Spirits of the Earth

If you were too quiet here — too idle, too indolent — you could hear the waves crashing listlessly against sandy beach. He hated the sound; it was so peaceful, too tranquil, and there were days when he wondered why he had thought it'd be a good idea to relocate himself here in the first place. In this land of cheerful colors, sounds, and unabashed practice magic, it was everything his wretched childhood had lacked, everything he had once wanted to see. Nowadays, Fen could only see in three colors: black, white, and crimson red, blood.

Darkness cloaked the night, suffocated the stars, and slowly snuffed out any small sources of light. In this night, when merchants began to close up their shops and lazy villagers were already tucked home in their beds, Fenrisúlfr Rotht still walked the streets. In the dead of the night, he didn't need a cloak of a hood; no monster who lurked the city streets ever did.

Tonight, he lay leaned against a merchant's window, drumming his fingers impatiently against the sill, a frown written upon his frail features. This alleyway may as well be deserted, with only the occasional shady sorts of characters passing through here and there. Fen, the pale figure dressed in black, was the alleyway's only stationary figure. Again, he drummed his fingers against the sill, when finally, a man opened the window, narrowing his eyes him.

"Ah, my friend! Keep my counsel, won't you — and tell me, why did you feel it necessary to keep me waiting for so long?" Despite the darkness, Fen's wolfish grin was unmistakable. "Be kind to your neighbors, Mr. Bolstram — they teach you these lessons in grade school, don't they?"

The man — an older bloke, with a long nose and small, beady eyes — narrowed those eyes of his once more, seemingly unaffected by Fen's rant. "You've been keeping Maurus waiting, you know. You need a thrall in two weeks, or else—"

Fen cut him off, flicking a knife out from under his sleeve, sliding closer to the man through the window, holding it with a lazy, careless grip. "Do you see this knife, Mr. Bolstram?" Fen asked, staring at the weapon calmly. "This is a favorite amongst my collection, you see. It's been with me since my first kill — since the first day I was able to see a color— red." His own red eyes danced wildly as he stretched the knife towards the man.

"The handle is coming loose. And I know you can fix it, Mr. Bolstram."

The blood mage's attention was solely on the man, who seemed to have swallowed his tongue. In the dark, he could relax, even though his back was turned to the world, even though there were still a few blokes walking through this dim alleyway. The only light to be seen came from Bolstram's house — a few candles were light inside, whose light leaked out into the world outside. The absolute last thing on Fen's mind was the thought of being pickpocketed out here, out in this alleyway.

The man grit his teeth, took the knife, and inspected it, wondering if fixing the handle was even possible, not bothering to grace Fen with an answer. And Fenrisúlfr Rotht, for a rare moment, had let his guard down — enough for a shadow to sneak up on him, should that shadow be daring enough...

A lone figure stood in the darkened alleys of this coastal town. There was a stillness about him that seemed to make him appeared molded out of the very shadows he hid in. Long pointed ears twitched about, listening for every little sound, the crash of cold waves on sandy shore, a faint meow of a hungry cat, the squeals of rodents fighting over trash.

Ocarern was beginning to lose hope of catching an unwary person out at night when raised voices tickled his ears. Curious he crept further into the alley, stopping just short of being seen. A pale man in black pulled a knife, causing the elf to unconsciously shrink back in on himself, making himself more compact. A haze of thick taupe clouded Ocarern's vision, making it hard for him to see beyond his own fear.

Blinking rapidly, he fought to control his rapid heartbeat. 'Cruel greedy humans. Take more than their share. Kill all in their way. Time to feed a poor elf's tummy, he resolved. Ocarern found himself gaining false bravado with the stranger's loss of weapon.

Pulling his deep hood up over his head, ensuring any telling features were hidden, the elf made his way cautiously over to the man. Trying to not walk at a suspicious pace, not too fast as to seem in a hurry and afraid and not to slow to seem ready for a fight, he brought himself closer with each step. Ocarern's heart beat like a drum against his ribcage. The thrill of the job combined with the fear of getting caught always made him feel like the sun, a beautiful bright, glowing orange kind of color.

The elf causually bumped against the rich man. Faster than the blink of an eye his small hand had relieved the other man of his purse. 'Home free,' he smirked, perhaps a bit prematurely. Ocarern was hardly a step away from the man before his mind began the celebration. The weight of the coinpurse weighed hard and heavy in his palm. He took great care to ensure it did not jingle about and give him away. He did spare one half-glance over his shoulder to throw of suspicious. It might have even worked if Ocarern actually ever looked at the stranger.

Instead he tried to continue onward. The thief was too frightened to stay much longer. He knew what could be his fate if that man got his knife back anytime soon. He was not too keen on dying yet. 'Aren would kill me if he knew what I am doing. Foolish Oca, Run!'

Bolstram handed Fen back his knife, shaking his head. "It's not gonna be a quick job, blood mage. You'd have to leave it here overnight." He shook his head. "I'd need about one fifty glints up front for the job." The older man, a hardened merchant, didn't flinch from Fen's glare, despite how much he would've liked to. He had been in this business far too long to be pushed around by these hounds.

After a moment, Fen laughed, shaking his head. "You are a con-artist in your own right, knave," he laughed, but vitriol dripped from his words. "If you think I care about how much coin it'll cost, you're wrong. The worthless silver peons tote so lovingly in their pockets concerns me not." He reached for his coinpurse, tapping his side once, twice, but found, surprisingly, that it was gone. He frowned a little, not wanting to chalk it up to carelessness — he wasn't the sort to forgetfully leave his stash of money back at his hideway.

"What's wrong, Rotht, hard up for cash?"

The blood mage turned away from the merchant, looking down into the alleyway. In the darkness, he caught a glimpse of a shadow — saw, for a brief moment in time, the whites of someone's eyes. Anyone else would've swore, or cursed, or yelled 'thief!' futilely in the blackness of the night, but Fen merely grinned, stepping away from the window slowly, reaching down his opposite sleeve.

"Fix the knife, Bolstram. That steel is precious to me. It just might be the only true friend my wretched soul has ever had." A glint of steel could be seen hiding down that sleeve, and Fen smiled a little — a pensive smile that painted his pale features. "Deliver it to me when you're done. Just follow the bloodstains, Bolstram. They'll show you where to go."

He slipped another knife out of his left sleeve — this one was thinner, newer, and had never tasted blood before, but it would do on a rush job like this. It wasn't his favorite knife, but it would do — for now, for this moment, it would do. As Fen took to the shadows, slinking after the shadow quietly, Bolstram stuck his head out of the window, and had a right mind to yell at the blood mage, but he knew better. Everyone who knew Fen knew better.

It had been far too long since someone had dared to cross him. So far, in fact, that he couldn't even count the days. The monster inside longed for the chase — but he stuck to the shadows, silently following the stranger's movements. He was too tactical to give chase in alleyways, no, but he watched the stranger twist through the streets, his mind quickly going to work, strategizing the proper way to cut him off. Thieves — petty, petty thieves — could be predictable, Fen knew, if you knew the streets well enough.

Maybe he was able to feel it — the shadow, gaining on him, slipping through shortcuts through the alleyways. With his quick feet, silent feet — feet that knew how to work in darkness — he was eventually behind the little thief.  A hand stretched out from the darkness, clasped hard onto the stranger's shoulder, his grip cold, hard as steel, pulling him back a little, closer to him. The blood mage leaned down, grinning, so that he was at the thief's level.

"You're an audacious fellow, aren't you?" Fen asked, his voice low, despite the amused grin sketched onto his face. "Or, perhaps... resourceful is the right word. Quick to pluck at an opportunity — to take up a coin purse when you see it, and flee. It might've worked, maybe. Maybe."

He grip grew a little tighter. "It is just a shame your target had to be a monster, of all things..."

Fen tilted his head, grinning. "I wonder if I have to ask you to return my belongings to me, or if you will do it of your own volition. Or, if you will even bother to turn around and face me, the monster you've so daringly pilfered."

Elven ears picked the strains of conversation ending and the extremely quiet steps that soon tailed him. 'Calm Ocarern. Think blue like the sea. Remember the deep blue of the sky as the stars would just pop on the horizon and how Kestal would sing you songs. Hold on to that feeling. You are just walking home. Bolt and you are guilty. You have done nothing wrong. You are just a normal law abiding citizen. Yeah that.....right.'

Ocarern's thoughts were harshly cut short a strong hand clamped down heavily on his small shoulder. An involuntary hiss of pain escaped him as he froze in place. 'I am being touched. I'm being touched. Gah!' He let out a faint cry as the grip tightened. The elf ground his teeth firmly into his lip to hold back any more unwanted sounds of pain that might be forthcoming. 'Aren't we all monsters here? Oh, I can just hear Aren's voice now "Oca, what have you done now!" So dead. So dead, so dead, so dead!'

He released his lip, preparing to speak when an earlier thought finally seemed to register in is brain. 'I. Am. Being. Touched. I'm being touched! No, not the touchy!' Earth brown adrenaline and fear took over his senses, driving him out of the other man's grasp. Ocarern felt like his lungs would pop as he fought to breathe.

Ensuring that he kept his head down to hide his face he angrily barked his words to the other man. "Don't touch me! No touchy! You don't just go around accosting random strangers on their way home. Go find someone else to harass!" The elf slowly back away from the man when something glimmered in the moonlight catching his eye. Looking down, to his horror he saw the stolen change-purse, its contents vomited out on the cobblestones.

'Oh that's not good.' Shocked, he allowed himself to glance up to see if the stranger knew what he had done. His backward steps immediately faltered and stopped. "Orange?" he muttered aloud. "What is orange?" His eyes widened as he took in the man before him. Ocarern had never seen anything like it before. The man was practically dripping a poisonous orange and black coating of negativity. Whatever this man was, the elf knew he needed to leave and leave now before he found out. 'Run!'

"I'll uh, just be uh....going." Gulping, Ocarern made to bolt. His heart squeezed like a fist within his chest. The taller man's aura disturbed him greatly making him feel sick to his stomach. 'Run. Run. Run!' chanted over and over through his mind like a hammer on the anvil. Yet, try as he might, he could not seem to get his mind to work fast enough to command his feet to move. Ocarern felt the world had slowed and he was trudging through a bog to try and escape.

He was a petulant thief — one who did not stand frozen in fear, but instead, waltzed out of his grasp, yelling blindly in the face of the beast. Such arrogance — the stranger spoke as if he had done nothing wrong, as if his hands were as clean as a virgin saint's. Of all things, at least Fen wore no masks, hid nothing behind a cloak or façade — here he was, a figurative demon of blood, who haunted those that lurked in the dead of the night. And here stood a thief, demanding not to be touched, not to be harassed.

Dear child, those who dwelled in the dark — who lied, cheated, and stole— forfeited such privileges long ago.

"You've got nerve, knave. You're a regular grey fox, you know? A thief— who can't own up to his sins." He laughed, slow and low. "I would pity you, if I had the stomach for that sort of thing. But pity is wasted on extras, I think — on people who are only colored in black and white."

As he spoke, the stranger seemed to realize who he was talking to. He backed away, and Fen would've come forward, but the coins had distracted him — silver glints, spilling out onto the cobblestoned road. When Fen had told Bolstram he hadn't a care of money — for the silver specks of dust that peons carried and loved more than anything else — but damn, he if he didn't hate inconvenience. Hell if he was going to bend and scrape up every last coin, like a filthy peon beggar, scraping together a living in the streets.

Before he could catch him again, the thief ran once again — down the alleyway, far away from him.

Fen took a moment to run his hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, shaking his head from side to side. Gods, he hated it when they ran. They could stammer, stutter, plead, cry, whine, beg, but when they ran, gods, when they ran... He wasn't a physical sort of person, no — under normal circumstances, he couldn't run with the rest of them. But if he had a little kick, just a little push...

You have your coin. Don't do this. You don't need to do this... You don't need it tonight, Fen.

He pulled the knife from his sleeve, pressed it to palm, his pupils dilating at the smell of sweet, ruby red blood. Ahh, and here it was — running down his wrist, the disgusting, revolting, ambrosia, blood. It painted his pale palm red, twisted the mixed up mana in his soul, sent him speeding down the alleyway, abandoning the coins for his prey — and Fen, since he had come here, hadn't been able to hunt down prey in such a long time... He was a missile, a rocket, fueled only by blood alone — a part of him wanted to escape it, and the other embraced it, while somewhere deep down in Fen's core, he could use the conflict to propel himself forward.

In this state, it didn't take long for him to catch up with the thief. Again, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, but this time, he couldn't risk being gentle. This one was squirmy — if he let the worm go for a second, he'd run, and Fen loathed running with a passion. The monster, however, didn't. He clasped both of his shoulders, pressing him against a wall, his bloodied palm staining the stranger's robe unabashedly.

"The thievery," Fen muttered, laughing, still grinning despite everything, "isn't the problem here. No, that's the last of my worries. A little coin spilled out onto the pavement? Nothing. A mere inconvenience, if its anything at all." His grip grew tighter as he pushed the stranger against the wall, harder. "To spit in the face of the beast and turn tail — that— that is what I can't let go unpunished." There was the knife again, gleaming in the moonlight, kissing the stranger's neck. "Own up to your grievances. How will you atone for this, extra?"

Despite the knife at his neck, despite the blood that dripped on the cobblestoned road, Fen didn't have plans to kill him.

Not now. Not yet.

A frustrated growl burst forth from deep within his diaphragm as Ocarern was grabbed and shoved into the wall. The back of his head made a muffled thumping sound as it was thrown back. He feebly tried to escape and push the stranger away. However, the knock to the head must have disorientated him more than he thought; the elf was useless in terms of saving himself.

Focusing on his breathing he began to try and calm down and clear his mind. His head lowered in defeat. 'Big bully! Greedy human! While I starve, you harass me over a few coins you are more than capable of sparing. Your kind disgust me! If I didn't know better, I would say you were from Connlaoth, what with your meany disposition.'

"Wait, what? I never spat in your face," he declared. Ocarern's head popped back up in surprise as he met the stranger's gaze. The red tint to the eyes seemed to make them glow in the night and sent tremors up and down the elf's body. Beneath his hood his pointed ears began to twitch about nervously in confusion, making the fabric ripple with the movement.

Tilting his head the the side, he frowned slightly. "No, I definitely didn't spit in your face," he repeated taking the figure of speech literally. The knife at his throat though had him freezing in place. Eyes wide, he let his head tip back, exposing more of the pale column of his throat.

The hood of his cowl slowly slid back on his head, inch by inch revealing his facial features to the angry stranger. Large doe eyes framed by long lashes, a little button nose, high cheekbones, and full lips all made themselves noticed. Brown eyes glared ahead, as thick brows raised in defiance. The lean jaw was clenched tightly making the cheekbones all the more prominent.

Ocarern did not beg and plead; he did not cry and whimper. The thin, cold steel against his flesh brought back memories of another pressed cruelly against his windpipe. The fear alone kept him still and compliant. Even his erratic ears seized their wiggling as he waited.

'Well! Now what? Is he going to kill me or what? I'm not too keen on standing here all night. Sorry Kessy,' he mentally began to apologize. 'I know I promised you but...never said I was very smart.' Ocarern could almost swear he heard her voice in his head, her laughter on the wind. For the first time in a long time she felt like she was right beside him again. It felt just like old times. 'I guess this is what waiting to die is like. Can't say I fancy it too much.'

A rolling, rumble reverberated his abdomen as his stomach made its hunger clearly known to anyone who would listen. The elf blinked, struggling to keep a smile off his face. A faint twitch at the corner of his lips and the slight raising of one brow were the only signs of his amusement. 'Least when this is all over I won't be hungry anymore. See Aren, dying does have its advantages.'

The stranger's only words of atonement were a paltry defense – a meaningless truth that Fen could bring himself to care about. For a moment, Fen could only stare at him, his lips still curled into a beastly smile, blood still dripping from his left palm. Cutting himself had been unnecessary, a waste, and the monster was reeling now because of it. The red of his eyes seemed to grow brighter in this darkness because of it – because of the wastefulness of his blood.

"Poetry," Fen began, holding back a dark laugh. "is lost on peons, I presume. It always has been – but you're a different case. Uneducated, and yet, you are unabashedly unrepentant." His metaphor had been lost on this one, but that wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, he was sure. It was the first time, he knew, that someone had been bold enough to flaunt their ignorance. Most were quiet in the face of the beast, fear paralyzing their larynxes and sucking their voices dry.

As the knife stayed pressed against the extra's neck, the blood mage could not help but study him. The monster was not fully awake – it was drowsy, sleepy, not wakeful enough to be able to demand more blood. As he did so, the hood of the stranger's coat slowly fell from his face, revealing to the blood mage just who he was dealing with. An elf, by the look of his ears, and his face was almost doll-like as he awaited his execution. But it was not his facial features, or his delicate androgyny that excited Fen – it was the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, as if he was holding back a smile.

So Fen did laugh, dark and low. "You would smile in the face of your death? I had expected a scream or two – a final prayer, a plea for me to fulfill your last wish." That knife, despite Fen's words, still kept close to his neck. "They normally beg, you see. They can normally tell – this is the end – and yet, despite that, they'd still cling to their lives. But you... you know better."

Slowly, he removed the knife from the elf's neck, but still kept it hanging in between his fingers. "You're probably used to it, aren't you? Having someone dictate your destiny. It's easy to tell, with a face like yours..." He paused, and the tip of the knife traced the contours of the elf's face – his touch was light enough so that he would not draw blood, no, but just enough for his skin to feel the coldness of the steel. "...You must be someone's precious runaway. A defiant slave, perhaps, who laughs at death, because he knows there are such crueler ways to live than to die."

He stepped back, giving him room to breathe, one hand still clasped on his shoulder, still bent to his level, his other hand still twirling that knife, but more relaxed than before. That hand still dripped with blood, and the wolfish grin Fen sported was still painted wildly on his face. "And if that wasn't your reality, I can always make it so." And the blood mage laughed again, looking the elf square in the eyes.

"How do you think you'd look, I wonder, with a collar around your neck?"

When it came to Fen, there was no such thing as a hypothetical question.

The cruel laughter forced a gasp from Ocarern's throat. He could feel the blade bob against his skin with the sound's movement. 'I...know better? What?' The thoughts were cut short by the cold sensation of metal running along his face. Ocarern's breathing picked up pace again but, he did not dare move.

Even as the man before him relaxed his stance, the elf could not bring himself to try and flee. 'I'll never make it,' he observed, his eyes darting to the sides as he judged distance. 'If only my legs were longer!'

"I am not a slave!" he growled out, adrenaline taking command over his tongue before his brain could stop it. 'Collar! That would mean touching. No touchy!' The diminutive elf pressed himself further back against the wall, almost as if he could melt into it.

Ocarern's ears rapidly wiggled about in indignation. He stood on tip-toe, pushing his face closer to the other man's. "Do I look like some little four-legged furball with a tail just waiting to be dragged around for you amusement? I am not a pet! If you think for one moment I'm going to let you touch me, you're sorely mistaken! If you are going to kill me, then kill me. Otherwise, get out of my way!"

To his embarrassment, Ocarern's stomach let off another rather loud rumble of sound as if to agree with him. His cheeks became inflamed but, he refused to back down. 'Could I appear any more feckless? Stupid tummy!'

He was growling, attempting dominance, defining disaster as he baited the beast. Of course, of course he claim he wasn't a slave — and Fen had heard it all before, those vapid vaudeville cries. He wasn't sure what was better, at times like these: should he feed off their fear, or dine from their defiance? Most of the times, he preferred defiance, but the monster was prowling tonight.

"You don't need a collar to be a slave," Fen informed, eyes unwavering, locking with the elf's own. "You're a slave from the moment you're born. From the second you chose to steal from me, you were a slave to your instinct." The knife was sliding out of his sleeve once more — he thought he wouldn't have to use it, but alas, here he was... He twirled it between his fingers — a wordless threat, an unspoken promise.

"You need money, society says, and you listen. My mind, it screams at me — you need blood — and so I listen, and I obey. There is no such thing as freedom — we're all caged in stainless steel. In the end, we can only define the thickness of our cage's bars."

What was different about this one was how far he was willing to go to assert himself. He definitely was not a "four legged furball" paralyzed with fear, no, and that's what made Fen laugh so tenderly. "You're precious," he noted softly, placing a hand on the elf's stomach, shoving him against the wall. "Like a newborn, untouched by the world's filth." The knife danced near his chest, and Fen held it almost tenderly against his cloak. "You're starving aren't you? The world's been so cruel. Perhaps death is a better alternative than scrounging around, dying to live."

In a sudden, fluid motion, the knife slashed across the elf's chest in a fluid motion, in a short, quick diagonal line. Threads ripped, and blood leaked — and somewhere inside, the monster was laughing, taking it in. His eyes grew wide at the sight, and his hand was shaking — blood was spilling onto his pale hand, gods, it was revolting to revel in this liquid, he knew, but that didn't stop him.  

"The best way to cure hunger," he laughed quietly, "...is to bleed it out."

He held onto the elf, grabbing one shoulder with the firm hand of the monster — while the other hand shook, unstable, crazed. "Walk, and I'll lead you — not to your death, I assure you." He laughed a little, while his other hand gripped the bloodied knife as firmly as it knew how.

"Didn't I tell you, before? There are crueler ways to live than to die. But you'll come to like it, I'm sure." Blood from his knife dripped on the cobblestones. "Studded collars, steel bars, and seeing your own blood spill from your veins. It becomes almost..." He scrounged around for  a moment, looking for the word, "...normal."

Ocarern listened, spell-bound by the stranger's words. The way he spoke while confusing to the young elf, also fascinated him. The emotions and colors bouncing around him were like nothing he had ever seen before. Whoever, whatever this man was, he was different. That both frightened and amazed Ocarern. He did not know whether to keep silent or to speak, to stay or to flee.

'Precious?' The elf gave a grunt has he was forced back into the wall, his head knocking into the wall again. Pain exploded through his skull, slowing his thoughts. 'Newborn? I am no child! I have lived my life. I have seen the taint of this false world. I am no innocent to its cruelties. Better dying to live, than living to die!'

The slash across the chest was unexpected and painful. Ocarern mewled at the pain, curling in on himself as he clutched his chest. The blood pooling into his hand scared him. It brought back flashes of memory. His parents. The pain. The blood. The knife. It was all so similar, so familiar.

"No!" he cried shakily. Ocarern struggled fiercely against the hand clamped on his shoulder but found himself to weak and hungry to manage an escape. "No. What are your assurances worth? Nothing! I am not some toy. I will die before I let myself become one," he cried out on the verge of hysteria. The small elf tried again to pull away, yanking as hard as he could and leaning away from the cruel monster.

He took a moment to stare, to admire, the blood pooling into the elf's hand. It was a revolting, majestic nightmare, the sight was, and he had to reel the monster back — no no, he couldn't kill this one, not now, fate had other plans for him. The softness of his features, and that spark that Fen wasn't able to bleed out with one solid stare... he'd be useful, if not to Fen, then to some other lucky sod.

Fen was lost, in a bloodied daydream — so lost, he had almost forgotten that the elf was still talking, still struggling away. He had assumed the cut across the chest would silence him, but not so much. Without a beat, Fen took the elf's hands and held them behind his back with one hand, placing another on his neck, forcing him to move forward.

"Would you accuse me of being your harbinger, who marches you onward to your funeral?" Fen asked, his voice soft, humor tinting his words. "No — should I have wished your death, I would've emptied your body of your blood as I brought my knife down upon your chest. You probably have no idea," he paused, distracted momentarily by the smell of the stranger's blood. "...how hard it is to cut without killing."

Fen laughed a little, pushing the stranger forward — his hideaway was not too far from here. "But I digress — I've become too sentimental. It seems like you, however, know the value of words. How words are cheap, futile, fleeting. You'll come to learn, in the short time we spend together, before I send you away to the Collector, that I am not one for lies." He bit his lip a little, in thought. "Lies are for those who have yet to see the beauty in unpleasant truths."

They were close now — to his hideaway, nestled Serendipity's walls. "The unpleasant truth of the matter is no matter how hard you bleed, no matter how much you hurt — you will not be allowed to die." He stopped, in front of his hideaway now, shoving the elf against the door.

"That, my friend, is my vow to you."

His blood red eyes seemed to grin wildly as he said it — his presence intensified by the spillage of blood around him. It took everything he had to hold himself back, to reel in the monster that slept inside, but he had finally found someone worthy of being a thrall — he could not screw it up and kill this one, not now.

The door, recognizing Fen's presence and magical energy, took to unlocking itself. The locks seemed to hum as they unlocked, and it was almost a serene, humble sound, contrasted wildly by Fen's chaotic aura — one that raged inside him, as Fen held the reigns, as Fen pulled it all back

Ocarern cried out from the pain brought on by being held with his arms behind him. But, the hand to his neck only served to anger him blindly. The elf snarled as he tried and failed to pull away.

'I want you to be the reaper knocking on my door. Is that so difficult? You seem to enjoy the blood enough. Would my death not be all the sweeter? Would killing me be that hard? Yes, it would. It's too much to ask a human to do anything for anyone else but themselves. Selfish, vile creatures! Never can look past their noses to see how others suffer or live. The only time they bother is when it suits them and by then it is either too late or would be better if no notice had been taken.'

"It's not hard at all. I know your kind; you do not kill until every exquisite ounce of pain, every little scream has been extracted. You laugh as you watch life's blood slip away. You'll mar beauty to see red. I know your kind, and you don't frighten me!"

'Collector? What does he mean by that? Unpleasant truth, that's putting it lightly. Bleed me like a stuck pig; but, don't give me the satisfaction of dying. Humans! Worthless, cruel monsters!'

"Don't make me any promises. Don't do me any favors. You're not my friend!" Ocarern knew he was trapped and cornered. It frightened him, to feel so helpless and alone. But, in the end, what was he to do? He was far from home and people he knew. This monster was not about to let him go. Ocarern was trapped, prisoner and pet until he no longer suited the stranger's fancy.

I know your kind, the elf had seethed, and every bone in his body screamed defiance. It was almost beautiful, the way he snarled at death, grappled against its very presence, despite asking to be sent back to heaven's door.

Fen smiled — it was his usual crooked grin — but said not a word, looking up at the door. After a few hums, the door clicked open, and the monster pushed inside, keeping a firm grip on his new thrall, pulling him inside. The door squeaked to a close when it realized its master was home, locking itself up. This door – one with no handle or lock, would open only on Fen's command. It was the only way in, and more importantly, it was the only one out.

The monster seemed to relax when inside, despite the blood that dripped from his palm, that now dripped on the hardwood floor. He laughed to himself, shaking a little at the sight, and took up a roll of bandages and salve from his dressing table, approaching the elf with it. Taking the elf by the wrist, he guided him near a chair, forcing him to sit, assessing the slash wound he had given him. Fen crouched before him, salve and bandage in hand, playing doctor.

"My friend," Fen began, uncapping the salve, "You are quite presumptuous, to think you know about the man—" Fen furrowed his brows at the look of the wound, tracing how deep it had cut with a finger. "—or the monster." If it left a scar, Maurus would dock his pay, the cheap bastard. He applied the salve with a shaking hand — the monster was still running deep in his veins, screaming to shed blood, not heal it. But if he didn't stop the blood from running free, the temptation to kill him would ultimately choke him, until he had to succumb.

"You know my kind, yes — the run of the mill murderer. But you — oh, you, of all proles—" He unwrapped the bandage, applying it around the slash. "You do not know me." At the word 'me' he tightened the bandage, to make sure it was sticking as it should. "Do not consider this a favor, if you must. Consider this an obligation your current master must fulfill — until those that would dance for a doll like you come to retrieve you, to your new home."

With the wound dressed, Fen sat down, cross-legged, in front of him, regarding his prey, still sporting that crooked smile. "There should be no need for bindings and cuffs — I'm sure we can both be reasonable here, no?" The corners of his mouth pulled into a small smirk. "Now, let's start by telling me your name, shall we? So your client will know what to yell down the hall."

The door's squealing close reminded Ocarern so much of his heart beating wildly within his chest. The fluttering organ seemed to seize as the door shut, marking the elf's new and most likely permanent imprisonment.

He did not like all the poking and prodding, pulling and pushing that this stranger seemed to insist on doing. 'Would asking really kill him? Would you even obey if he asked? No. Well there's your answer Ocarern.'

Each caress, each exploring and healing touch sent the elf's body to shaking like a banner in the wind. He dutifully kept silent and still though, no longer wishing to bring anymore attention to himself. 'It is not being presumptuous when man and beast are both one and the same.' His thoughts were cut short by the involuntary gasp that was forced out of him by the tightening bandages.

'Master, how I already hate the word. What shall these new masters be like? Worse than you? I think not. Perhaps I will be lucky and you will manage to kill me before I have to find out. If only.'

As the other man pulled away to sit on the floor, Ocarern pulled his own legs up in front of him on the chair, forming a very compact little ball.  His chin rested on his knees as he arms around his shins. "What good is a name if all you would have me hear is slave? If what you would have me believe is true, then my name means nothing now."

Fen had figured the elf would not relinquish his name so easily — ah, he'd been a fool to think this would be easy. There was something about this one, he knew, that was exceptionally interesting. He lusted for death, would prefer the reaper's scythe than take a chance with Fen and this dark future — but he could not talk without defiance dripping dangerously from his tongue.

At the elf's quip, Fen looked down at his palm — still marred red with his blood from before, still in need of a bandage — and laughed a little, pressing his bloodied hand to the side of his face. He was making a mess — so soon after he'd taken to bandaging up the elf, too — and the monster couldn't help but have a chuckle at Fen's expense.

"You're right, of course." Fen stood up from his cross-legged position. "You're right, about so many things. About the man, the monster, the murderer — I don't, or maybe we don't, particularly care about your name." With a deft movement of his hand, the knife slide between his fingers again. He leaned down, so he was at the elf's level.

"But this is a test of obedience. Consider me your teacher for the day. You can play the student, can't you? This is your midterm exam, and you, dear pupil—" He held the knife in his hand, and in a quick movement, shot his hand out, towards the elf, but at the last minute, decided to stab the knife in the back of the chair instead, inches away from the elf's flesh. "—are on the brink of failing it."

He was smiling, a reaper's grin. "Are you testing me? Trying to see if you can manipulate the monster to deliver you to your bloody grave?" He put his hand on the handle of the knife, attempted to dislodge it, but he had driven the knife too far into the wood. Fen laughed a little — at the situation, at himself. "It won't work, I'll have you know." Finally, after a quick tug, the knife had come loose. He did not put it down his sleeve again — the monster wouldn't let him. "Your name, dear pupil, if you would. Don't let your teacher have to ask you again."

The invasion of his personal space was really beginning to wear on Ocarern. The more the stranger insisted on testing its limits the more the elf felt his control slipping. However, the blade coming at him had any action he might have made, still. Even Ocarern's breathing was silenced in that tense moment.

He did not flinch or even bat an eye but, that did not mean he was not afraid. On the contrary he was terrified by this man and what he could do, would do to the petite elf. 'Teacher eh? I never was a good student, or a good pretender for that matter. Well Mr. Big Scarey Colors, what are you going to do now?'

Sweet brown doe eyes framed by long lashes slowly raised to rest on the madman's own hovering red orbs. "I never was good at the whole obedience thing," he whispered out, keeping his face close to the stranger's own. "I told you before I'm not some little dog you can train."

For a moment the test of wills played out. Ocarern could see through the stranger's eyes into the tumultuous soul that lay within. What he saw though, frightened him more than anything the man had done thus far. The swirling colors were sickening and chaotic. Shuttering his eyes once more, the elf leaned back in his seat. "Kestal. My name is Kestal Ssinjin," he at last conceded. Inside he felt terrible for using his best friend's name. But, if it would save his life then he would do whatever it took to survive. 'Sorry Kessy!'

He couldn't follow a damned order without spitting back his own retort. It was maddening, almost, how closely he kept his face to his – despite the blood that decorated Fen's hands, despite the monster that was demanding his own blood to be spilled – again, and again, and again! The monster wanted him dead – wanted to teach him what happened to little dogs that yipped one too many times out of line, but no. Fen needed him alive. He could not kill him, because Maurus would not have it, and because he could not give this one the fate he so desperately preferred.

Fen laughed, and took his bloodied hand – holding the side of the elf's face. It was a test – a test to see if the monster could hold steady for a second, without feeling the need to get violent. He was failing it, his hand was trembling, begging to move, and it took everything in Fen's body to get himself to halt.

"I'm training you now, aren't I?" he asked, smiling. "You may bark out of line now, pup, but you'll soon learn it's easier to simply come when you're called. Minus the sass." He let his hand drop, and stepped away from him – more for his own good rather than the elf's. He usually had a lot more restrain than this. "Next time, I won't ask twice."

At least he had got an answer out of him. He barely registered the name in his head, and repeated it a few times mentally, to see if it would stick, but to no avail. "It is a prole's name, and it should suit you, but it doesn't."

For a moment, he almost sounded disappointed. "...I will probably forget it in the morning." He didn't like the name — there was no flow to it, was so normal, so common — ah, but what did he expect? He knew what he expected — something musical and foreign — but he had no reason to expect anything more from a prole.

He looked down at his hand and rubbed them together, only serving to make more of a mess. It was as if the blood would never leave his hands. Without looking up at the elf, Fen muttered, "I need you to clean this place – from the cobwebbed cabinets to the washed out walls. I assume you know how to do housework, at the very least, yes?"

Fen moved away from him, pulling open a closet door – as he did so, cleaning materials spilled from its contents, obviously untouched. "Normally, I'd care less about such things. But the Collector has never been fond of my lax cleaning habits. He is a man of good taste, you see. He abhors the color red."

He picked up a broom, holding it obviously in the wrong fashion, the way one would hold a sword – one might question whether Fen even knew how to use it himself. "Plus, this will be good training for you, no?" He offered the broom to the elf – to Kestal, whose name he'd forget in the morning – grinning. "Good cleaning skills – that  would look excellent on your resume."

Ocarern remained cowed as the hand caressed his cheek. The touch made him want curl in on himself and die. The emotions that raged through him from the stranger were overwhelming, making the elf feel as if he was drowning and unable to swim up to air. He could feel the shaky control of his master and did not dare test the limits any more for now.

'It isn't a prole name! Kessy's name is beautiful! How dare you, you plebeian! What do you know of beauty? Forget it by morning? Don't expect me to remind you. I'm not playing these games.'

The elf's thick brows shot clear up into his hairline with a mixture of surprise and amusement. 'That's it. Ack! Don't laugh. Don't laugh! Look at him, filthy human looks like he has never cleaned a day in his life. What is this, "oh you're an elf so you must know how to clean?" Ridiculous! Although,' he eyed his master warily, 'best to not piss him off anymore for now. If this is the worst he has me doing, I can handle it.'

Moving cautiously forward, Ocarern's slim fingers slowly wrapped around the broom handle and took it from the other man, his eyes never leaving the other's form. 'Can't say I blame the collector. Red is such a dangerous color.' The elf placed the broom back along the wall before attempting to examine the supplies still within the closet.

'Does the man ever clean?' He silently questioned, lifting up a filthy smelly rag. Shaking his head, the elf sighed and began pulling out more greasy rags and some horsehair brushes. Still keeping the other man within his sight-line, Ocarern knelt on the ground and began the grueling task of cleaning. 'Maybe if I'm good I can find some way to sabotage this. Clean it to the best of my ability but leave something REALLY disgusting lying around just waiting to be found.'

Ocarern nervously shot glances around him, feeling very trapped and vulnerable in this claustrophobic place. He flitted trying to clean as efficiently as he could. Yet, despite his worry the elf's ears began to perk back up again. The possible future mischief lightened his weary heart, even for just a brief moment.

The little dog had finally stopped barking, and strangely enough, Fen missed his noise. If he hadn't been keen on training him for Maurus, he wondered how long he could've tested this one. A good banter wasn't something the man or the monster ever liked passing up — after all, eloquence was the only barrier that separated the actors from the extras. This one— ah, it was strange, but, Fen did not know what to make of this one yet, not truly. He could only watch, and observe, and laugh, all while reeling the monster back.

He took to cleaning quite well — a little better than Fen thought he would. He was sure that the elf was going to offer up another quip, or stare infuriatingly at him — the monster had actually been looking forward to that. But no, he was being good, for once. Maurus would be pleased, but Fen — well, Fen had seen obedient dolls dance all too many times before. Sooner or later (and it was always sooner, rather than later), their easy to appease and eager to please attitude grew so dull.

Fen leaned back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his legs dangling off the edge. He was certain the elf wouldn't try anything, and if he did — ah, let him try. There was no need to watch him work at such a tedious task. Instead, he toyed with his knife, releasing and retracting the blade, holding it up above his head.

"See? Even you can play the perfect pup, when you're pressed," Fen noted, sliding his fingers along the knife's edge. "Perhaps you'll even earn a meal, if I feel particularly predisposed. I don't think the Collector would be pleased if I let you starve to death..."

His eyes lit up, and he laughed at the thought — he had never killed anyone slowly before. It might be interesting to try out one day, when he was feeling particularly bored. "Tell me, dear Kes... Kessa? Kestie? Kestral?" He tripped over the name, discarded it. "Puppet, then. Indulge me — how did you end up in such a wretched state?"

Fen flicked the blade closed, and gripped it in both hands, the way a priest would grip a cross. He held it to his stomach, drumming it idly. "Stealing from monsters in darkened alleyways... you've reached quite a low, haven't you?" He grinned a little, shaking his head. "Or perhaps you've always been down in the gutter — desperately trying to claw your way out?"

'It's Kestal, you moron!' Ocarern nearly threw the cleaning brush in his hand if it had not been for the obnoxiously loud grumbling coming from his abdomen. The reminder that he was starving and his only chance for food would be from this man stopped everything but the hateful glare from being volleyed across the room.

Angrily, the small elf just scrubbed harder at some unidentified stain on the floor. "Perhaps I just enjoy the thrill of near-death experiences," he grumbled. Shaking his head, he through the brush down into a bucket and moved away from the floor to swipe at some cobwebs, his back now to his jailkeeper. "I only entered the gutter when you dragged me into it," he quipped darkly.

'Was I always this way? No, Kestal and Aren-don't kid yourself, they found you exactly the same way he did. Think further back Ocarern. When did this begin?' Hot fires, painful screams, and crimson flooded the elf's memories, making it hard for him to focus on his given task.

It really did not take the elf as long to clean up as he expected it would. His hunger and frustration had him working harder and faster than he would have any other day. The things he found in the closets and around the "house" completely disgusted him though. Rotten food, carnage, filth, grime and lots of blood in different states of dryness was only scarping the surface of what he encountered.

However, one good thing did come out of all Ocarern's cleaning. The elf had discovered that one of the closet door was broken, all one had to do was bumb into it and it would open. Since the stranger had never told him where he could store all the refuse he had found, that is where he decided to stuff it. 'Not my fault if he is a disgusting slob with no sense of housekeeping. I was only doing the best I could given the circumstances.'

Ocarern did not want to but, the now continuous gurgling coming from his tummy forced him back towards the stranger. Head bowed, he silently knelt on the floor at the end of the bed. The booby trap he had made lightened his heart and spirit making him more cautious to not screw it up beforehand.

'Just you wait! You think I am this perfect little puppy that will tumble about for your amusment; feed me, pet me, and underestimate me and I will follow you everywhere. Nice try. Feed me and I will have the strength to run, heal me and I will not leave a trail of blood to follow and underestimate me I think goes without saying. I'll show you who the real puppet is here master!'

Fen had amused himself with the knife — as he could for hours, even though this was not his favored blade — and perhaps would've kept at it all night, if the sound of scrubbing and washing hadn't ceased. The soft thud of knees hitting the floor forced the knife back in its blade as the monster crawled out of his den, noting the little elf, who had knelt down at the foot of the bed. He smirked a little, regarding him for a moment.

"I am almost jealous of whoever gets to keep you," he chuckled, placing his hand on the elf's head, ruffling his hair. "You can be quite precious, when you decide to bend to the puppet master's strings." Dolls that let themselves be tangled in invisible wire only ended up becoming a nuisance. Sometimes puppet masters wouldn't bother untangling their dolls. It was best to throw them in the trash, where they needn't be burdened by their presence.

He got up off the bed, ambling into the kitchen, staring at the stove. Ahhh... when was the last time he'd even used a kitchen? As he washed his hands in the sink, he could recall long ago, back in another life, when someone had taught him how to stand in a kitchen the same way he'd stand in a darkened alleyway. You need to eat, she had told him, and laughed. You're all skin and bones.

Fen furrowed his brows at the memory, placing a pot on the stove with warm water to boil, digging up vegetables from the pantry, whipping up a quick stew. It had been ages since he had done this, because he was a monster, and monsters didn't need to eat. He had tried telling her that, once before. He didn't need food. He didn't need water. He didn't need to sleep, or think, or blink, or breathe. He just needed...

—Ah, and without warning, as he was peeling the potatoes, the knife nicked his thumb, drawing blood. A soft curse slipped out of his mouth — not an angry swear, but one that simply recognized that he should be in pain.

He stopped to stare at it — disgusted and mesmerized. "Kestal," he called, his voice ringing with authority, but the monster did not drip in his tone. "Come and finish this." 'This' being the peeling of the vegetables, that is. The broth was already boiling, and all the stew needed was a bit of sustenance.

He sat on the kitchen countertop, staring at his thumb, watching the blood drip onto the floor. "What you told me before — it was a lie, you know." He put pressure on the wound, wondering when it would stop. "I didn't drag you into the gutter. I truly believe you've been down there long before you met me." Putting pressure on it wasn't going to stop the bleeding, it seemed. His body just loved to bleed.

Ocarern huffed at having his hair ruffled so. "No touchy," he muttered weakly under his breath. Besides this slight indiscretion, the elf remained still and quiet. He did not respond until called over to finish the task of cooking.

Nimble fingers peeled the potatoes making the skins curl to the floor in long brown ribbons. The feel of the small knife in his hand reminded Ocarern of lazy summer days where would hold a similar knife and carve beautiful panpipes. His fingers itched to do so again, to place the instrument to his lips and play a soft melody.

But, when the elf looked down all he saw was blood and skins, a reminder that he was not home. "It is not a lie if it is a matter of perception. You know me no more than I know you. Who knows, perhaps our own definitions as to what classifies as the gutter differ, like potato and patato." Thin shoulders shrugged slightly.

For reasons unknown to him, he felt sad about the emotions he felt coming from the human. 'Is it loneliness that does this to him? Don't question it Oca, just go with the flow and run the first chance you get.' Collecting the brown skins and throwing them into a bucket, Ocarern moved back to stand in front of the other man. In his hand he held the very same salve jar and roll of bandages that had been used for him.

"You're staining where I just cleaned," he said by way of explanation. Gentle fingers brushed salve against the small cut before wrapping a small amount of cloth around it. The entire time he worked, the elf had not looked up. Whether it was out of fear or pride, was yet to be determined. "Now no more bleeding," he softly teased. Ocarern's eyes seemed to light up for a brief moment. A small smile skirted across his features before the demure stone mask was slammed back up into place and he was drawing away again.

You're staining where I just cleaned.

So he was, and it was a shame. In a short time, the elf had managed to clean his quarters — a feat that Fen had not expected from him, had thought would be nigh impossible. The blood mage had half expected him to pass out from the enormous task he had assigned, but he had taken to it well, starving or no. It made him wonder — had he been wrong to write him off so quickly, as an extra, a peon, a prole? He furrowed his brows again; it was the closest the mage could ever come to looking thoughtful.

He did not expect for the elf to come closer to him — of his own volition — and took up the salve and bandage Fen had once held to heal his wounds. Before, Fen had healed him because he knew he wouldn't have been able to stand it; the scent of blood would've driven the monster up the wall, he would've lashed out — feral, primal — and would've did something he'd regret, something that would forfeit his pay. Or at least, that was his rationale.

This one had no reason to help him, and yet— how strangely tender he was, when binding his wound. He was in a warm place, unfamiliar and strange and he— he didn't know what to do with the feeling.

The elf did not look at him the entire time, but a hint of a smile painted itself amongst his features. It came and went like the wind, but just the hint had been enough for Fen. He grinned, studying at him. "You are... a curious creature," he admitted, flexing his bandaged thumb, which was no longer stared with red.

"My mind must be playing tricks on a poor monster's soul. For a moment — albeit a brief, fleeting moment— I thought I saw you smile." He tilted his head, still grinning. His grin— it was more Cheshire cat than feral wolf. "Someone told me once, long ago, that only an archangel could beam in the midst of the devil's hell," he noted, sliding off the countertop. "For the sake of my soul, I hope I haven't bagged a saint..."

Fen took up another knife, taking to chopping up the carrots, his movements a lot slower than before, to avoid nicking himself again. "For reference," he began, working slowly, precisely, "I am Fenrisúlfr Rotht." He did not normally give out his name, but this one... this one was, ah, what was the word? He wasn't sure. "It is a name you will probably forget in the morning," he acknowledged, "but it isn't a name that graces many ears." He slid the carrots in the stew, watching it come to a broil. Monsters didn't eat — so why the hell was he so hungry?

Ocarern was beginning to feel the emotional shift, the way the colors seemed to slow in their chaotic dance. It soothed his aching head and settled his nerves, if only just slightly. He was still extremely wary and ready to flee but, the elf at least felt that he would survive the next few hours until morning relatively unharmed.

He reddened at being caught smiling, knowing in his heart that it was wrong to find any happiness considering his present situation. 'I almost want to pity him. But, I know as soon as I start to I'm going to end up dead, or worse. He's just like any other human; he'll just break me in the end. Only now, I'm too far from home to be fixed. There is no Aren here to offer an ear or a kind word. No, there is nothing for me here but death and pain. Perhaps that is best after all. Perhaps.'

"Not a saint but, a fool," he piped up, taking one of the carrots and beginning to whittle it like a piece of wood. 'A fool in love. Not anymore. Just a silly fool.' It felt a bit odd using a carrot instead of wood, but the motions were soothing nonetheless. Each shaving he would toss into the pot before continuing on. "Well met. Although," he glanced up from his idle carving to watch the other man, "some of us actually do remember the things we are told come morning, Fenrisúlfr Rotht."

'Forget my false name if you so desire. But, know this, I will not be so quick to do the same. You have drawn first blood. I will be free of you and no longer have you haunting my steps. But, that does not mean I will ever forget your face or now, your name. Fenrisúlfr Rotht, well met indeed.' Grimacing at what he had been trying to make with the carrot, the elf finally gave up and plunked it into the pot as well.

Fen was certain he had never heard the words 'well met' spoken in a positive manner towards him before. Either his short bout of training had gone better than expected and he was merely playing the role of puppet, or he was being sarcastic – and Fen's sarcasm detector was normally better than this – or he actually meant what he said. Fen discarded all three theories, furrowing his brows again, quiet, for a brief moment.

He would remember the name, he claimed, as some people actually did. That, now that was an answer he expected. Fen laughed, a low, dark chuckle, and a spoon went into the stew – if he was being careful, it was only because he didn't want to have to mess the dinner up and have to make another one.

"Then take care to remember it well. When the Collector's come to take you, and you need a name to hold and to hate against your heart, think of my name." He ladled some of the stew into a bowl, and handed into the elf; his red eyes – they were the kind of eyes that could grin for all eternity. "Fenrisúlfr Rotht."

The blood mage went to pour a bowl for himself, but decided against it, at the last minute. Monsters did not need food. He put the bowl back into the cupboard, back where it belonged, closing the dusty cabinet shut. Instead, he went to clear off the small dining table – one of the only tables in his quarters – but found it had been straightened already, perhaps a result of the elf's cleaning. Most curious.

"Better to be a fool than to be a saint," Fen muttered, addressing his previous quip. He sat at the dining table, despite his lack of food, resting his chin on his left hand. "A saint wouldn't have stolen from me, back in that alleyway. The saint would've starved, died with honor. But a fool would've – despite the odds stacked against him. He would've tried, because to pass up the chance would've been to pass up a chance for food," He let his hand fall to the table, "a bit of minor wealth, and a few days of security..."

He was trying to understand – why a small elf would try to steal from such an imposing figure. Did he not care, or was it simply as Fen was thinking – that he couldn't have afforded to pass up the chance? "If this is the gutter, where were you before I whisked you away?" A wry smirk crossed his lips. "I'm assuming it was no promised land."  

Of course, Fen was one of those obnoxious people who insisted on holding a conversation when someone was trying to eat. Talking, it was was his sport, pastime, the tamest passion he held close to his soul. He was never sure for how long someone would humor him, but that was what made the banter entertaining.

Ocarern shook his head slightly at the other man's comment. 'As if I need your name to find more hate in my heart. I have hated long before you. I will hate long after you are gone. Unlike you though, it will not rule my life as I think it rules yours.'

Keen eyes watched as a second bowl of soup was almost poured before a change of mind occurred. 'Why is he not eating? It was as if he forgot something. Did he poison my soup? Is this how I'm going to die? No, he did something worse to it. I'm going to suffer and be in all this pain! Or it's some drug to...I don't know what, but it can't be good!'

The elf sat down at the table but, did not partake of the food. His hands rested loosely in his lap as he listened with bowed head. "It may not have been your so-called promised land, but it was home and it was good. As to where I am from, I from here and there. I am from a place far and yet another close." Ocarern shrugged his thin shoulders, falling silent. 'Better I a saint than the devil that is you, human! If you think I'm going to slip so easily and just give you the answers then you are sorely mistaken.'

Call him catastrophic, but the elf's casual dismissal of the soup brought a slow smirk to Fen's features. Such was the reason why the elf had ended up in this bloody situation, was it not? His stomach had cried out, writhing in its pained emptiness, leading the elf to play thief to a beast, not suspecting he'd pose as a pet instead. had the blood mage begrudgingly beset this one — had he been beleaguered enough to behave?
   
At his pet's answer, Fen laughed under his breath, fingers curled around the side of the table. "Here and there," he echoed, amused. "Far and close. Don't play me for a jester, dear pet. 'Lest you've no concept of direction, your promised land is stationary, is it not?" Unless he lived in a castle that moved or a manor in the sky, his home could not be here and there, far and close — but Fen knew the twitch of a flighty pet that'd rather chew off their tongue and bleed dry than entertain the beast. This one still had much to learn.
   
But he couldn't learn if he was dead. Shaking his head, Fen pushed himself up from the table, meandering towards the pot of soup to pour a bowl for himself. He was a monster, a machine, and neither monster or machine should need to eat — but this wouldn't take his chances with a soup that might've been sullied by a beast's hands. When Fen returned to the table, he dipped his spoon in the soup and took a generous sip; it felt as if the soup alone would burn his stomach, as he was not used to eating, nevertheless anything hot or warm, but it was done, and he was not dead.
   
"You're a funny one," Fen murmured. "Truly. You'll steal from a beast, but you won't eat from him, even if you saw me make it with your own eyes." He didn't return the spoon to the bowl — instead, took a fresh one that'd been laying on the table and put that in the bowl instead, pushing it towards the elf. "You're a fool, are you not? When the odds are stacked against you, will you sup or starve?"

"There is no jester here, not at least that my eyes can see. I have had more than one home, one close and another far yet, I can no longer call either of them mine anymore as I have been cast out of both." It took everything the little elf had not to burst into tears right then and there. His throat siezed though, feeling as if he had swallowed a boulder.

'Aren I'm sorry. I miss you. I miss you both. I want to come home now. I wish you didn't hate me so much. I'm sorry. I wish I could change it, change it all. Please forgive me. Please, please, please! I loved her too. I didn't want that to happen. I never wanted that to happen! It hurts so much. If this is my penance then I get it but please know how how sorry I am. Please.'

His mind begged for relief that would not come. It was his own doings, or rather lack of doing that had been the cause of his latest flight. He had no choice but to serve out the consequences of his silence. 'First chance I get, I run. No more crazy colors. No more crazy, period.'

Distractedly, the elf turned his mind back to the present. He watched confusedly as this cruel man take a bite of soup and then pushed the bowl towards him, the rest uneaten. "I have not been permitted to eat," he demurely replied, "and therefore do not take any liberties I have not already been granted," Ocarern swallowed heavily, feeling acid on his tongue as he spat out one last word, "Master."

So if the elf spoke of a home both near and far, it because he could claim both as his domain, both sanctuaries that he had been sent away from. Quiet, Fen blinked back red eyes at his captive, leaned back in his chair, expression neither smug nor sentimental. The blood mage also knew the sting of expulsion, and of what it meant to be flung from the only roof that you could begrudgingly call shelter. He knew not what the word "home" meant now, but once upon a time, he had.

"So it is not stationary," he muttered softly, his voice peppered with a slow pensiveness that crept in each syllable. "Rather, I'd go so far as to say that you have no home, poppet. Not truly." His red eyes seemed to burrow into the elf as he spoke. "An outcast has no place where they can rest their head."

Despite the sharpness of his words, it was his voice that was level, and calm— he spoke not out of malice, but out of past experience, as someone who had been taken up by rough hands and tossed away from his home, his personalized cage, somewhere he'd been dull enough to call sanctuary.

"But it is the outcast who grows strong from it," Fen related, and let a specter of a smile creep up on his features. "A chained dog only grows as much as his chains allows. Best to throw off your chains than choke on your own weakness." Maybe he would always remember the metallic tang of his own blood pooling in his mouth, dripping out of his insides and spilling onto the snow-covered ground as he limped out of his home country— how Fenrisúlfr swore on the blood that leaked from his body that he'd have revenge thrice over for this blow.

But it was not the past that concerned him, but the present. If Fen had been smiling before, his lips curled into a devious, darker smirk as the word tumbled from the elf's lips, master. Bitter and acidic as the word had been, it was progress— pleasing progress at that.

Fen leaned forward, tenting his fingers and tilting his head. "Obedience suits you, pet," he noted, red eyes dancing. "You may eat, elfing. I wouldn't want you dying on me, after all." And his red eyes did not once leave the elf across from him. "That'd be a travesty." This elf, both parts stubborn and soft, made too good company to waste.

A cold, sinking feeling began to settle deep within the elf's belly. It was a chilling experience to hear this creature, for surely he could not be called a man what with his unseemly obsession with the warm, viscous fluid flowing through both of their veins, talk of his lack of home. Ocarern wondered if he had made a mistake, but knew he had had no choice but to answer plainly, or at least relatively so.

He was homesick and wanted nothing more than to return to the good times. He wanted to hear Kestal sing and laugh like she did before the inky blackness had taken over. He wanted to stand in the shadows of the tavern, close to the door and watch the one he loved go about working and serving others with a cheery smile on his face. He wanted it all. An even deeper part of him, long since buried called out for his mother's loving embrace and his father's stern yet silent acceptance. He longed for love and safety where here in this land by the sea he only found strangeness and fear. All his long life he had wanted to be here. Now here he was and it was nothing like what he had imagined. The world was lonely, cold, and terrifying, how he longed for better days.

The words of the monster were true; he was an outcast. Once a thief, always a thief. He had stolen the secret Kestal had kept from Aren and had not shared it with the other man. He had stolen precious moments the other could have shared with their dearest friend simply because he was jealous and afraid. The elf had been torn between friendship and desire. He loved them both and now because of that love had also lost them both.

Ocarern's hand shook as he took up the spoon and attempted feed himself, tears having already blinded him to seeing ahead of him. His was lowered, ears drooping until they were nearly completely flopped over. "Travesty indeed," he repeated softly.

Then, impulsively he pushed his first bowl back across the table towards the monster in a man's clothing sitting across from him. "Ma-you should eat too," he choked out. He just wished the other would stop staring at him all the time like a dog waiting for the bone off  his master's plate. The elf had a deep feeling that he was going to be in for a heap of trouble soon, it was brewing under the surface.

A cautious glance form under his fringe towards the closet reminded him of the quickly dying spark of hope that was struggling to warm him in this cold darkness. 'There is still hope. Don't give up. You'll see him again. Even if he never sees you again, you will see him again. When this is over you'll go back. Just remember that, it will all be over soon. This will all just be a horrible nightmare and you will forget it like all the rest. Just a bit longer Oca. You can do this.'

No matter how tightly Fen wound his wind-up-doll, the elf refused to dance for him. Red eyes glazed over his poppet's form, blinking back boredom as his pet shoved his bowl of soup away, denying himself sustenance. One would think he had shook petals of poison into the mix, or had mixed his own blood in the broth. A sigh slipped from Fen's lips as he stood from his seat, his chair creaking as it slid across the old floorboards.

He circled 'round the table; every step he took made the hardwood groan underneath his weight. Fen was a slender man— lanky, almost; too tall, almost — but despite that, it was as if the house itself cried out in pain to have him in it. His steps were slow, deliberate, until he stood behind his elf, placing both hands on his shoulders. Fen's grip was gentle, but to have a monster's grip not cause you pain could be painful in itself. Like water torture, one would find themselves trying to predict the pain, unsure of when they'd break 'neath the beast's inevitable crushing grip.

"If not for the storm I heard from your belly earlier, I would have wondered whether or not you know what it's like to starve," Fen mused. His hands slid up his elf's neck, slowly; with both hands wrapped carefully around the elf's neck, Fen let his fingers rest there— the threat of what he could do next all too clear. His finger ran up and down the plane of the elf's neck, rolling poppet's veins 'neath his tips. They were soft, rubbery— tubes filled with blood, that could be spilled with a swish of his wrist.

"Your next master might not be so nice, poppet. They may take pleasure in seeing you crawl on the floor, begging for bread."

As he spoke, Fen's knife slid out of his sleeve, kissing the blood mage's flesh. He took up the knife betwixt his fingers, sliding it against the skin of the elf's neck, acquainting his catch with the feel of metal against his skin. It was an uncomfortably close position to keep a knife, but "But I won't force you to eat, poppet. Perhaps this was too easy a task for a clever mind like yourself." A small smile etched itself onto Fen's wan features. "Forgive me. I had no idea you were looking forward to being bled."

Fen removed his hands from the elf's neck, taking a step away from the elf, turning to the window. Call him crass for expecting more out of the bloody creature. The very act of eating, to Fen, was too human for someone like him— to do it in front of another had brought back too many memories, ones that he thought he had buried away, long ago. A fool, he was, for thinking the elf would appreciate a gods-damned meal.

He bit his lip, staring blankly down at his blade.

"Meet me in my bedroom," he muttered, his voice void of his previously taunting tone. One could say his voice lacked tone at all, now— his words were a blank canvas, yours to paint inflection on as you saw it. "Have your shirt off by the time I'm there."

He spun the butterfly blade betwixt his fingers. It may as well have been his paintbrush, now.

"This is an order."

A shudder rippled violently through the elf's body at being touched so. He absolutely loathed being touched and the hands at his throat did not belong to just anyone but to one whose colors swirled in such a chaotic mess that it made Ocarern's head spin and stomach churn. He felt ill and gagged dryly on his own bile but he slammed his eyes shut and refused to acknowledge the presence verbally. He would not give in to the monster who seemed to enjoy the misery of others.

It was only as the knife came back out to play that Ocarern moved. His head fell back so the crown pressed against Fenrisúlfr's torso and his throat was exposed further. Mud-brown eyes flashed open to stare up the figure above him.

"Should a Master," he nearly choked on the word, "not eat before the slave as you call me? You would kill me for this?" Ocarern fell silent once more, his ears only perking up once he was given the order. He did not understand the colors he saw coming from the other man, a verdigris that swirled in a way that the elf could only describe as deceptive calm. Things did not bode well he was sure, but the order he was given, one he was slow but moving to obey confused him to no end. For as old and mature as he was in some ways, Ocarern's innocence still ran deep and there was much he did not understand about the world still.

It as for this reason that he stood in the bedroom as instructed, tucked into corner with his scarred bare back to a wall and his tunic pressed firmly against his his equally scarred chest and torso. His ears twitched energetically, belying his nervousness that all but hummed along his skin. He did not know what to expect and prayed in his own fashion that he could survive a bit longer to escape. Thoughts of his old friend and home were all that kept him going in his time of uncertainty and fear.

The blood mage kept his eyes towards the dusty windowpane, listening as the elf stood from his seat, moving into his bedroom. Red eyes roved over the moonless night that lay outside— out of his reach— and something about the sight was truly wonderful. There were always days without clouds, but never a day without the sun— so the fact that night could fall without its lord, the moon, seemed to be the simplest act of rebellion. Such nights were when his beast yearned to be set free, despite what Marius or Bolstram or the lot of them thought.

Wordlessly, he turned away from his window, into his bedroom. His quarters held the lingering scent of copper pennies and rusted blades— of that faint, metallic bloody perfume. Here was where the man clashed with the monster: dog-eared books lay overturned on his night stands and tables, some with bookmarks, some without.

An assortment of blades— seemingly unorganized— could be found on each end table; most people might think it unwise to leave weapons out when poppets were roaming without bindings, but Fen was a strong believer in discipline. If he could not train a toy to refrain from picking up a knife and brandishing it against their own, then he did not deserve to own a toy at all.

The wallpapering was old, wretched, faded— a crimson in color, it was peeling in some places. In other places, the red was darker than other; one might assume them to be bloodstained, or perhaps just a terrible wallpaper job. Coin and a few assorted chunks of gold lay on one of his end tables, along with a list of names, all of them crossed off. Tonight, another name would be added to the list. When that name would be crossed off, Fen couldn't say for certain.

The blood mage stood in the doorframe of his room, red eyes roving over the elf, who had actually done as he was told. He took slow, careful steps into the room, eyes immediately drawn to the scars on the elf's back. Recalling how the elf had convulsed at his touch before, Fen placed a fingertip to the elf's back, tracing the scars painted against the elf's tender flesh.

"Whoever did this to you," Fen murmured, "was a terrible artist."

He let his finger fall from the elf's back, turning to his bed. Despite how cluttered Fen's abode was, his bed was the neatest space in his home. It was a ritualistic space, to him— a place that should be kept clean at all costs. His sheets were pure white, adorned with a plethora of crimson, tasselled pillows.

Fen sat at the edge of the bed, and with a shake of his wrist, let his dagger fall into his hands, betwixt his fingers. "Come to me, easel," the blood mage, beckoned, a ghost of a smile playing on his features. "You've illuminated my muse tonight."

Again Ocarern twitched at the touch, trying to shy away from it this time even as his hooded eyes observed the other man warily. He bit his tongue to hold his silence even when he wanted to rage and scream that no artist left such monstrous scars upon another's body. But, the elf was wise enough to not provoke a beast further. His very instincts screamed for self-preservation and he would be damned if he did not obey.

It was for this reason that even as he was called against his will, Ocarern made his way slowly to the edge of the bed. He kept himself there, just out of reach but still obedient and incredibly apprehensive of what was to come. It was only as he stood there that he remembered the knives he had seen on the end tables when he had been cleaning. To him they had meant nothing, not even a means of escape. But now they made his stomach flip in ways that made him want to fall to his knees, curl in on himself and disappear completely. He clung desperately to his shirt even has his breath came quick and hard in bronze-colored fear.

This poppet knew how to hedge his bets.

He stood just out of reach from the blood mage. Should Fen have outstretched his arms towards the elf, his fingertips would but just a centimeter away from brushing against his skin. An amused, crooked grin etched itself onto Fen's pale features, while a dark chuckle escape his throat. "It's the little victories, isn't it?" he mused. "They're the ones that'll keep you sane."

Sighing, Fen stood up from the bed, the mattress creaking as he did so, groaning. Of course, he shouldn't expect a poppet to know what to do on the first night. The blood mage took hold of his toy's wrist, bringing him closer to the edge of the bed. "Sit," he ordered, and assumed the elf would do so. He noticed that there was a certain tone that the elf was more responsive to— the emotionless, bland, authoritative voice, one that stemmed from the beast inside of him. His usual whimsy seemed to only frustrate the elf, making him believe he had leeway to talk back to him.

He didn't have that leeway now. Not here, in Fen's ritual space.

The blood mage, sitting on his knees behind the elf, let his eyes rove over his toy's back once more. To be honest, if he had known that this poppet was so scarred, he might've thought twice about bringing him back here. The Collector paid less for toys with imperfections, especially scars; in fact, there had been many a time where the blood mage had to put that damned Collector in check, after seeing Fen's artwork splattered across their skin.

But— despite this catch— why could he feel himself smiling? Was it because the Collector could not blame him for a poppet's scars, for once? Was it because he had free reign over this crinkled easel paper? Or was it because he could practically feel the elf shuddering under his touch— as marble shudders when a sculptor's pick chips away at its form? Yes, as Fen's fingers danced across the elf's skin, tracing scar lines, marvelling at the sloppy handiwork, he could not help but wonder at its history. Who had sliced him so, and why? Had he been a poppet, once before?

He withdrew his butterfly knife, red eyes inspecting the blade. "You've grown quiet, doll," Fen murmured, leaning closer to the elf's back, so that his breath was close enough to skate across the elf's skin. "Don't be afraid to scream. I want to hear those saccharine sounds—" here, he let his free hand slide up to the elf's neck again, caressing his throat, "slip sweetly from your soul."

Smiling, Fen sat upright now, with one hand on the elf's shoulder, the other hand poised with his butterfly knife, its tip aimed towards his toy's back. In a single, sweeping motion, the blade sliced upwards in a horizontal line, slashing through his skin, revealing red rubies. As blood spilled from the slash, Fen hitched a breath, marveling at the sight. Pure ecstasy.

Ocarern sat but more out of self-preservation than willingness. His wary eyes followed the monster about the room until he moved beyond his peripheral vision and the elf was left with no choice but to use his other heightened and on edge senses to know what the other man was up to.

The hand on his shoulder was the only warning he received before the blade was dancing painfully across his skin. Ocarern foolishly perhaps, curled away from the blade and further in on himself as far as the hand holding him back would allow. While others might have arched themselves into sitting up taller and turning their bodies into taut bows, the elf just wanted to hide himself, become as small as possible before seemingly disappearing. It did not matter to him that his efforts tore his skin more, stretching it tighter and making it bleed more while opening himself up for more attacks upon his person. It kept his diaphragm squashed, silencing the faint gasps that biting into his shirt was unable to quell.

His only consoling thought as he waited tensely for the next strike against him was that somewhere back in Arca, most likely curled up in bed and fast asleep in his own adorable way was his Ocarern's dearest friend, safe and completely oblivious to the torment the elf was now suffering almost masochistically. On the one hand the elf wanted nothing to do with it but there was a very tiny part of his subconscious that saw this as punishment for his black lies that had tainted Kestal's dying days and ruined his former friendship. It was that tiny part that whispered in his ever-twitching ears with words worse than anything his captor could ever hiss at him, with words that drowned him in a sea of violet misery and guilt of which there seemed to be no escape. Ocarern slammed his eyes shut, clinging tighter to his tunic as he fought back pain both physical and mental to little avail.

The rubies he'd extracted from the elf's body splattered over Fen's arm, drenching his shirt, blooding the elf's scarred back. Poor poppet had wanted nothing more than to escape the pain, but in doing so, had only stretched his skin further, had made it easier for his brush to spread that delicious, delightful paint over himself.

But one thing had been missing from his performance, yes— just as a fine restaurant will have a violinist plucking at strings for his patrons, his poppet was supposed to provide the ambiance. No matter the blood, no matter how drenched his hand was in his rubies, that precious throat of him had barely screamed at all.

Fen's dark red eyes gleaned over his bloodied hand, smiling widely. His clean hand, still on his shoulder, violently pulled Oca upright— forbidding him to curl into himself. "You would rob me of your requiem?" Fen asked, his clean hand trembling, while his right shook just as terribly, holding the dagger firmly betwixt two bloodstained digits. He turned his poppet around— his hands bloodying him more as he did so— so that the elf could look into his eyes, red eyes, the eyes of the beast.

"I want you to open your mouth," Fen muttered, reaching up to Oca's throat,  smearing blood over it, feeling the most vulnerable part of him, "and wail like the wounded animal you are."

So beautiful was a creature's throat— to touch it was to tempt fate; for one slice of his knife could end his elf's life. As bloodied fingertips rubbed across his throat, the beast could not help but smile His smile seemed so genuine— as if this were one of the few moments where he were truly at peace— but it was his eyes (chaotically craving, laughing, savouring)  that reflected his true nature.

And tonight, he was blessed and baptized by blood— so gods help him, it was only at the last second did he remember that his fun would end if he should slide that knife 'cross his throat. So Fen grabbed Oca's upper arm with his clean hand, poising his knife towards supple flesh.

"Let's try this again."

Audaciously, he dared to wink at the elf before slashing at his skin again, sliding across his upper arm. This time, Fen had sunk his blade deeper into his skin as he slashed— so although his canvas was smaller this time, his goal was different. He wanted to make a caged bird sing.

The shirt was quickly dropped as Ocarern was dragged around to face the beast of a man who was intent upon skinning him alive or so it seemed. The elf shuddered in revulsion and fear at Fenrisúlfr's touch and the blood that smeared over his pale skin. He did not have long to think on the fiery red and orange chaotically swirling aura that bled from the monstrous man as easily as the elf's own lifeblood escaped him.

When the knife scored across his flesh once more, Ocarern did open his mouth, letting lose a pained shout as he both tried to keep his arm still to not drag the blade in further even as he leaned the rest of his body closer to Fenrisúlfr, baring his teeth in a defensive growl. His breath came quick and heavy while the elf fought for control over his pain. But the contortions of his face and the dilation of his eyes could not hide how he suffered both physically and mentally from both the past and the present. It did not matter that even as the blade dragged across his skin anew that his back was already in the process of knitting flesh back together again. His very soul was raging with black-lined hatred for the human who not only dared assault him but dredge up long bury memories of pain and hate. If only Ocarern was not so weak and fragile. If only he was strong enough to avenge and free himself. Not even thoughts of a possible humiliation for Fenrisúlfr and a subsequent escape were enough to calm or console him. The elf was already losing himself to misery.

He was a living muse, the sort of perfection that artists, sculptors and musicians would wage war over. For as his brush soared over his canvas, the little elf did open his mouth, a primal shout ripping from his throat as he did so. Fen could not help but curl his lips into a grin, especially as his catch leaned closer to him, into him— anything to stop the pain.

It was an overwhelming cornucopia of emotions; the blood mage found he could not contain them all. The urge to strike again, to bleed him dry, to end his life— but also, to continue playing his delicate sonata— all rushed through his head in an effort to take priority. It was rare for him to extract so much wondrous red from a body and for the music to be just right. In the interest of preserving his phonograph, his easel, Fen— with a shaking, blood-red hand— dropped his knife, letting it fall on the bed.

The blood mage took a took breath, attempting to reel the monster back in. An overwhelming part of him wanted to feel that warm red gush out of his throat and onto his hands, but the artist in him knew that this would complete this work of art, forever. No. He'd very much like to keep this elf alive.

He placed a trembling hand onto the side of the elf's face, letting his thumb brush over his cheek. "You played beautifully," he acknowledged. His voice was airy, otherworldly, as if he was no longer of this earth, but in a different time, plane, dimension— one awash in red. "Who knew such a clear cavatina was captive inside you, hm?" He laughed, letting his hand fall from his face. "You will make some mad master happy one day, pet. But as for now..."

Blood everywhere.

Fen placed a hand to his face, suddenly quiet. The blood was all copper, metallic, begrimed as it slid down betwixt his fingertips. It was viciously viscous, scummy as it clung to him and his pet— silently staining, tainting his world with red paint. Obnoxiously, it covered his art— a befouled liquid, smudging his beautiful black and white world.

The beast was leaving him, as it did when his ecstasy dimmed. Fen shut his eyes. It was all he could do to stop himself from shuddering.

"In the bottom drawer," Fen motioned towards a nearby armoire, "take the towels there and clean the paint off your person. Be quick."

Just because the bloodlust had seemed to have left Fenrisúlfr, did not mean that the rage boiling within Ocarern was just as quick to wash away. On the contrary, the demon's apparent dismissal only served to send the elf into a further rage. The moment that he was released, he was curling his injured arm into his chest while the other swiftly back-handed the knife off the bed where it fell to floor with a clatter moments before Ocarern's bunched fist grazed Fenrisúlfr's chin.

Then, not waiting for the man to recover himself and with a speed he regularly reserved for his pickpocketing, the smaller man clasped his uninjured hand about his so-called master's throat and loosed an anguished scream of hatred and pain in his face. The hand trembled where it firmly but not dangerously squeezed, ragged nails digging into soft flesh to leave behind crescent craters.

The sting of his wounds healing was but a distant memory to the elf who wanted nothing more than to squeeze the life out of his captor but in the end found himself too weak-willed to partake in such a murderous act. Instead he took to shaking the man slightly as his tongue whipped and lashed the man up and down with curses in all the tongues he knew. Elven. Common. Connlaothian. Adelan. The words flew by detailing just how deep Ocarern's disgust for the demon who dared cage him ran. The elf blamed him for his pain, mocking him for his lowly "human greed and lust" for another's suffering, all the while cursing his very existence to a fate worse than death for dolling out judgement that was not his to deliver. In that breadth of a few seconds, Ocarern cared not for his fate once it caught up with his flying tongue. All that mattered was fighting for all he was worth to prove to Fenrisúlfr, to prove to himself that he was not weak. He was no man's poppet.

Never close your eyes around an enraged poppet, Fen. It was a rookie mistake, one he had made due to the ecstasy coursing through his veins— ironically, the blood that drove him to slice and rend flesh had calmed him, made his head swimmy with pleasure. He'd pressed his hands in his face, feet dangling off the edge of the bed, so innocent to the anger that boiled in his muse's blood.

That was the ultimate flaw of the artist, you see. So quick they are to revel in their work— work they were only able to give birth to due to the existence of their muse— that the muse itself was left disregarded, a casualty of art.

He'd barely had time to register it. The little fingers, wrapped around his throat. The ragged nails reaching for his face, desiring nothing but to delve deep into the flesh of his face. The blood mage's eyes widened, and the beast returned— sleepy, but with a roar. He bunched his feet up to his chest, kicking the elf away, flat in the chest. He didn't do it fast enough, though— the elf had managed to scratch the side of his face with a pointed nail, etching a line of red in Fen's face.

His own blood, perhaps, was the most intoxicating smell of it. Such was why Fen needed to be careful when he drew it, so he didn't accidentally unleash more of the beast that he could handle. However... to have someone else draw his blood only stirred the monster's excitement, despite the audacious behavior his poppet displayed. The blood mage could not help but grin widely, staring down at his elf, while picking up his butterfly knife once again.

"Tell me, poppet," Fen muttered, twirling the knife betwixt his fingers. "Have you ever seen a painting do a perfect pirouette?"

Since the elf was still drenched in his own blood, he may as well have been shackled, bound. With a flick of his wrist, red eyes boring down into the elf, the pools of blood would morph into ropes, sliding against the elf's skin.

"I would think not, doll. Art is still, unspoilt by lamentable mortal emotions. You were so beautiful for a moment there," he mused, near solemn. "If only you had stayed still."

With another flick of their wrists, the ropes constricted, tightening, tying up the elf— all while heating up, the blood now feeling like ropes of flames, binding his flesh. The blood ropes bound the elf by the arms and feet; like this, he could not use those ragged nails to dig into Fen's flesh further, nor could he attempt to run away.

Fen prodded the elf's side with the toe of a cold, black boot. A tear of blood dripped from the wound the elf had gifted him. Despite it all, he was grinning. "Start apologizing, pet."

Ocarern writhed and moaned in pain as he attempted to escape the bonds of his own betraying blood but it was no use. In spite of his pathetic struggles, the elf continued to glare up at Fenrisúlfr with a heat to rival those of his blood-bonds.

"No," the man growled out defiantly despite his intense pain. "Listen and listen well, mage," he spat, his glittering eyes not once wavering from the cruel red orbs that hovered over him even has his voice resonated uncharacteristically calm and low. "My emotions are not a machine! I am not something that you can just start and stop with a snap of your fingers and I am no dog to heel to your pathetic whims! You wanted my rage and my pain, well now you've got it! Deal with the hand you've been given, demon. It's what you wanted after all, isn't it?"

The elf was a blessing from Curor himself, blessed god of blood. Despite the cruel words that his poppet spat at him, writhing in his blood bonds, it only made the blood mage smile wider, grin harder. It had been a while since he'd had a poppet who resisted against Fen's many bloody strings, and now— ah! He was quite jealous of whoever would get to keep this doll in their collection. He was a rare breed, indeed.

"Of course, little one," Fen murmured softly, still prodding the elf's ribs with the toe of his black boot. "You are not some whirligig. Heavens no! You are my dearest doll. And you are putting on quite the show! Daresay, you may not even need strings to entertain me. However..."

The blood mage pulled back his foot, then swung it into the elf's side, kicking him over and onto his stomach. "I don't just want your rage. I want your obedience. I want to extract all of those beautiful emotions out of your simpering, whimpering soul." Fen's bloody hand motioned forward; with the motion, the blood bonds would sink deeper into the young elf's flesh; a burning sensation would follow, as if the bonds were made from flickering flames.

"Apologize, pet. Or I will rip the words from your throat."

A hoarse, wordless howl burst forth from Ocarern's throat as the sharp kick made him scream with pain. By the time the bonds were tightening to burn him more, his naturally weak body was already beginning to give out. He was not a fighter and already he had fought more in the last several than he had in his entire life.

Yet, his defiant streak still ran deep. He no longer wanted to waste away and die. Ocarern did not want to give up on his life now that he had faced such a monster as this. He wanted to go home. He wanted to live again, to love again and he was not about to back down and let another take that from him so easily. He had lost once before because he had hidden himself. The elf was not about to do so again.

Ocarern continued to stare out at Fenrisúlfr with pained and angered eyes of defiance. Black spots may have been rapidly closing in and impeding his vision as he struggled to breathe through the pain in his abdomen but he was not going to look away now. He refused to apologize, wishing he had the energy to spit even as his world finally gave out on him and he surrendered to the cool, dark numbness of pain-induced sleep.

Just a moment ago, Fen would've given anything to hear such canorous cries spill out of his elf's throat, but now, his screams grew weary on Fen's ears. The longer his poppet took to apologize, the longer the Beast grew displeased, rumbling in the pit of the blood mage's soul.

Blank, red eyes stared down at his defiant elf, readying the tip of his boot again, until finally, his doll's eyes closed softly. The blood mage raised a slender, white eyebrow, confused at first— until he realized: Ah. I've worn him thin.

Somehow, Fen had overdone it...?

This happened often, and honestly, this shouldn't have been a surprise to him. But a for a long moment, Fen could only stare down at his pet in silent surprise, biting back a bitter laugh.

Ah! Damn you, Beast— had you gone and killed the poor thing?

T'was but a boot to the ribs, honest!

He placed a bloody hand over his face, and despite himself, found himself laughing. It was an almost mirthful chuckle at the absurdity of the Beast's rage and his own lack of control. Had he honestly just gone and killed the damned doll? Shouldn't he know better by now?

Fen stooped down to the elf's level, putting his hand near the elf's throat, feeling for a pulse. A wave of cold relief washed over him when he felt blood still pumping through the elf's veins; the Beast hadn't screwed up this round, yet! The elf had more fight in him than he knew. But this would serve as a lesson to the blood mage: if he didn't want the fun to end, he should be more careful and selective with his pain... no matter how audacious the poppet had been...

The blood mage scooped the elf up in his arms, sighing softly. He carried him to the spare room— a cold, bland place, where he normally kept his spare toys— and laid him down on the bed there. This room was threadbare; not much lay it in but a few bookshelves, a dresser, a full-length mirror and, of course, the bed— but it would do; the poppet wasn't getting Fen's bed after all.

After laying the elf on the bed, he took a few moments to release his blood bonds, and to meticulously clean every single drop of blood off his person, to bandage the wounds he had given him. The last thing Fen needed in the morning was to see his bloody form wandering 'round his home, rousing the Beast when, sometimes, it was best if the Beast slept.

When he was clean, the blood mage looked down at him, brushing hair out of the poppet's eyes, pulling the covers over his battered body. He could not help but think of that wonderful, artful scream— how perfectly his body contorted under Fen's knife. But this one was feisty, Fen knew. If he had the opportunity, perhaps he would fight him, resist him, once more.

He made a note to keep the knives out of this one's reach.


Morning would come, despite how long midnight had stretched over Fen's bloody abode.

For a brief moment, one might think this a normal house. The fireplace was stoked, to remove the autumn chill from the home. In the oven, a load of fresh bread baked, and the kitchen countertops were awash with flour, broken eggshells and droplets of spilled milk. Through the barred windows, gusts of cavalier wind blew, lazily. But those barred windows might remind a captive: Ah, and here is my prison cell.

Fen stood over the elf's bed, like a shadow in the night. One might find it near comical: Fen, standing with a coffee mug in his hand, sipping at it while watching his catch.

"For how long do you intend to waste the day, pet?"

Oblivious to what the demonic man had done for him, Ocarern woke slowly to agonizing pain radiating from his abdomen and his head. A fluttering of his eyes kept them closed and he would have attempted to slip back into blissful sleep had it not been from the voice grating against his delicate years.

With a whining groan and a sliver-cracked open eye, the elf peeked up at Fenrisúlfr. A pained winced, showed just how "pleased" he was to see the other man. Unfortunately though he did not have the strength in his limbs to either sit up and recoil or burrow further into the bed to avoid him.

"S-s-sorry master," he croaked out hoarsely with his dry and unused mouth, feeling like he was speaking through a mouthful of sawdust even as he trembled with apprehension of what the blood mage had in store for him next.

"Ah, 'master'! That word sounds lovely, coming from your mouth," Fen murmured, giving his captive a soft smirk. The feistier a catch, the more melodic the word "master" sounded as his prey assented, letting invisible chains clamp calmly 'round their writhing, wretched wrists. He took a sip of midnight-black coffee and turned his back, expecting the elf to follow him.

"Come, poppet. You've bread to break." As he lead the elf back to the common area, his captive would find that Fen and laid out a light breakfast on the table— toast, a fried egg, a small tin of strawberry compote, a coffee pot, a sugar bowl, a cream pitcher laid neatly around the blood-red table cloth. An almost normal display, despite the man who set it, except for one minor detail; he'd been sure not to supply his elf with a butter knife.

Last night, he'd learned that this one, despite how precious he seemed on the outside, was not as helpless as he appeared. Unless this one planned on digging the assassin's eyes out with a spoon, there was nothing on the table the elf could weaponize. It was not how Fen preferred doing this— normally, his initial assault would leave his slaves struggling to find their free will; doll-like, the thought of rebellion had been smothered out of their heads, promptly. Not this one. Despite his glassy eyes, Fen was not sure if the elf was truly comfortable with his role here, as Fen's plaything.

He sat across from the elf's space, crossing his legs. "Eat your fill. Thankfully, today's first order is something even you can obey, wind-up doll." He took a sip from his mug, savoring the bitter taste. "After all, I don't think you can survive a repeat of last night." Someone with more grace would've chosen to let the matter die, but if he was going to sell this one to Barnum, he'd need him to be more... ah! More obedient, more docile— eager. Last night he'd been anything but.

He tried not to whimper as he peeled himself off the sheets he had become stuck to in the night. The wounds had slowed in their healing and while closed they were still present and painful. Warily, Ocarern followed after the demon, taking the expected seat while staring at the breakfast as if it was a wild boar about to skewer him alive.

Like a marionette on a string his arm lifted and picked up the toast to dip in the egg before eating. Every movement was slightly jerky and mechanical as tired eyes observed the yolk bleed in the same fashion the elf himself felt he was bleeding. Toast and eggs quickly disappeared though and Ocarern found himself without something to do. The coffee was too bitter for his liking and even with the several heaps of sugar to sweeten it, it still tasted like oil in his mouth. Its warmth was nothing compared to the fire Fenrisúlfr had set within his bones the night before.

Mention of the night caused Ocarern's ears to twitch slightly, signifying not only did he hear but he also was still disturbed by it all. He dared to glance up through his lashes at being called a doll but refrained from comment for fear it would result in another "painting" session. Instead he bit his tongue and gulped down scalding coffee before wincing at his own foolishness.