands and knees, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, and as he had nothing to hide his body from her view, he simply ignored the fact he was completely on show, and staggered his way back to the camp fire. His skin glowed from the light of the fire as he settled close to his patch of earth, the puddles of blood that were his own shocking him a little. He lay back, and groaned as he did so.

"Friend. My items. Vhere are zhey? Zhere is somezhing I must ask of djou. More zhan djou 'ave already done." His words were strained as he waved one of his large, calloused hands towards his belt and dagger, indicating the smallest pouch. "Djou are skilled at potions. I vork vizh vhat nature gives me. In zhat small pouch is a salt based powder vhich causes a violent reaction vizh Verevolf blood. I need djou to use it. Daub djour finger into it, zhen force it into zhe vounds. I vill not 'urt djou, but I am likely to scream." He stated everything matter of factly, and locked his mottled white-blue and deep reddish pink eyes with her own across the flames. He offered a weak smile. It was a thank you, and a peace offering from their previous tensions. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain and nausea washed over him; he looked beaten and chewed all to hell. A low growling groan escaped his throat, as he locked his eyes to the moon above, mocking his weakened state.

 

[unais]

Malhyanth

Covered her face with frustration. He was right. She had shown her face and even spoken to people comfortably with a beast behind her that didn't kill her. That was short sighted. She clearly looked like she was in league... and then there was the matter of her hair. She tended to be too lazy to color it, when needing to be on the lam, but this time she considered it seriously. She would already be obvious being with him, but...

He stood to get water, and she was left a moment with her thoughts. She leaned toward the fire, it's too warm body lashing warm licks while the wind breezed at her back and sides. She didn't find fire to be much of a comfort--though it was her only source of warmth in most times.

She heard a sound, like joints popping, and turned to look. She wasn't aware of the etiquette, and watched, finally seeing it for herself. He returned to man, and regarded his wounds anew, and that, she looked away. Left him some privacy as he staggered, weakly, back to camp. She was weak but she didn't like being seen. She was sure it could be the same for him.

"Friend." She paused, knowing she was unused to the term. She felt she usually heard it in jest--by tongues more poisonous than hers. This time... was one of the few she heard on an honest tongue. And even of the more rarer times where she had no reasons to doubt.

She crawled to the pouch as he spoke and pulled it open. It seemed to be the one he gestured toward. She sat up and looked at him as he explained.

I will not hurt you, but I am likely to scream.

Somehow she felt that may be a phrase to describe them accurately in the future. She tested it with her fingers, knowing it to be salt based by the feel, and smell, but she tasted it to check. Coughed. Her tongue had gone numb at the touch but the smell was familiar--her brain picking out particularly each herb and the regions they had been picked from. And it was definitely salt based.

"I'll help you up..." She helped him, or urged him to sitting, one last exertion before he could lie in peace for the night.

She took her flask of water by the wayside and cleaned this wound again.

In the wound. Force. Is what he said. She almost shrugged a she did as she was told--having covered her fingers nearly up to her knuckles in the mixture, she slipped her fingers in.

He fought himself, struggling against the urge against pain and perhaps not to lash at her. She had only scarce clues as to how this worked, and wanted to be sure she covered all edges of the inner wound with the powder. Her fingers are small--she wondered if the damage was typically greater using his hulking hands. An acrid smell bubbled from a foam that sizzled up as it touched his blood, and she pulled her hand back once she was satisfied she had done this task right.

She laid part of the cloth down under the hissing laceration as she laid him down again. Phew.

She moved beside him, the rocky terrain cutting coldly into her legs as she knelt at his side. Caught a glimpse of the fresher wound on his chest, which seemed more than a day ago at this point. Concentrated. The wounds here were the largest, and she rubbed a large amount onto her fingers, repeating the process. He screamed. These would probably be the worst. She hoped that the purpose was to harden them, as the flesh had become mangled and sagging from the abuse. She applied this two or three times, and spread more over the surface. The smell seemed harshest here, as these wounds still bled as she was touching them.

Then his arm... she had practically forgotten of the cut on his arm, though it was from there blood had splashed across her face.

This one went more smoothly, as this one was not as deep, and she acted as though she knew what she were doing this time. These wounds seemed to close with the festering powder, and she seemed to be done.

But she didn't stop. Her hand continued down his arm to his hand. She turned it over, checking if the breaking of claws and the blood upon the rocks had turned out to be the breaking of nails and scraping open of fingertips in his bodily equivalent.

 

[Malhyanth]

As she started her ministrations, he could feel the roar fighting to tear from his throat. His body shook, and he kept his head down, fighting it. His back cleaned, and now dressed using this strange concoction, she lay him back down. He was impressed by her strength, which even she didn't seem to know she had; he must be at least 2, if not 3 times her weight! And he man-handled him with care, moving him as she needed. He'd bared caught his breath and ungritted his teeth when she moved to his side. His eyes were narrowed, and he placed a hand upon her shoulder, reassuring her she was doing fine. She started, and he had to quickly remove his hand as it balled into a fist and slammed down into the earth, he back arching with the pain, and the roaring, deep bodied scream of agony released. Anyone below in the ravine still searching for them may have heard it and thought better off not going further. It sounded like a man being torn to shreds! Instead, it was a 6'8 giant shaking all over as fire spread through his blood vessels and his muscles popped, straining the instinct to fight that which injured him. She sat back as the last of his pain subsided, and she checked on his forearm, ministering to this one too. This didn't hurt so much; a little concerning since it was perhaps the deepest, but as he flexed his hand, everything still worked, though there were tingles. He would soon enough find if his healing process could save the sensation of touch in his hand.

When she finished, she set aside his kit, but remained by him. Slowly, the werewolf opened his eyes, and looked at the fiery, feisty girl, so quiet now. He hadn't realised, but she still held onto his hand, inspecting the nails and shredded finger tip. "Ignore zhose. Zhey vill 'eal. Zhey vill grow back." Thr albino snuggled back into the blanket she had provided for his back. He could feel, still, the powder tincture in his side working, the acrid smell around them as it swelled and the foam hardened and fused with his flesh. The areas that pained him were slowly starting to go numb, and he breathed a sigh of relief as they did. He took his damaged arm and hand from her grip, and raised it above his head to use as a pillow, the action stretching her work on his wounded side, and holding fast. A pained grin spread across his face. "Good job, 'Ot 'Ead."

The yawn was sudden, and stretched his white stubbled jaw. His squeezed shut as his head swam. Perhaps some of his ribs had been worse affected by those barbed weapons than he'd thought, as he breath was stolen by the action. He looked at his companion with a weak smirk. What a state he was in for their second meeting. He looked at her now, appreciating her. He could see her now more clearly; it was odd that the naked form he found more natural and formal than one covered in clothes. He'd been intrigued before, found her apparel alluring. Now everything was basically on show, he no longer felt that same feeling; clothes, one might say, formed a mystery to the body beneath, and that aroused his senses. Seeing her now? He was truly seeing her, and she was no longer a mystery, no longer an alluring object he wanted to dissect.

Now, she was the girl with no name.

He gently raised the hand opposite her, the one not propping up his head. He pushed her hair back and stroked the scar he had noticed first they had met. Her red hair clung to his fingers, snagged on fingernails that were torn apart, brushed against skin that was sore and tender. But that scar. That told a story he was interested in. He traced his fingers down the side of her face, before dropping to take one of her tiny hands in his own, and wrapping it up tight. "Vy'Ziot." It was said quietly, as he looked at their hands, before raising his vision to her eyes, his mottled orbs quivering, as they always did, when he tried to focus on anything. "My name is Vy'ziot. And I owe djou my life." He squeezed her hands a little tighter, a breathed a sigh as his eyes drifted closed.

"I owe djou my life. And my promise, zhat until zhat debt is repaid, I vill stand vizh djou." A soft, golden glow spread around their conjoined hands. Warmth spread up each arm, and up to the chest, where it would nestle into the heart. A promise of a werewolf was impossible to break; the wolf within him checked the promise, and accepted it. The girl was his to protect now. And he would, even if it meant forcefully taking control, pushing through the skin and tearing the man apart to do it. The girl was now his, and the werewolf within would ensure her safety. As the glow diminshed, the hand released her's, and his eyes rolled back as a soft snore rose from him. The moonlight reflected back off his pale skin, glittered in the silvery white hair that stubbled his cheek, and found unmarred skin on which to grow across his chest, down to his belly and further, his arms, and legs. His dreadlocks had lost most of their painted colour, so only from about halfway down did they have any of the red clay mixture, though all his bone jewellery was still in place. His hand rested upon his chest where it had fallen from her hands, and he slept on, falling deep.

'Dooooooon't geeeeet attaaaaaaacheeeed booooooy. Ssssssheeeeee wiiiiiiill leeeeeeeave yoooooou, liiiiiiike aaaaaaaaaall theeeeeeeee oooootheeeeeersssssss.'

As his sleep deepened beyond the grasp of the Spirit, those mottled albino eyes glowed once in the darkness, to finally confront the glowing red eyes of the Spirit.

"Not zhis time."

 

[unais]

He told her not to be concerned, so she wrapped the powder back and placed it where it was. Prepared her flask to wash her hands, but with her gaze cast across the wooly expanse, her mind fading from the exhaustion, long years of practice told her she was wasting it and she should at least get a taste to know what she was washing into the dirt. She touched her tongue.

Choked.

That was his blood. She just ate. And the powder and acrid leftovers that'd been touching her.

Bad. So bad. Not a good time to have gone autonomous.

The taste was bile. But her mind plucked out its uses, without her telling it to.

It was useful for healing, her mind discovered.

No.

She would not.

She also felt its use for stamina, vitality, apparently virility. Not to be unexpected. Warmth, bloodflow. Numbing as before.

Poison as well. Acid.

She shook her head of it. Drank some of her water before washing her hands quickly. She was awake now. Sitting up and blinking away that mistake.

She saw subtle movement from the corner of her eye and turned slightly to stare back at him. He was noticing her form, and she raised an arm across her chest. Her smile was of surprise; slight amusement that even he were subject to such normal things. "What is it?"

He reached up a bit and somehow she knew to lean forward, somewhat, turn towards him. He touched her hair again, in the warm firelight and something came to her. Not quite a prickle. And goosebumps rose under his fingers as he stroked her skin gently with his thumb. He could feel this. His hand drifted from her face, caught by some hairs that released him slowly, and he took her hand.

"Vy'Ziot." She was shocked. "My name is Vy'ziot." She felt strange. It was strange to be trusted. She opened her mouth, to return a name, trying desperately to grasp this trust, but he continued. "I owe djou my life. And my promise, zhat until zhat debt is repaid, I vill stand vizh djou."

Magic surfaced from their hands, and her hand squeezed his, surprised, as a glow dually came up through their arms and wrapped itself, folded itself into her chest. It tucked away there. It was a kind warmth, and he fell away after the fact, finally taken by the exhaustion.

She sat there in the flicking light.

As she came back to herself she observed him, wondering with him there. She tended to think he was not human, and he proved thusly so in many ways. But he was mortal, as he pointed out. And he was able to be wounded, and hurt. So she wondered if he would be really alright laying in the cold grasslands with the wind blowing over them, naked.

She didn't know.

She pulled her bedroll up beside him.

The inside was lightly furred, as it was not an expensive sleeping roll. Her body was starting to break down from the day's whole tasks, and she only had another few moments to spare before it became dire. She moved part of the mattress under his side and tucked herself in, placing a bit of the blanket over his side as well, while she hid in that space between him and the wind. He had this space covered, and the dying fire on the other side of him.

His warmth filled her space quickly, and she hadn't needed to wonder when she would grow warm here. As she breathed, she could smell his skin. The days gone by. And the pale scent of the water. As she breathed, became warm, it was all she could smell of him. And she fell asleep.

And woke, her feet cold. But she took that as ready for her to be up and took soap to their clothes in the stream. She scrubbed them as she could, until the color went pale as yellowed parchment. Still bloodied, when looked at the unsullied areas. And dirty, it could be determined. By a stranger's eyes...? She was wary. But she could do no more, and wrung the clothes, opened them. Attempted to gather some more things to prop them up near the fire, on which she hung the clothes. The fire was fed more windblown tumbles and stretched back into life with the morning. The wind was arid, constant. With the fire, even the cold, their clothes would dry fairly soon.

His clothes turned out virtually untouched due to it small patches and her salt paste solutions. But he had saved her fourteen years of toiling to nothing, so it was a forgivable trade. She stood after the clothes felt finished. She was hungry. Cold. She would scout the area for the easiest path, and for any easy foraging that would keep her strength up. They could see several structures in the distance, one of them clearly a windmill.

If there was anyone out that night, they may have seen their fire in the distance. But she doubted anyone up here were the type to be out late doing... nothing.

She wore his tunic. It was large enough for her to swim in it, but that's why she wore it. The breeze tore through it and it would dry quickly by her body and the whipping breeze.

Thimbleberries ran rampant around here, so she plucked to her heart's content, waking up as her mind spurned her to get to work, but she strangled it down with her best willpower to stand it. There were other things that needed attending to. Things that would not have the patience for her follies. She plucked young shoots and ate them along the way, and gathered a few handfuls of the sour berries. Bearberries were another easy find, and she returned to the camp with these, confident her potion would save her the rest of the trip toward town.

The thimbles were put aside, the bearberries were mashed, stirred, and cooked into a soft porridge. She ate half but she never had much of an appetite, and put it aside while the roots were cooked into tea. The clothes by the fire was still damp, but tolerable if they had to leave now. She remembered whose clothes she was wearing, and removed it, placing it over him, and then the blanket more fully over while he continued to rest.

It wasn't for long, after that, as he woke, sore and all, but he seemed reluctant to let that stop him.

"Good morning." She slipped on one of her shirts, with a fur over her lap. It was getting freezing now, as daylight was picking up.

She offered him the berries, meal, and tea but... as a wolf was unsure if he'd take any of them. He ate, not seeming too picky, as it wouldn't matter with a town clearly in sight.

She began on her things, starting to pack to be ready when he finished.

It was quiet. The wind felt a little suffocating now.

"...It's Panyin... by the way." She looked at him for a moment. Then away, continuing with her work. "My name..." If it hadn't been clear. "It was... Vy'Ziot...?" She was careful. Looked at him carefully, noting how fearful she was to tread and suddenly ruin this. She hadn't had a chance to repeat it since he'd said it. "And I'm not... little... I'm...well I'm not made in miniature. Rather, you're gigantic." A mountain.

She had several layers of belts to her travel clothes, it seemed. It became apparent she hadn't been wearing pants at all since they'd met, rather the thick leggings cut off at her thighs and were held by a garter belt. It seemed she had saved at least one of the legs from being bloodstained this way, and would only have to replace that one. Her furs, linens, and tunic slipped over these and covered the rest of her thighs, creating the original look she had before. A little illusion of full trousers all the same. Her bags went over these as well, and she waited for him to be ready to leave. Warmed her still unclothed feet by the fire.