Spirits of the Earth

It was easier than Grant had thought it would be.

The knives had been sharpened so they cut through the throats like butter. While he never much cared for the sight of a gaping neck wound, it was the fastest most efficient way. They'd sent Purple in to grab a few of the prettier ones, the large broad Kulshedra had proven to be a good pet and had simply... Bonked two of them on the head before smashing in the face of another. Grant chuckled to himself while he picked his teeth with a shard of bone, digging through the group's pack for things worth selling. They'd lost the wavy haired one earlier though he'd made sure to wave the knife around tell them running away gets them killed, even went so far as to wiping the eyegoo and blood off on the blonde kid's pants. Right on the thigh, on the top so he could look at it.

Maybe that one was lost? Blondie. Grant stood up and stretched at his spot leaning against a tree, glancing at the sky. Ah well, maybe if he was a virgin he'd go for a bit extra since he was all pretty and tanned but still had the pretty gold hair. He licked his teeth again and rolled his shoulders.

The three they still had, Blondie, BabyFace and Blue Eyes were tied up. Hands bound behind their backs, thighs and feet tied together for the break. Cassen was on watch and Grant could see how much waiting and watching was irritating him. Purple was in charge of feeding them and for such a giant guy he was surprisingly gentle. Something Grant would have to cure him of eventually. Maybe after they passed off the three kids to their new owners.

They hadn't moved very far yet, maybe a mile or two away from the original campsite where they'd all been ripe for the picking.  Titus swears there were ten people in the group but... Grant only saw nine which meant that Titus was an idiot who couldn't fucking count. Korminic stretched, rubbed his thumb through his dark beard and glared at the packs Grant had been picking through lazily. It was enough rations to last them a while but it was heavy and he didn't want to carry them.

"Titus," Korminic yelled to the dark haired tanned man, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared, "Do we really need all of this shit? I looked through it and half of it is garbage clothing. I ain't fuckin' gonna change their clothes, so why do we need it?"

Titus shrugged before he began to go through the the bags that weren't rations. Keepsakes were pocketed and he pulled out a little heart shaped locket, chuckling at the small carving of a spider on the front. "This yours, Baby Face? You like them eight legged?" Korminic gave a cackle before placing it in his pocket, a few more things were tucked away before he kicked the bag over and deemed the things inside it either too small to fit or not good enough to use as a come rag.

"Have you finished fuckin' feeding them yet?" Grant snarled to Purple who looked up hastily, eyes up for a moment before looked down and away.

"No," He whispered, a deep soft noise. Purple was a large man. A Kulshedra. His hair was long and dark, shining purple. Hair back in a loose braid - easy to grab and catch. The lower half of his face was covered in a muzzle of sorts, he could still talk but there'd be no way he could open his mouth to it's full throat biting potential. Where he'd once had scales there were deep discolored scars, clearly having been skinned. His tail was stubby and wrapped in bandages, the end of the bandages stained with old blood.

"Well fuckin' hurry it up, we gotta get moving. Korminic, we have what, two? three days? To get to the wagon?" Grant snarled, glaring at Purple while he spoke. Korminic nodded before he daintily ate a piece of dried apple he'd found in a ration pack, giving a delighted hum at the taste. He'd never had it before.


--


"Alright Purple, that's enough. Get 'em up and let's get going. I got shit to sell." Grant barked. Then the ropes were removed and the three Greenclaws had a bandit guiding them along, a hand tight around their bicep, a knife placed at the ribs, easy to sink in and pierce the lungs. A threat to all should one try to move.  A lesson learned from when Avalaton managed to get free and die for it. Now, if one gets free, the other two die.

Or at least that was the idea.

Summary -  The Greenclaws have been tied up are/were in a daze and in shock by four large bandits and one large Kulshedra slave. It's mid morning the day after the ambush. Their friends are dead and the remaining three are tied up. If they struggle they'll be bound tighter.  They are not blinded and while being fed they are not gagged. If they scream they will be ignored.

Purple  Has been going between Daxten, Kesrel and Sincuvo and has been hand feeding them. They have been given enough jerky and water to remain 'healthy' but not over fed they will probably still be hungry. When he can get away with it, he attempts gentle touches to their heads and necks. If they are kind, there's a faint purring and kind eyes. If they are not, he simply does his job.

The Greenclaws are roped together always at the waist and right thigh and left foot.

Daxten "Blondie"  has been hit in the head. He has a lump above his right temple from when he was bashed in the head and is at the end of the three man line, Grant has also cleaned off his dagger on Daxten's pants, leaving a smear of Avalaton's blood and what eyebits may have gotten on it.

Kesrel "Blue Eyes" has a wound at the back of his head that had been bleeding but has since crusted/oozed over. He's in the middle of the line.

Sincuvo "Baby Face" has a bruise along his cheek bone and a black eye on the left side. He is at the front of the line.

Okay. Go!

@Paladienne  @nephero  @ GoblinFae

Daxten stared at the smear on his pants as he was hauled to his feet and tried not to be sick. It wasn't as easy as one might think it to be; his head hurt something fierce, his vision was swimming, his stomach was cramping from both hunger and nausea, and it felt like the right side of his skull had been caved in. Which couldn't be true, because he was still alive. Could someone survive with a caved in skull? For how long? His train of thought was interrupted as he was pulled along, sucking in a sharp breath at the sharp pain in his side. A quick enough glance was enough to tell him that the man who had a tight grip on his bicep was jamming a knife into his ribs. Daxten understood the warning clearly, even though his muddled, pounding head.

Defy us, and you're dead. Your friends too, for good measure.

Daxten's eyes flicked toward Sincuvo and Kesrel, finding them in much the same situation as he was. A babysitter armed with a knife was beside each of them, just as Daxten had his. Dax focused on Kesrel's back, trying to take stock of his young friend's condition. All he could see was the crusted blood on the back of his head. It didn't look any worse than it had before; he'd gotten a good enough look at both of them just before they had been hauled to their feet and forced to march in a line. Kesrel had seemed to be just as in shock as Daxten was, his eyes unfocused and glassy, as if he couldn't believe the turn of events, either. Sincuvo, had been in much the same condition as Kesrel, only sporting a fierce bruise and a black eye. His friend hadn't seemed to be any more injured than that. Now, all he could see from his position in the back of the line was their backs. They would have to turn and look back at him if he wanted to make any more assessments.

As if assessments of his friends' conditions could even help them now. Even if they had the wherewithal to fight, Dax knew that there would be no escaping. They were too wounded, and they were outnumbered.

Their only consolation was that Arami and Avalaton had escaped.

Dax's throat worked as his stomach threatened to rebel again as he remembered Avalaton. His eyes dropped down to his pants, where that stain was. He almost stumbled as he remembered the ambush, the spraying blood, the death rattles, the screams of utter terror suddenly silenced.

He felt his chest tighten and his sea-green eyes stung with unshed tears.

His thigh flashed into view again, stained brown with blood and fleshy bits.

Avalaton's blood.

Avalaton's flesh.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes briefly, trying to fight back the nausea that threatened to consume him.

This shouldn't have happened. They were supposed to have been safe. They had been with experienced soldiers, trained and seasoned and intent upon watching out for the new recruits. And yet, for all that experience and training and seasoning, they had been ambushed. Everyone was dead! Everyone, except them. Maybe Arami had gotten lucky and had escaped. He'd been away from the group at the time. His friend was wily; perhaps he'd been able to get away safely. Avalaton had gotten away, but he'd been wounded in the process. Would he even survive with a wound like that? Could he? Or had he succumbed once he was away? Dax didn't know. Wasn't certain if he ever would know. But if there was one thing he knew, even in his current state, was that he needed to try to protect his remaining friends.

It was clear that the group had designs on the three of them, but he couldn't be sure what they were, besides the obvious. So far, the bandits or slavers or whatever they were had only roughed them up a bit. Well, more than a bit, if Daxten could assess his own head injury.

But wounds of the body would heal. Wounds of the spirit were a different matter.

Being in the back of the line, Daxten was able to study his two friends with near impunity, trying at least to catch their eyes and offer them a reassuring smile. Though he and Sincuvo were the same age, and Kesrel was the youngest, he watched out for both of them as if they were his blood-brothers. He had to stay strong, for them. He had help, in an odd sort of way. The Kulshedra was a strange sight to see among this band, and not just for, and because of, his looks.

Purple, as he was called by the group's apparent leader, had a kinder air than any of the others. Whenever he came around to feed Dax, Sincuvo, and Kesrel, Daxten would offer him a smile and a kind word if he thought he could get away with saying one. He couldn't help the painful wincing when Purple touched his head - he knew the Kulshedra wasn't actually trying to hurt him with the gentle touch - and he softly apologized when he did end up flinching. He didn't want Purple to think he was afraid of him, or that he feared the touch. Rather, Dax found he actually took a strange sort of comfort in the gentle touches, as if in that one gesture, the Kulshedra was silently saying everything was going to be okay. Dax wanted to believe that. That everything was going to be okay.

The Kulshedra had a kind heart, and was doing his best to take care of them in the only way he could. Daxten had to wonder how such a kind soul ended up part of such a soulless band.

He forced his eyes away from Kesrel's back to the ground, doing his best not to focus on the stain on his pants. Rather, he tried to focus on what was ahead rather than what was behind or right there, in the present, with him. He needed to try and think of a way to get them out of this. Rescue may or may not be coming. He had to operate on the assumption it wasn't. Daxten didn't want to be sold. He didn't want to die, either. But he needed to protect his friends, too. He needed to free them, somehow.

But right now, he couldn't. He couldn't do anything except stumble along and try not to be sick.

And, gods, his head hurt.

His head pulsed with every beat of his heart and the place where his hair was matted with blood itched horribly. Kesrel wanted nothing more than to touch it and assess just how bad it really was. But with the way he was bound and the way it throbbed with every sudden movement, he couldn't manage to muster the effort to try.

Images of the night before continued to flash in his mind every time he closed his eyes too. There had been so much blood, so many screams. And the worst of it was that it had all ended so quickly. The boy just barely a man bit his lip to try and calm himself. Crying would do him no good here. He had to remain calm and alert. The mourning for the dead would come later once they were all safe.

He was so tired though as if every affliction rained down upon his being had wormed threads of lancing pain right down to his very soul. Even his efforts to chew the food gently offered to him had nearly made him sick all over himself as the motion of moving his jaw made the skin on the back of his head pull and tear.

Kesrel had fought the pain and weariness both though. He continuously told himself that he needed to remain strong if not for himself than for his brothers. The growing boy might have been the youngest among them but he was no less a soldier than the rest of them. He was just as responsible for this failure and just as necessary to aid in their escape. He would not fail Sincuvo and Daxten twice, not the way they had failed Avalaton.

A pit of oil roiled within his belly at the thought of his friend. Kesrel could only pray that the older boy's soul would find its peace across still waters. He did not relish the opportunity of informing the Lord Regent that his only son was dead either.

'One step at a time. Just like skipping stones, you have to make it bounce once before you can hop it more. Worry about the dead later, Kesrel. The living are still here,' he chided himself, as unfocused eyes stared at he creature feeding him. He had never in his life seen anything like it with its stubby tail and strange ears.

"What are you?" he had whispered, even as the purple man? beast? pet his hair and made the strangest sounds.

The leader's barking calls made Kesrel flinch and his head feel white-hot in response to his sudden movement. He almost didn't even notice his body being dragged to its feet with how stunned he was. What he did notice was the sharp, cool edge prodding his ribs and leaving a thin prickle of blood behind as it continuously nicked him every few steps he was forced into taking.

He hated how weak and small he felt bound like this. He wished then that he knew what to do. He wished for a way to reach out to his fellow soldiers, something that could give them a little comfort and hope where he couldn't physically offer some. Kesrel couldn't believe that they didn't feel as awful both physically and emotionally as he did. As strong as they were, and they were incredibly strong in his mind, they were just as human and care just as deeply about their fallen brothers and sisters.

With Sincuvo's head in his line of sight, Kesrel nervously licked his lips and then opened his mouth. At first the words caught and cracked in his throat. His tongue felt heavy and thick despite the little bit of food and water he had been given. But, still he kept on his singing albeit slowly and slightly off-cadence. He would not let his own exhaustion and frailness stop him if it meant offering something for the others to cling onto. It didn't even matter to him at that point that the only song he could think of was a child's one sung to him as a boy. It was something, after all. Something to keep their minds of the pain and the marching at least too.

"The ants go marching one by one...hurrah...hurrah...the ants go marching one by one...hurrah...hurrah...the ants go marching one by one...the little one stops to suck his thumb...and they all go marching down...to the ground...to get out...of the rain.

"The ants go marching two by two...hurrah...hurrah..."

   Sincuvo'd had plenty of black eyes before. He'd spent most of his time out of doors, even before he'd gotten the sense of the world beneath his feet, and plenty of scraped knees and raw palms had followed not long behind. It had happened so much that it became a running joke amongst his sisters— he was odd for all the times he'd tripped and allen, for all the branches he'd walked into, for all the times he'd taken a turn too fast and ended up crashing into the fence post.

   But he was a fast learner. Each scrape and each fall and each bruise had taught him something important, put in the muscle memory that meant it wouldn't happen again. What he learned this time, though, was that skulls hurt far more than fence posts. He also learned that soldiers didn't haze this far out into the field, and the snap of a twig nearby wasn't just someone trying to give him a scare.

   Too little too late. Too little too late and Sincuvo learned that blood smelled worse when it came from people. It was bad during hunting, but it wasn't bad. It was bad when it was his friends being cut, and it was bad. The smell was in his nose, on his skin, in the air around them and worse when the wind blew, catching their backs and sending a cascade of copper and rot along the way.

   Flies sounded worse, too. And they buzzed heavily, especially around Daxten. Especially around Daxten's leg. Especially where the leader had wiped his knife off on Daxten's leg. Especially where Avalaton's blood was. Dry and chunky, like the skinning knife had been wiped off in a hurry but no one remembered to wash the cloth.

   Sincuvo never remembered to wash the cloth. Now, all he wanted was for someone to remember for him, so maybe the flies would stop buzzing and maybe the blood smell would go away. It was cloying, awful, choking at times even when an hours-long march should have meant all he could smell was sweat and dirt. That's what marches did— they made you sweat, and the dust from dozens of other boots stuck to it, made you gritty all the way to your teeth and in your eyes, to where even a drink of water was worth more than the finest jewel.

   Sincuvo missed marching dust. He missed marching sweat. He missed the aches and pains of hauling armor and gear on shoulders that just never seemed to want to broaden. He'd have taken it all back without complaint if it meant no more blood and no more flies. It was so much that he could barely stand to eat, the texture of the jerky reminding him of muscle fibers in necks, in the way it split apart so easily, the smell of blood and the faint odor of the meat too much.

   He much preferred the water, gulping down each swallow in desperation to get the blood and meat off his tongue. Water was good, and Sincuvo didn't even mind being touched in those moments. Where he shied and made noise before, the big... muzzled man's touch went nigh unnoticed. But the spell never lasted long, and like grasses at the highest point of summer, Sincuvo shrank and curled into himself whenever he spotted incoming contact.

   He was tired, he was tired and he felt sick, the flies were too noisy and the air too tight, and worse still was just all the touching. The tying and the binding, the marching and the sitting, the feeding and the pushing. Even when there were no hands on him there was touching, and Sincuvo bit down hard on his own cheek as he watched their things turned inside out, rations and precious memories tossed with no thought at all. Bits of home.

   It was strange, what he wanted to cling to. At first, when he just entered training, all he wanted was memory of his home territory, of his home town and his house, his room and his things. Personal things. Now, out here, surrounded by strangers in a part of the world he'd never been in, all he wanted was a part of Adela to cling to— Arami's blanket, large and swimming and yet softer than anything Sincuvo had ever touched before. He'd liked playing with the edges, and Arami had been good enough to let him during a spare moment. Mataren's parchments, the scrape of uneven paper against the point of a feather.

   All being tossed out onto the dirt, onto the dust and the grass, out into the midday sun that would bake and harden and weaken and eat away at each one bit by bit, scrap by scrap, until nothing else remained of it. Sincuvo wanted to cry— no more so than when a locket was pulled out and held where he could see it.

   He didn't understand what was being asked of him. Liked them eight legged? Liked what eight legged? He didn't know anyone eight legged, thought he suspected Arami might have. They liked spiders. Sincuvo'd fallen into too many webs to like spiders.

   "Spiderwebs are too sticky," he said, just loud enough to answer, though the rawness of his throat and the tears he'd been trying to hold back made him sound more like a toad in summer than a person. Croaky.

   Too soon, too quickly, they were up on their feet again, the touching and the pushing and the press of a knife setting every last nerve ending off in alarm as Sincuvo marched along. Away from home. Away from the piles of discarded memories. Away from another shred of what they lost, like water dripping through fingers with every shuffling step.

   The world was vast, open and empty, and so much more terrifying ahead of him. He didn't like being at the front of the line, he didn't like feeling quite this vulnerable and exposed, and each breath brought with it the stench of blood and an itching fear that just a few steps more was the end of the world.

   At least, until he heard the singing. It was soft, slow, and small. It was wrong in sound but it was old, it was familiar.

   It was something from home. Taking another breath, and trying to keep his throat from stinging too much to sing back, Sincuvo fell into that something with everything he had left.

   "The ants go marching two by two... hurrah, hurrah... the ants go marching two by two... hurrah... hurrah... the ants go marching two by two... the little one stops to tie his shoe..."

Were they fuckin' singing?

About ants?

Grant glanced over his shoulder and gave a soft growl - causing Purple to pin back his ears but since he was already staring at the ground he couldn't look down any farther. Cassen smirked, hand squeezed around Babyface's arm, easing up on the knife in the ribs. None of them actually wanted to kill the kids. They were worth more alive than they were dead. Korminic made sure to squeeze Blue Eyes arm extra hard when the singing began but the four men (and the one Kulshedra) did nothing to quiet the group.

No one would hear them.

No one would save them.

Titus glanced at the back of Blue Eyes head from his spot beside Blondie and glanced up at Grant, giving Blondie a bit of a shove and making sure to press the knife a little harder than necessary, just because he could. Had to keep the fear looming. Did he give them a chance to sing more? He contemplated for a moment while they walked. "Y'all gonna shut up or your friend is going to be breathing through slits in his ribs," Titus said, voice a growl but projected enough to go over the little ants. Which is what they were. But... Expensive ants. Cute boys? Check. Small-ish and young? Check. Grant cackled, glancing behind his shoulder to Titus before he looked back down at his map, pausing a moment to look up at the sky. The rain had stopped since they lost the other one but the clouds were making it harder to navigate.

"Fuckin' garbage forests," Grant hissed, glancing around, "be better off burnt to a crisp," He glanced over his shoulder, looking each boy in the eyes before grinning, "but if that were the case the dragons would fly right down and scoop you up, wouldn't they? Hmm? Fuckin' Adelans." Grant rolled his eyes and turned back around before blindly reaching a hand back. Purple, who had been walking just behind him, reached out and took it. Grant's hand slowly moved up until the hand was on the back of Purples neck before going lower and lower, finally resting on his lower back, thumb petting gently at his spine.

The words were hushed and low, muffled by the sound of all the footsteps. Purple cast an orange eyed glance behind him and Grant's hand moved briefly to stroke the underside of his abused tail. A few scales lingered in parts that weren't skin and Purple visibly shuddered before Grant moved his hand back up and finally pushed the Kulshedra behind himself. Purple's ears dropped and his head turned down, glancing down at Babyface and then Blue Eyes. Stopping at Blondie before he turned away again. The occasional bathroom break was permitted but it wasn't private, each captor had their charge and they followed them.

The walk was long and unkind. If they tripped they were scooped up and forced to walk. Pushed and pulled. The pace never slowed and no doubt they would have hand shaped bruises on their biceps and fresh slices on their ribs. There was a short break where Purple gave them water, gently and sweet with kind hands and slow movements but other than that... No conversation between captors and the captured. Nothing. If they sang, they'd be jabbed. If they talked they'd be hurt. They walked for hours even when the rain picked back up they walked. Puddles and mud. Mess.

Purple wore little in the way of clothing, a harness for the muzzle and a strange loin cloth of sorts. He visibly shuddered when the cold rain hit him but no one cared. Just like no one cared about the boys and if they shivered.

"Halt," Grant barked, holding a hand up, he nodded to a small area, mostly kept dry from the trees over head. It had stopped raining but Grant knew it would pick up again soon.

"Fuckin' Finally, holy fuck. I'm ready to eat and pass out," Cassus said and jerked Babyface off to the side before removing the ropes without a care for personal space. The others followed suit, each having one by the arm and dragging them away where they were once again tied up. Individually. Grant wandered away with Purple for a moment, returning with arms of sticks and chunks of wood. Deposited in the middle and, curiously, quickly granted flame. Purple touched a stick longingly before Grant gathered the purple hair in his hand and yanked him away. "Feed them and then join me," Grant said gruffly, pain flashing over Purples face briefly.

A little nod and with slow movements he moved between the group, small knife in hand to cut the jerky into bite sized pieces. Titus, Grant and Cassen sat near enough but far away, shouting at one another over the flames, eating their own rations. Purple spoke to each one, suggesting they let him remove their shoes so they didn't get sore feet. They were valuable and Purple knew that at the very least Grant would let them put their boots back on before they left.

First was Daxten. Fed quietly and gently, Purple examined the bruise on his head and gently pushed his hair away from his face, some water before finally moving to pull off Daxten's boots. Kesrel next. Fed, movements slow, an examination of the head wound and making a low humming sound. "Your wound is looking fine," He said softly in the most reassuring voice he could muster. Again, the boots, the water and finally onto Sincuvo.

Purple frowned gently at his black eye and did his best to examine it in the dying light. A sigh and he cut the jerky into bite sized pieces. It wasn't the best meal in the world for any of them but Grant didn't want them strong. He just wanted them alive. A moment and Purple stared at Sincuvo, silently. Babyface. The innocent looking one. Carefully, Purple leaned over, curling his arms around the young ones shoulders and sunk the knife in the tree, blade up, a small push to see if there was resistance and he leaned back again before finally feeding Babyface. A drink of water. Removing the boots.

Grants voice shot out from a few trees away, having set up his own private camp. The kids were tied up and there was a watch man. Purple wandered over. Fed Grant too. Cassen and Korminic waited for Grant to be finished with Purple, mostly ignoring the boys and waiting for sharp cries and other suggestive noises to end.

"You get first watch," Cassen said to Titus giving him a gentle slap on the back of the head. Titus's back was to Babyface and he growled gently, fixing his brown hair and rolling his shoulder. He looked at all three of them, squinting at Daxten - the one off to his left - and sneered. "Swear to the gods, if any of you try shit I'm going to make you kill your favourite person left over form those, what, six that are already dead?" Titus gave a guffaw and sighed with a grin. And then the night began. The waiting.

The excruciating damp hours before dawn.



--- Summary!

Purple fed them. They have no boots. Their hands are tied behind their backs and their ankles are tied together, both with rope.  They are separate and are in a triangle shape away from one another. Titus is on watch and his back is to Sincuvo. he doesn't move much but occasionally gets up and paces around the fire, also occasionally gets up to gather wood to keep the fire strong, bright and hot. 

Sincuvo has a small knife imbedded in the tree behind him with the blade facing up.

Titus is on watch, it's unknown when he will be relieved.

His head had finally stopped hurting, but it seemed as if the ache in his head had traveled to his heart and had taken root there. Taken root and flowered, filling him with impotent anger and rage for the treatment of his brothers. Filling him with sadness at the fact this seemed to be their fate, and they couldn't fight it. Filling him with sympathy for the kind Kulshedra that had been taking such good care of him and the others.

Daxten closed his eyes for a brief moment as he heard those cries echoing through the forest. He wasn't stupid; he knew what those cries meant. Wasn't hard not to know, considering he was the oldest child of his family. He'd learned early on where his brothers and sisters had come from, and not by any real choice of his. Speaking of choice and the lack of it...

Kesrel and Sincuvo had been made to stop singing by the man babysitting Daxten, threatening to kill him if they hadn't. Their only comfort had been ripped from them as easily as their companions had been ripped from life. The Kulshedra was constantly ordered around and abused, but despite that, he made the effort to be kind and caring to the three captives, perhaps the only choice he could make that was his own. Even the leader's lackeys didn't seem to have much of a choice in what they were made to do, but then, in a strange way, they had more freedom than the captives and the slave did. They did what they wanted, in actuality, but were always at the beck and call of their leader.

He opened his eyes and cast them about the camp for a while, taking stock of the fire-lit area. They were hemmed in by trees on all sides, and the shadows shivered and danced because of the fire, growing long and short at the whim of the flames. Above, there were few stars peeking through the leaves and the cloud cover. Even if there was a search party looking for them, they wouldn't expect to find their quarry beneath the trees.

No, they couldn't rely on a search party. Daxten knew he would have to rely upon his own wits and strength, and he would have to be reliant upon the wits and strength of his friends. He looked toward Kesrel and Sincuvo, then let his eyes drop to his bare feet.

The Kulshedra had removed his boots - he'd removed all their boots - and with his ankles bound, Daxten wasn't going to be running away any time soon. He was used to walking around without shoes on, and running without boots didn't bother him. But he would't run. He wouldn't leave his brothers behind to face the wrath of these monsters because he, and he alone, had the chance to escape. Not that he had the means to facilitate an escape, anyway. He was in the line of sight of the watchman, to his immediate left. Any move he made would be seen. And that threat... Daxten knew the man was serious. If he so much as sneezed funny, the man might take it as some sort of defiance or escape attempt and he might hurt Kesrel or Sincuvo.

The fire cracked and popped, drawing Daxten's attention for a brief moment. He stared deep into the glowing embers laying beneath the dancing flames, as if they would be able to give him the answer he sought.

His mind worked, too, trying to find a way he could help his friends. He wasn't afraid of dying, not if it meant Kesrel and Sincuvo could escape. He was actually starting to make peace with that fact. It might be his lot to die here, just so the other two could get away. But in order to make that happen, he would have to get free first.

Absently, he rotated his wrists against the ropes binding him, trying to loosen them or seek some defect in the ropes that he could exploit. All he succeeded in doing was rubbing his wrists raw, but he continued to struggle, feeling the ropes becoming slick with his blood. If he could just get his bindings slick enough, he might be able to slip his wrist out. And if he did, what then? Could he pretend that he hadn't moved at all long enough for the watchman to lose interest? The others were asleep, and there was no telling when they would wake. Nor was there any telling when or if the leader and the Kulshedra would return.

Daxten tore his eyes away from the fire and focused on the watchman across from him, still working his wrists all while keeping his shoulders and arms as still as he could so he wouldn't arouse attention until the last second. If there was a last second, providing he could get just one hand free. Even he didn't, if he could just create a distraction and be that distraction long enough, maybe Kesrel or Sincuvo could escape. Maybe they both could. It didn't matter what happened to him so long as those two got away.

A second voice joined his own and for that moment Kesrel's heart soared. For that single moment he felt the smallest ray of comfort and hope. But, it was not to last. A shout from behind him quickly silenced the youngest of the captives for the price to pay for continuing to sing was far too steep for Kesrel's liking. The tightening and threatening grip on his arm was unnecessary though he bit his tongue and schooled his expressions into an unaffected mask. They would not see him in pain. They would not see him cry. And they would not see him break.

Help would come. Arami was still out there and they were smart. Kesrel had to believe they would make it back. There was no other option. They were Greenclaws and that meant something. They were warriors and soldiers and they all served their country proudly. They would not be abandoned. They would not be forgotten. The disgusting leader could shut his vile mouth. The trees might make it difficult but the dragons would come and when they did bones would be crunched and flesh would be scorched.

They would come.

They had to.

Right?

The coolness of the rain kept him grounded as did each step forward. He was still alive and so were Sincuvo and Daxten. They just had to assess the situation and then go from there. It was all one step at a time. Yet, even being made to stop and forced to the ground like a useless sack of reeds, Kesrel still found himself fighting flashes of memory. Every time he closed his eyes he could still see all the red flowing across the earth. There had just been so much of it.

The strange creature tending to his needs was a welcome distraction though. When he examined Kesrel's wound, the boy kept extremely still and made no sound even as it was prodded and assessed. A soft whispered 'thank you' passed his lips even as he pressed his head against the purple creature. He wasn't sure if the gesture was meant more as comfort to himself or to the obvious fellow captive, but Kesrel did it all the same.

It was not long though before he was once more free of blessed distractions and left out of reach of his brothers and trapped with his own thoughts. Kesrel dug his toes into the sodden earth, briefly enjoying the feel of moss and mud against his bare feet. For a heartbeat or two he could remember what it was like to run along the riverbanks of his own home territory. When this was all over he promised himself he would head back there the first chance that he got. He would hear the babbling waters and play in the mud and rain again.

The sounds farther off the trees were hard to ignore even as Kesrel allowed his head to rest back against a tree and stare at its branches. He dug his fingers into the bark, feeling the bite against his his skin and letting it give him something else to focus on. With the way their watchkeeper was sitting he had no way to use the bark to break his bonds without getting caught. His gaze slid to the corner of his eye first to glance at Daxten and then to the other side to see Sincuvo. They still were here and still breathed. They would have to figure out a way to communicate with each other, to plan and to survive. If they were complacent long enough, their captors would get sloppy. Kesrel just had to be patient, a quality he had in spades.

   And they all go marching down, to the ground, to get out of the rain.

   Sincuvo's head hung low after the threat to their comrade's life, suitably cowed into silence but still singing loud and angry in his own head. The bandits couldn't get in there, couldn't tell him what to do there, the song nestled up against vivid scenarios where Sincuvo might tie the bandits up by their ankles like a rabbit in a trap. And then do what all hunters do to a trapped rabbit.

   Blood from a hunt smelled bad but wasn't bad. Blood from his friends smelled bad and was bad. Blood from the bandits, well. It probably would smell worst of all, choking with flies and filth, but it would be good.

   Sincuvo sung the song in his head even louder, a silent victory cry as he was shuffled along over the vastness, the only tether to the world behind being the shuffle of four other feet in conjunction with his. The crunch of dirt and rocks and the thick squelch of drying mud. The tight breathing of a man with a knife to his side, pushing tight to where each puff of air felt dangerous.

   His squadmates. His comrades. His friends. A bit of home.

   Home like the dragons. Sincuvo barely flicked his eyes up, looking through long lashes at the one who spoke about dragons, the leader, the one with the map and the hands on the muzzled man and the harsh touch to get him back again.  Sincuvo met the muzzled man's eyes in that moment, searching past the leather strips and wishing he was half as good at making marks as his sisters were.

   Not that he got much chance to try again, not as they were each hauled off to make water, more touching and shoving and pulling to where Sincuvo was tenser than a bowstring, barely able to take the small break in their journey for himself. The rains helped, when they came— they pushed away the lingering sensation of strange hands, the dirt beneath fingernails that had dug into his bicep, and more importantly still...

   They cooled Sincuvo's head. Fat drops struck the dirt, now thickening to a mud beneath their feet even through the shelter of the trees, the scent of earth, good earth and wet leaves wafting up like a smoke cleanse to carry away the rot and flies of earlier.

   Vision clearing like breaching the surface of a lake, Sincuvo looked between their captors as they halted for the evening, brows knit tight in thought— even if it only served to make him look like he was pouting. Added to his waterlogged appearance and full body shivering, Sincuvo wasn't exactly on the books for most intimidating visage.

   Sincuvo watched. Watched as his friends were tied up again, far away from him and each other. He watched as his own warden leaned in to finish securing him with his own bindings. Sincuvo watched as a fire was made, the way the muzzled man stayed beside it and had to be yanked away by the hair. So much touching. Sincuvo's frown deepened as their meals were cut and divided, their wounds checked and boots removed.

   Working back along the line, the muzzled man finally settled in front of Sincuvo, who fought the overwhelming urge to break eye contact. Every inch of him tensed as the muzzled man leaned in, his eyes widening as arms wrapped around him. A hug? A what? Briefly Sincuvo's mind flashed to earlier, to hands under a tail, and the fleeting panic in his chest rose to a crescendo as something happened behind him. Something that was not a hug, and for a moment Sincuvo feared more touching.

   But it didn't happen, and soon the muzzled man was feeding him, watering him, peeling off his boots and letting the young soldier's toes sink into solid earth. Cool, good earth. Sincuvo sighed in relief, relaxed, and wiggled a bit to settle against his tree. It was difficult going, a little fidget here, a little wriggle there, but each one didn't seem to comfort him for very long. He didn't make noise as he tried to settle down, to sink his feet into the leaves and dirt a little more, eyes dropped low as he tried for as little comfort as he'd be afforded.

   The rest was good. It was necessary. The boots had been terrible— heels too tough to be pliable, to thick to be silent no matter how much Sincuvo might have tried. The stretching of his legs eased the aches in his thighs and calves, before he drew them back up to his chest, his knees falling apart as far as the bonds around his ankles would allow.

   It also kept him from focusing too much on what he was hearing outside of what he could see, eyes snapping up to the man who'd been holding a knife to him all day long. First watch. The start of the night, the fire glowing more brightly than the sky until it was the only thing glowing brightly at all.

   The man his warden had slapped growled and huffed, before snapping at them about what would happen if they tried anything funny. But Sincuvo wasn't listening to the threat, having heard it too many times in so many hours to feel anything but a dull sense of distress. No, he was much more focused on what had preceded the threat, the young soldier frowning in worry.

   "It's bad luck to swear at sundown. Things sit in twilight, and they catch your promises for themselves." He offered, not really expecting a reply. After all, he'd received none for his words about spider-webbing. It happened often enough— people rarely had responses to the things he said, like some page had gone missing from the novel and they weren't sure what had led up to them.

   Sincuvo turned his gaze away, and kept his eyes to the dark of the surrounding trees. Away from the light, until he could see deeper into the shadows  without having to blink and stare. Like their watcher did every time he went to get more wood. It always took a few minutes to get your eyes to adjust, going from bright flame to deep shadow. More so still for tired eyes used to being alert all day long, scanning skies for an enemy that never showed.

   When their watcher stared into the flame, Sincuvo moved his wrists, glancing out of the corner of his eye to see when the man moved. When he went back to the campfire once more, Sincuvo wrapped his fingers around the knife handle and wiggled in slow easy pumps, his hands behind his back but no longer so confined. The knife came loose from the tree, and he wiggled just a bit more, shivering loudly as he pulled his knees up tight to his chest, curling into as small a ball as possible with his bonds as they were.

   Another shiver, and he let his head fall forward against his knees, toes stretching and flexing against the dirt in soft, tiny rocking motions cut by shivering spasms from the chill night. His ankles shifted next, flexing a bit and then shuffling to try to get his knees tighter to his chest, the joints rolling without jostling the ropes that no longer cut into the skin of his ankles.

   Sincuvo blinked against the dimness of his own knees, before looking up through his sopping hair and lashes at where their watcher sat. His back turned to the young soldier. Too many paces away, and too close to the other bandits. When Sincuvo moved again, it was without a sound, shifting in soft rolls over well worn leaves as ropes fall silently away. He crawled, long limbs seeking out the quietest earth, until he was back behind the tree line in the nearby gloom, even colder now that he didn't have the fire's lingering light to chase away the wet.

   Luckily, though, what little shivering left that wasn't adrenaline was hidden by the weight of water in the trees, and slowly Sincuvo worked along to the left, mud smeared over his shoulders and up to his nose as he shifted deeper into the soft earth and under a large, broken tree trunk.

The fire crackled and popped. Titus spread out his hands and let the warmth of the fire soak soak into his flesh. Listened to the fire at Grant's little camp. He nodded off at one point before snapping his eyes open and frowning into the fire, poking at it to keep it bright and warm. At least he was dried out.

From the other camp Purple could smell blood.

The arm around his torso - Cassen's - was pulled off and Cassen gave a grumpy murmur before rolling over on his bedroll. Wobbly up onto his knees and then standing up, Purple fixed his loincloth and his finger tips ghosted over his muzzle. Still the blood scent was strong and he took careful steps into the clearing, the cold night air making him shiver and his skin prickle. Still there was blood. Which meant something was happening. Purple's chest tightened with hunger and he moved around, looking at Dax for a long moment before staring at Titus.

"Remove this," He said, his voice soft, Purple moved closed to Titus, kneeling on the ground beside him, head to the side, "I smell blood. I can fix it." Titus smirked, looking at Purple before he shoved his hand into his pocket to pull out a key. There was one each on each of the men, just in case they needed to use Purple for this exact reason... Or at least Titus thought that was what they were for. They leave him hungry. Tired. Titus removed the muzzle, leaving Purple bare chested, his long purple hair sticking to the sweat that had gathered at his neck during the day.

A sharp gaze looked to Dax and Purple inhaled deeply while Titus played with the harness and muzzle, bringing it to his face before pulling it away. Slowly the Kulshedra slinked to Dax, leaning in to his face and inhaling deeply. Crawling around him, hand resting on his chest before sliding down his arm and looking down. "You're hurt," Purple purred, going down on all fours and crouching behind Dax now, casting a quick glance to the now vacant spot on the tree that Sincuvo had been at. Then Purple's mouth opened and his tongue dipped out, drawing along the rope and catching the blood, hand grabbing the tied up wrists and lapping up the blood like he was parched. Purple purred deeply, a rumble in his throat, mouth extending and teeth brushing soft meaty palm.

"You look like you're gonna eat his fuckin' hands, get back over here." Titus waved his hand towards the Kulshedra who growled deeply before pulling away from Dax, licking his lips. Purple looked at Titus for a long moment before he flicked his eyes to where Sincuvo had been and then back to the human, lips still blushed with blood. It was never a good idea to turn your back to a predator but Titus wasn't full of good ideas.

"Fu--Aarrrgghh!" His voice turned into a shrill scream when Purple's mouth opened too wide and he launched himself at Titus's neck. The scream turned gargled quickly and crunching could be heard. Purple was feasting and it was clear that Titus was dead. The noises roused the other men, rushing from their  little personal camp off to the side. Grant was the first to appear and he gave an angry snarl when he realized just what was happening. Cassen and Korminic noticed Babyface was gone and they growled, looking at the two other ones, pleased on some note that they hadn't gotten away.

Korminic examined the tree, frowning at it for a moment before he looked down at the ground. "The pretty one got away," He scoffed, glaring at the Kulshedra, eyes narrowed though he didn't move to do anything about the reptile man. Grant had subdued Purple, hand on his neck and squeezing, his own personal trigger. A learned reaction to display dominance and tell Purple Grant was the leader and he was to be listened to. He replaced the harness and collar, locking it up before he made a disgusted noise at Titus's body, giving a gruff growl and kicking the corpse. "I fuckin' told him" Grant snarled, "Don't take off the fuckin' Kulshedra's muzzle." Grant grabbed Titus's hand and hauled him up so his mutilated corpse was on display in the firelight. His throat was open and his head was lolled back. Meat and blood dripped down his half empty chest cavity. More meat and blood was on the ground but one thing was at least a little bit clear.

Purple had eaten the heart and his lungs were on the ground. At least one was. Close enough to the fire to start sizzling already.

"You see this?!" Grant yelled, shaking the corpse of his once comrade. "This is what happens if you fuck up, Purple will eat you and you know what, if I can't sell you, you're better off dead." Korminic and Cassen each had one of Purples arms and they held him steady though he gave minute movements to try to get to the corpse to eat it. Grant moved to the tree where Sincuvo had been kept and threw the corpse down. He waved to Cassen and Korminic and they brought Purple by.

"Which way did your friend go," Grant said, hand holding the back of Purple's neck firmly, lock in hand eyes drifting between the two soldiers, "You can tell me where he went, and we can bring him back, or I can open Purple's muzzle and he can go and fucking eat him. At least this way he'll survive, now where is he?!" Grant roared and his hand flexed on Purple's neck who gave a harsh snarl, glaring at the smaller human.  Korminic and Cassen made quick work of tying the corpse of Titus to the tree, throat and chest on display in the full light of the fire. Korminic for good measure and out of spite, threw Sincuvo's boots into the fire. 

"Purple here is hungry, aren't you Darling?" Grant purred to the Kulshedra who gave a snarl, "Actually, I have a better idea. You hear me Babyface?" Grant yelled into the forest, voice raised and it echoed through, "You don't bring your ass back here and we're gonna eat your fucking friend for dinner. How about Blue Eyes?" Grant turned to Kesrel and smirked slightly, lifting an eyebrow, "Would you like that?" Grant said, giving Purple a shake, "Does Blue Eyes look tasty?" another shake and a ground out "Yes," hissed out from the muzzle. He was hungry.

Daxten stilled as he saw the Kulshedra emerge from the trees, a strange look in his eyes. Those eyes were turned on him, and Dax stiffened, uncertain of what was going to happen next. So far, their watcher hadn't noticed what he was doing, nor had he seemed to notice that Sincuvo had disappeared. Dax had, and he prayed that his friend was getting further and further away from this camp. He prayed that Sincuvo wasn't sticking around with the intent to help him and Kesrel. Someone had to survive this, and though Dax hoped that they all would, the reality was that only one of them might. And if that was Sincuvo, so be it.

But that hope was suddenly tempered by fear when the Kulshedra appeared.

Instead of moving immediately toward Dax, the Kulshedra moved toward the bandit that was supposed to be watching them, and Daxten heard them talking before the bandit removed the Kulshedra's muzzle. He stiffened even more when the Kulshedra, no longer bound by that muzzle, moved over towards him, that strange hungry look still in his eyes.

Dax flinched and closed his eyes, not wanting to see what was going to happen next.

But the Kulshedra, though he placed his face close to Dax's and inhaled, merely crawled behind him and began to lick at the blood coating his skin and the ropes, where Dax had rubbed them raw in an attempt to escape. He shivered at the touch of that tongue, warm and wet, brushing along his raw skin. He jumped and inhaled sharply at the feel of teeth against his palm and Dax suddenly became afraid that the Kulshedra was going to eat him. He didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say. How could you convince someone not to eat you?

But then the bandit spoke and turned his back and Dax felt something change in the Kulshedra behind him. It was chilling, that change, and Dax felt that the Kulshedra behind him was no longer the kind person that had taken such good care of him and his friends and was now more dangerous. His feeling was proven just seconds later as the Kulshedra launched himself out from behind Daxten toward the bandit. Dax was stunned by the Kulshedra's speed and power, and the ferocity with which he attacked the bandit. It was only after Daxten recognized the sounds of feasting that the numbness caused by the sudden attack was pushed aside by fear and he jerked himself back away from the Kulshedra as far as he could, a scream tearing from his throat, high-pitched and full of nightmare-fueled terror. He couldn't go far, though, bound as he was, and there was really nowhere to escape to.

Daxten wasn't sure how long he screamed, or if it had just been the single burst of sound, but his thoughts were racing like terrified mice around in his mind and the only coherent thoughts he had were I'm going to die! I'm going to be eaten alive! Shit! Shit! Shit! I don't want this! Tears pricked at his eyes and began to stream down his face, but he wasn't certain if he was crying because he was afraid or for some other reason.

When the other bandits appeared, Daxten stared at them with wide eyes, as if their appearance would somehow make everything worse. But the leader soon subdued the Kulshedra and muzzled him again, and Daxten watched the leader haul up the corpse of the Kulshedra's half-eaten meal like it was a mere sack of potatoes and not someone's body. Daxten's stomach twisted painfully and for a moment, he thought he would be sick. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the corpse's open throat and chest and he felt something burning his throat as he saw that glistening meat and blood and bone, revealed like a slaughtered animal. Daxten realized quickly what was missing and swallowed hard in an effort not to be sick, tears streaking harder down his face as the fear he felt became insurmountable.

What had he been thinking? Why had he believed they could get out of here? That they could escape this? There was no escaping! There was nothing they could do to free themselves! Even if they could get free, they would be hunted down by the Kulshedra, eaten alive and left for dead, their corpses left to turn to dust.

Daxten realized then that the leader was speaking to him and Kesrel. Speaking, and holding the Kulshedra - Purple - by the neck like he was a starving dog set to be unchained to hunt. Speaking, holding Purple, and standing near the corpse of the bandit Purple had eaten, which had been tied to the tree Sincuvo had been near, limbs spread and tied and so displaying the open cavity of the chest and throat, leaving nothing unseen. The blood, the teeth marks, the savagery with which the man had been torn open, the soft tissue burrowed through to get at the sweeter prizes within the cage of flesh and bone.

Dax tore his eyes away from the corpse and stared up at the leader. His tongue felt thick and fat and he wasn't sure if he could speak.

But when the leader focused on Kesrel, and threatened to use Purple on the boy, all the fear Dax felt turned into chilling rage and hate.

"NO!"

The word was ripped from his throat, thunderous and loud but still weak. Dax twisted his arms, feeling blood run anew from his already-raw wrists. He fought to get free, fought to do something other than just sit there, impotent, useless. He'd had enough of being afraid, enough of watching his friends be tormented, enough of being at the mercy of these bandits. He wasn't sure what exactly he could do, but there had to be something, something more than just sitting here, watching.

"I don't know where he went! Neither of us do! He's gone!" Dax shouted, his shoulders straining against the ropes, as if he could snap them. "Leave him alone!"

Kesrel was completely trapped in his own thoughts when Sincuvo had slunk his way off into the shadows and mud. He did not even notice his friend was missing until long into the chaos that occurred with the arrival of Purple. His tired head had rolled upright to watch in curious confusion as the strange creature who had cared for them crawled all over Daxten.

When he had been called away though, blood on his unmuzzled mouth, Kesrel's heart froze. He had eyes only for Daxten, afraid his friend had been injured. There had been no cries of pain though and aside from shaken, Daxten seemed to be in one piece still.

Everything happened so quickly from there. There was a howling scream that rent the air in two as the youngest of the group watched with bated breath the primal slaughter of one of their captors. Kesrel felt nothing for that man. The humans had been cruel to them and had slaughtered his own friends and people without cause. Purple though, Kesrel felt deep pity for. He was just as much a chained beast as the rest of them. The fact that he had been forced to unleash such a brutal nature, to be forced unwillingly back from eating said a lot to the young Greenclaw.

Young and naive, Kesrel might be he still had an understanding of how the world worked. He knew a starving and cornered creature when he saw one. He could only imagine the horrors that Purple had endured to survive. He tried to continue to remind himself of that fact as the gored human body was dragged past him and tied in Sincuvo's now vacant place. It was the stench of hot blood and visceral along with the sudden buzzing of flies that caused his stomach to twist slightly.

Shallow breaths calmed some of that though. Kesrel bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to focus on the conversation going on around him. Daxten screamed and begged for Kesrel's life and safety but Kesrel remained very still and tense. Shoulders squared and chin raised in defiance, the young man looked first to the hungered Kulshedra as the men had called it, and slightly bobbed his head to the creature in understanding before shifting to look at the bandit leader.

His form trembled with cold and fear but his voice was relatively even when he at last spoke. "You're wasting your breath," he stated, his knees pressing tightly together as he tried to shift to sit up straighter. "Sincuvo can't hear you. He's not a fool like you, he'll have gone to call the dragons," Kesrel claimed, his eyes glancing up towards the wet foliage again as if to see Sincuvo there. He prayed that if Sincuvo was near he would hear him and know not to be rash.

"So do what you're going to do already. At least I'll die with honor unlike a coward like you." There was fire in his gaze even as he crushed his palms against the tree bark and curled his toes in the mud. If there was one thing he had learned on the banks of his home territory it was the patience to wait for the true bite. Fish would nibble and test but only when they truly bit would you catch them. You just had to remain still and poised until the last possible second and only then could you strike in a fluid and confident motion.

The bandits could steal away his freedom, beat him, even kill him but he would not go down without a fight. He would give Daxten the chance to run, he would give Sincuvo the chance to intercept and hide them both. The dragons would find them. Arami was out there and they would get help. This was not a time to despair and cower. Kesrel wasn't ready to give up yet. As scared as he was, he would not let them win this easily. He knew he couldn't hope to overpower them but if he could die with honor, die protecting someone else then he knew his spirit would find its way back home to the great river in the sky.

   Sincuvo stilled his breath. Closed his mouth and breathed deep through his nose. Held it, counted, and let it out again. Earth filled his nostrils, settled into his bones. It smelled like home. Like the woods and the mud and the rain, the summer storms and the heavy weight of moisture. For a moment, Sincuvo felt at ease, like he really was back home, like he was out stalking deer rather than hiding from people who had murdered his friends.

   He shivered, waited, breathed. Wetness clung to his skin, between his toes, against his clothing, the chill sinking into his skin and leaving him amazingly numb. He listened— to the crackle of the fire and the shuffle of footsteps, but not the kind of footsteps that meant his escape had been discovered. Sincuvo adjusted his grip on the stolen knife— not stolen, given, given by the one with the muzzle. The one that touched.

   There were murmured words, a conversation, and more rustling closer to the tree where Dax was being held. Was the muzzle man giving another knife? Sincuvo shifted, slowly shifting through the mud, over wet needles and leaves that were too soggy to crunch beneath his weight. If they were near Dax, maybe he could get to Kesrel, and maybe if he could get to Kesrel, in the chaos of them both being gone, he could get to Dax.

   Sincuvo froze, his blood turning colder than ice at a sudden shriek, that soon turning to wet gurgling through hiss of breath that never quite made it where it needed to go. Sincuvo's eyes widened, and he took in a breath, nearly choking on the dirt smeared over the bottom of his face. He'd cleared the brush just enough to see, and what he saw brought back the smell of blood, the buzz of flies, the way it stuck to the skin and crusted over.

   The one who had been watching them was dead, his eyes wide and watching in a way that didn't watch anything. Sincuvo ducked even lower into the brush, into the mud, as the shriek woke the others, including the fucker who had the spider-necklace. The camp was alive, the bandits swarming like so many flies as they milled about, and too soon Sincuvo's escape was noticed. He couldn't see Kesrel, or Dax from this angle, but he could see the taller men, could see how the one with the muzzle was being grabbed and held. Purple will eat you. Purple, and Sincuvo remembered the way light danced off long hair, and thought he liked the way the muzzle man was named.

   He didn't like how the Purple was being touched. Not after he'd given Sincuvo a knife, and not after he'd killed the one who'd been watching. There was more shouting, more words, scuffling and arguments and protests from both the bandits and his friends, and for a moment Sincuvo wondered which one was Babyface.

   Oh, no. He was Babyface. The leader was talking to him, and it took very real effort for Sincuvo to not pop his head up above the brush like his sisters were calling him in for dinner. They weren't, but the leader was, the leader was threatening to eat his friends, and the notion made bile rise up in Sincuvo's throat. Blood, tanging and awful, filled his mouth, and too late Sincuvo realized he'd bitten his tongue so hard it had caught on his teeth and the tang in his mouth was the same that had covered Purple's face.

   But then someone was saying his name, and Sincuvo tilted his head, recognizing the syllables and the way Kesrel talked. Biting and angry, so angry, angry and for a moment Sincuvo wondered if he'd done something wrong getting free. But no, Kesrel was yelling at the bandits, and Sincuvo felt a flash of pride at doing right, but he didn't know how he was supposed to be calling the dragons. There were too many trees, and they were too far off, and any signal now would just bring the bandits down on him. And what was more, they wanted to eat his friends if he didn't come back!

   A signal. Sincuvo frowned, and began his crawl anew, knees raised up from the ground so he didn't leave a slug trail behind him. He went deeper into the trees, where it was harder to hear what was being said but he could still hear things were being said. He circled the camp, and settled against a tree trunk, fingers running over soft, wet, cold earth until his nails raked over something much more solid. He lifted the stone with only the softest plop, and tossed it back the way he came, the branches rattling even further away from the camp behind his former prison-tree. Another search, another stone, and another rustle, and Sincuvo went on the move again, working his way around to where he could see the necklace-thief's back.

   He couldn't call the dragons. He didn't know where the dragons were. But he could do this, and he made his way over mud and leaves and brush to follow behind the bandits' pursuit, knife at the ready.

   He couldn't call the dragons, but he could slow their progress. He could make it harder to move, he could make it so what might have taken a few days would take ten more. An injured buck covered less ground, was easier to hunt. He slunk behind the necklace-thief, knife at the ready, and lashed out, sinking the small blade down and into the side of his knee, digging deep and twisting hard until mud and blood both made his grip too slippery to hold it anymore. Sincuvo pushed, toppling with the thief, and in the toppling he grabbed the necklace, stuffing it deep into his shirt where it would be safe from nasty hands.

   He ran, knowing he'd be caught. But he ran knowing only a few would be able to catch him, one less than the number that had been before.

This was turning into a whole fuckin' mess, not worth the price. Titus was dead and Grant knew he'd have to punish Purple for it later - not in front of these little fucks though. Grant sighed deeply at the cries and calls of the kids - why did they want these little shits unmarred? Bruises would heal but couldn't chop off their hands or take off a leg because then they'd be worth less. Should be worth more, less chance of escape if they only had one fucking leg to hop on.

Purple rested his cheek on Grant's shoulder and Grant moved his hand up to pet at the back of his head, slide down his spine. He listened to the children scream and when Blue Eyes called him a coward he couldn't help but toss back his head and laugh. "Coward? Cowards cry and accept their fates," Grant smiled, curled an arm around Purple's middle, hand dipping to grope at his groin while Purple stared off into space, "You're going to die like Purple here," Grant's hand slid up, pressed against Purple's breast bone and he grinned wide, "A broken echo of a being, so tortured and ruined that you'd rather feel nothing than anything at---" The scream of Korminic cut Grant off and all heads whipped towards the noise. Korminic had been lazily tracking Baby Face and Grant frowned deeply.

"Fuck this," Grant looked to Purple before he tossed him aside, Purple stumbled slightly and Grant moved to Kesrel. He grabbed a larger wooden piece, the other side well on fire before he moved closer to Kesrel. Korminic grunted and groaned his way back to camp, holding his leg, bleeding profusely and looking several shades of pissed. Clearly he was more concerned with patching up his new wound than chasing some shitty kid.

"You don't show your little fuck face I set your friend on fire," Grant smiled and gave the stick a few waves. He held it about a foot from Kesrel's face, inching ever closer. "Do you want all of you to live? Or just a few of you. Some profit is better than none and I'm willing to be down two 'cause I killed one in revenge of the other one getting away." Grant called again, "I can admit to being a petty man." Purple kept his eyes trained on the area around Grant, hands poised to rip flesh and break bone. "Now, if you want your friend to have a fucking face, come here and be a good boy."

Daxten strained his shoulders and twisted his wrists as hard as he could. He only succeeded in bloodying his hands more, as the rope held tight. Even though he knew the futility of it, he kept trying. Even if he got free, then what? His legs were still bound. What was he going to do, hop over to the bastard threatening Kesrel? Yet his irrational mind kept screaming at him to do something, to protect his friend, to fight. He ground his teeth, his expression a grimace of pain both physical and emotional. Why was he so useless? Why couldn't he protect those he cared about the most? That was why he'd become a soldier in the first place, to protect his family, his friends, his country. And yet, here he was, bound and helpless, at the mercy of men who had no qualms about destroying them in order to get what they wanted.

He couldn't protect anyone.

He couldn't save anyone.

Even though he knew he couldn't, he had to try.

Daxten yanked on his arms, pulling against the rope, straining as hard as he could. His joints felt like they were going to rip apart, but he kept trying. He didn't care if the blood-smell riled Purple. He didn't care if the Kulshedra's attention turned to him. He'd rather die trying than die doing nothing. Daxten knew he only had one chance, if he had a chance at all, for the bandits were focused on Sincuvo - who Daxten hoped was far, far away from here - and Kesrel, who stared bravely at the fire aimed at his face.

He may not be able to free his legs in time to do anything, but if he could just free his arms, if he could just free one hand, then he could do something. What, he really didn't know, but something.

With more strain than he thought he'd ever be capable of, Daxten bit back the scream that wanted to escape his throat as his right hand finally slid through its bonds. It ripped away skin and flesh, leaving raw open wounds that bled freely. It left friction burns on the skin that hadn't been torn away, which seemed to hurt just as much, if not more, than the rest. Daxten ignored it all and scrabbled with his hands for something, anything, that he could throw.

His hand landed on a rock and it took him a few tries to get a good grip on it. When he did, he cocked his arm back and threw the rock as hard as he could toward the leader's head. He wasn't sure exactly what he was trying to do - distract the leader, get his attention, something - but he knew it was all he could do.

His lips parted at the ringleader's threat, revealing a flash of tooth from his clenched jaw. Kesrel despised the way Grant touched the one called Purple. It made his skin crawl and an oiliness settle deep into the pit of his stomach. He did not dare imagine Daxten or Sincuvo in the strange creature's place. It scared him that it could just as easily be one of his dear friends standing there and being violated so openly.

The muscles of his back and shoulders tensed visibly although he remained otherwise still and watchful in the face of Grant's outburst. The fire in his face was unexpected enough to make him squeak in surprise. His eyes widened briefly in fear before watering at the smoke and heat that caught and dried his eyes out. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow from the close heat. The flames danced and waved about feverishly, both entrancing and horrifying in their proximity to his face. It was not long before the smoke was causing him to cough as it filled his mouth and nose. He could practically taste the ash and soft wood as if he had sunk his teeth into it instead of being forced so close to it.

"I told you," the boy shouted back, his eyes already red and spilling unwanted tears, "Sincuvo won't come! You're wasting your breath. Just do what you're going to do already. I'm not afraid of you!" he bit out through his grinding teeth. The timber of his voice though told a far different story than his words. Kesrel was afraid. He didn't want to die but he would if it meant his friends got free and were kept safe.

From the corner of his eye he saw Daxten move suddenly, frantically as if searching for something. What was he doing? What could he have possibly lost or be searching for in a time like this? It took far too long for Kesrel to realise what was odd about the situation.

Daxten's hands were free!

He could get away! Kesrel just needed to be a further distraction. Everything would be worth it. The pair would make it back home without him. He believed they could. They were strong and smart. Daxten would look out for Sincuvo and Sincuvo's personal brand of wisdom would keep them out of harm's way. Kesrel was sure of it!

Mere seconds passed and the youngest boy opened his mouth to taunt further when a large dark object suddenly invaded his peripheral view at an alarming speed. Without thought or consideration, Kesrel jerked his head back causing it to collide at full impact against the tree trunk behind him. White-hot pain lanced through his skull starting with the wound on his head before racing down his neck and spine and to the front of his face. His breath caught in his lungs as he yelped loudly in pain and his vision grew dark around the edges before returning and leaving him feeling as if his heart was drumming in his head instead of his chest. He did not know what had happened only that his head now throbbed with his attempt to escape the offending object. Salt and iron filled his mouth, leaking red down his chin from having bit his tongue in his own shock.

Was that Sincuvo? Had he thrown something? Had Daxten taken the chance to run? Were they okay? Were they getting away? They would make it, wouldn't they? They had to! Right?

   The endless marching and lack of food had done exactly what it was supposed to. Whereas Sincuvo had been trained, marched from here to the ends of the earth and back again and then once more at double time just for good measure, at least during training they had given him more than bits of dried jerky and swallows of water.

   It had only been a couple days, but he was exhausted— he was hungry and he was tired and his muscles spasmed hot and hard in his thighs, protesting every quick burst of steps that he tried to take away from where he'd stabbed the man in the knee. His ribs burned, and too soon Sincuvo had to duck low again, squirming under a brush and trying not to gasp and gulp for air. Clamping his hand over his own mouth did little to help— breathing through his nose was just as harsh and ragged, and with his fingers bloodstained as they were, he soon gagged over the copper smell and had to breathe through his mouth again anyway.

   What could he do? He had no weapons, he couldn't fight and win. He was so tired and so hungry, he couldn't run like Arami. He had no supplies, he couldn't hunt his way over the mountainside. He had no way to signal for help that wouldn't just bring the bandits down on him again. What could he do?

   He could do nothing. For a moment, the sinking realization felt like a necklace of rocks across his shoulders, and he lowered his head to the ground and fought the urge to sob. He couldn't cry— he was too tired to cry, too afraid of making noise to cry, too thirsty and shaken. Too close, still, to the camp, the distant flicker of firelight not distant enough to have made a difference. There was nothing he could do.

   No. Sincuvo frowned, and thought, and slowly raised his head to avoid rattling the brush. There wasn't nothing he could do. He could do nothing. He'd already stabbed the one bandit, and done it deep. He'd be limping now, and with all the dirt and sweat and gross, with so little supplies between them all, the limp would only get worse.

   Like a deer, caught with arrows in its hide, getting more and more tired. Those were the sad, easy hunts. The ones with no fighting. Just a shot and a wait, and then finally it all collapsed and the deer laid down to die. In those moments, even his antlers were too heavy, antlers that once had been such a potent defense were now a trap all their own. The necklace-thief was now the antlers. Slow. Dead weight. It would be harder and harder to move. All Sincuvo had to do was wait and follow.

   The leader was shouting, and there was another flicker of smaller light. Sincuvo frowned again and focused, eyes going wide in the gloom as he pieced together what was being said. The second firelight, that was a little closer, a little nearer the trees, and Sincuvo's mouth turned into a desert as the bandit leader threatened to set one of his friends on fire. On fire!

   Sincuvo's blood went cold, and for a moment he was frozen, caught between his doing nothing and the sudden threatful need to do something. He started to crawl, slowly, forcing his tired limbs to move, and it was only when a sharp yelp— a sharp, young yelp, the kind of yelp that happened when Kesrel took a funny step and ended up in a ditch by the road, weighed down by his own armor and pack and not helped by how tall he was. Sincuvo moved, quicker than he'd thought he'd ever be able to, afraid that he'd waited too long and Kesrel was being lit on fire, was burning, and Sincuvo was terrified to breathe— he didn't want to smell that, he never wanted to smell that—

   He couldn't hold his breath any further, gasping and clutching onto his sides as he stumbled back to the campsite, his overtaxed limbs shaking like the last leaves in autumn.

   "Don't! Don't do it!"

This was all unraveling very quickly.

Grant was angry. His heart pounded and each throb of it just reminded himself of how angry he was. Shoulda fuckin' just killed one. Titus was dead now, which meant they were down one, which meant he'd have to drag one of these little shits around and Purple would feed them. He glanced at the body briefly, frowning at it deeply. A glance to Purple and another look to the torch.

The rock connected to the side of his head and Grant grunted, head being pushed to the side and he moved his free hand to the spot. A bit of blood came off on his hand and he glanced at Cassen who glanced to Dax. Looking to the bloody wrists and stern look of the boy. Cassen just watched him from the side, glancing to Grant and Purple. Purple's ears perked up and he waited. Mouth open. He could taste all the blood.

He wanted more. So much more. Purple sighed softly, purples slits. Korminic was busy giving a quick dressing to his wound.

All the attention was given to Sincuvo when he appeared. Purple's ears snapped up and he gave his stubby tail a flex, no doubt if it had been long the motion would have been hypnotic and wavelike. Eyes on Grant, he didn't care that Kesrel whacked his head again, simply held the torch closer. This was such a mess. Grant had wanted a clean easy job but this was turning out to be several shades of fucking awful.

What happened to the wimpy soldiers who just dealt with it and then escaped the buyers? What use was fighting him. Well, Grant wanted money. Been paid half of three heads worth already and... Pain in his ass. Grant nodded to Cassen who went to the little camp. Rushing back with new ropes and keeping an eye on the one with bleeding wrists while he handed the length of harsh rope to the Kulshedra. The torch was pressed closer to Kesrel, close to his cheek, no doubt too hot from the heat of the fire. The goal was to cause at least a slight burn without catching anything on fire.

Purple sighed softly before he moved behind the small human. Jerked his arms behind his back. Tied his wrists together and then tied the length to his upper arms. Anchored his upper arms to his neck. No doubt it was insanely uncomfortable. Sincuvo had lost the privilege of his torso. Grant nodded and held the torch away from Kesrel's face before glancing back at Dax.

"Gonna throw another rock you little shit? You know, you're going to be a great addition to some Essyrni merchant's harem." Grant walked over, reaching a hand out for another length of rope. Cassen, now jobless, looked to Grant while he started in on Dax. One hand had the torch and the other had the rope. Purple hauled Sincuvo back to his original tree. Beside Titus's body. Roughly the boy was pushed into the mud. Though, it wasn't mud because of water.  The whole area smelled of blood and gore and Purple inhaled deeply, eyes closing briefly.

"Stay. Safe." He warned his voice a low purr, taking only a few steps away before focusing his eyes on Dax, looking between Grant and the boy.

"Cassen," Grant said, looking to Dax, "Why don't we make use of all that fresh meat," he glanced briefly to Cassen who looked green for a moment before he looked to Titus. "We eat Purple's fucking tail, we can eat some human meat. He's dead, he's just food now," Grant smiled widely while Purple gave his mutilated tail a slow tick-toc and Grant's attention remained on Dax while Cassen went about cutting the clothes off of the tied up body to carve the meat.

"Now. Blondie," Grant said holding the torch out, "What makes you think you and your pals are going to make it out of here and not on some Fat Merchant's arm? You think this is the first fuckin' time I've done this? You think Titus is the first person I've lost? And you kids didn't even do it! Purple did. So," Grant lifted the rope and twirled his pointer finger around, "Turn the fuck around so we can tie you up and be a good little soldier for a few more days. Maybe you'll survive. Maybe I won't have to rip you a new asshole before your master does." Grant frowned, the sound of meat being cut loud over the fire for how foreign a noise it was.

A soft gagging noise from Cassen could be heard and he buried his face in his elbow for a moment.

"Cassen, grow the fuck up, we carved up the rest of these little bitches, didn't we? Left all their bodies. You know they're rotting right now, right? I bet they have flies buzzin' all over 'em. All your friends, just laying there in a dirt and no one is going to find them. No one is going to know they're dead. Your little platoon isn't going to come back and they'll send out a search party and then maybe they'll find some bones. Some dragged away maggot filled corpses eaten by bears and lizards." Did lizards eat meat? "Even smell rotting corpses? That places is going to smell foul for weeks while they wonder where you went."

Grant didn't fuckin' care.

"So. Here's the deal. If any of you little fucking shits cause anymore ruckus, I'm going to let Purple eat you." He jerked his thumb to the Kulshedra whose eyes were bright and he stood tall, taller than any of the people here. "We'll tie your corpse to a tree and maybe we'll keep you alive long enough to make a neat design around them out of your intestines." Grant eyed Dax, waiting for him to comply, "So. Turn around and let me tie you up or Purple is going to have a very full belly tonight."

Dax shivered, but he didn't know if it was from cold or anger or hate or all of the above. His rock had struck, but it hadn't done anything but piss off their captor. Kesrel was still in danger. And now, Sincuvo was back in harm's way, having returned to comply with the bandit's orders. He'd come back, to protect them. And now, they were right back where they started.

His eyes slowly went to Purple, staring at the Kulshedra's bloody face. His eyes slowly went to the corpse tied to the tree, where the one called Cassen was carving meat from it. Then his eyes returned to the leader, and Dax bared his teeth in an expression completely foreign to him. It wasn't an expression he'd ever made before in his life, not even when his brothers were getting on his nerves and his sisters were driving him up the wall. A sound issued forth from his throat, a sound he'd never made before, either. It was a snarl, a growl, an inhuman animalistic sound, one not meant for a human throat. But Daxten was very much human. And he knew it.

With his legs still bound, there wasn't anything he could do. He couldn't run. He couldn't lunge at the leader, couldn't attack. Even if he could, it would mean his life, and he was willing to give that up if only it would mean that Kesrel and Sincuvo could escape into the night. But it would be a futile sacrifice now. Meaningless. Worthless.

Daxten snarled again, his eyes fever-bright and wild, even as he complied with the leader's demand. He turned around. He offered up his bloody wrists to be bound again.

But when the leader came to tie him up, Daxten slammed his head backwards into the man's nose, hoping to all the gods that he'd broken it. It would likely be his last act of defiance, and he wasn't going to go down without a fight this time. Something had shifted within him. Something had changed. He didn't know if it was for the better or for the worse, but something was different. Daxten could only embrace it, though, knowing that his survival might just depend on it.

It had been a rock that had nearly seemed to brain Kesrel but got Grant instead. Moments later Sincuvo cashed into the campsite from the treeline and Kesrel felt his chest squeeze. The horror and fear he saw within the older boy's eyes broke his heart. Instinctively, Kesrel reached for him before remembering his bound hands and letting them fall weakly into his lap, his head following to drop to his chest.

He had done this. He had made Sincuvo return. The other boy had come back for him and it was all his fault. They were going to end up dead or worse and it was entirely his own stupid, pathetic fault. If only he had been stronger. If only he had been braver. If only he had been smarter, faster, better then things could have been different. He was the weakest link and he was the one that had failed them all.

His eyes stung with unshed tears. He could tell himself all he wanted it was from the sting of smoke that had gotten into them or the hot itch that prickled the skin of his cheek where the fire had licked and danced just a little bit too closely but his heart knew the truth. He wanted to lay down in the dirt and cry until there was no longer breath in his lungs.

The leader's words washed over him, barely registering save for a jumbled mess. Fresh meat...purple's tail...eat...human. He shuddered although it was not from cold. Cannibalism was vile and disgusting. Was he going to be forced to eat human meat? Had he already been doing so before?

Kesrel's eyes drifted over to the tree where Sincuvo was being roped up painfully tight and uncomfortable besides the oozing corpse. The lizard-beast with his freshly-bloodied, bandaged tail was leaning too close for comfort to his friend. With a tired, lazy gaze Kesrel could do nothing but stare while Grant's words continued to buzz and rattle in his head like a hive of angry, lost bees.

Rivulets of salt dripped down his face, causing him to wince and softly whimper as his tears touched his burnt skin. He saw the faces of the dead in his mind. There was Jayniton dancing in the rain with him as they often did. There was Lynn, his eyes dancing with mischief that Kesrel had yet to discover. There was Marippi her throat torn out so she couldn't scream but blood bubbling and pouring down her front all the same as her lungs struggled for air. There was Mataren and Sansirshi and Avalaton...

His heart pounded in his chest as pile filled his throat and mouth. Kesrel had enough time to hunch forward and to the side before what little food he had been able to eat came spewing out of him with a sickening, wet splat. He coughed and gagged, mostly unproductively even as the putrid smell burned throat and nose both.

How unfair it was that those brothers and sisters that he had loved as much as his own flesh and blood would suffer such a dishonorable resting place. There were no pyres, no watery graves, no cocoons of thread for those beloved soldiers who deserved so much more than to be left to rot, forgotten and alone.

Kesrel slumped to the side away from the mess he had made and curled up into a surprisingly compact ball for someone so long-limbed. He buried his face into the dirt, ignoring the bite of it rubbing his cheek raw. His breaths came in soft little gasps as he fought to control the urge to completely breakdown. The dead expected better of him. The living needed him still. Failure or not he could not afford to continue to be the weakest of them all. Sincuvo and Daxten were still alive. They needed him.

All he wanted to do though was to close his eyes and rest. He wanted to wake up and find this all a horrible nightmare. He wanted Arami to be there with their knowing eyes and gentle touches. He wanted to be able to see Dax and Avvy sparring and laughing as they danced about. He wanted things back to the way they had been. But, the pain in his body, the tight itchiness and constant stickiness he felt along his skin told him this was reality. There was no escaping this. There was no forgetting it. There were only two options: surrender or survive. He just had to decide which was truly worth it in the end. Was he a coward or a fool?

   The rope felt worse the second time around. It was like the brief glint of freedom had renewed his skin all over, and now that he had a layer of mud coating his arms and chest and chin, the grit and the coarseness of the fibers pressed and rubbed in all the worst ways as Purple jerked and pulled and yanked until Sincuvo couldn't even move his shoulders forward without putting a painful amount of strain against his elbows and chest.

   Sincuvo was pulled up and away, and back towards his tree, and he gave a soft strangled sound as he realized his tree was thoroughly occupied, and thoroughly muddy without it being because of the rain. Sincuvo took a breath, to protest, to plead, to beg, but that in and of itself was a mistake because the first solid waft of air had him choking and gagging, the sheer stench clinging to every inch of his nose and mouth and throat— like the filmy feeling after a large jug of thick, fresh milk, only the milk had gone bad and there had been something deeply, terribly, concerningly wrong with the cow.

   "No," he could barely wheeze out, before the word was inevitable interrupted by wave after wave of dry-heaving, the young soldier utterly incapable of curling up like every spasm of his stomach wanted him to. He was pushed down and into the mud and he gagged again, eyes shut tight and wet at the corners as he felt the mud sink into his skin worse than any mud had ever done before, and Sincuvo learned that the worst kind of mud to feel between his toes was the kind of mud made by rivers of blood and gore.

   Purple rumbled nearby, and Sincuvo didn't understand. He breathed harsh through his nose as if that would help— it didn't, and turned wet, wide eyes up at the Purple, only to be left alone against his tree as the bandits turned their attention away from what was no longer a threat.

   Alone and yet not alone— Sincuvo turned his head to stare at Titus, at his wide horror-struck eyes and the way his mouth hung open like someone had let the strung puppet go limp, at the way his throat wasn't even close to resembling a throat and the way even now, small things were starting to fly close to the promise of meat and a safe place to lay their eggs. Titus' head was lolled, forward and to the side, barely held in place by what remained of his neck and somehow, somehow such that he stared right at Sincuvo. The sensation of being so watched at least horrified Sincuvo into ceasing his spasms, mouth overdry and all senses numbed to anything that was happening around him. Sincuvo could hear nothing, could see nothing, could feel nothing but the mud seeping into his skin and the way the dead man stared right back at him.

   Sincuvo didn't even seem to see Cassen as he moved in close, nor the glint of the knife as the living bandit began to carve up the old. He stared, and stared and stared, until Titus' head lolled away while a particularly vital part of his torso was cut apart, and only then could Sincuvo turn his stare from the dead man's face to the rivers of thickening blood beneath his feet.

   Rivers that, even now, he knew no number of baths could ever wash away.

The dry heaving was music to his ears. So was the weird cute noise Blondie made. In fact, Grant gave a chuckle and a wide smile, "That was adorable," He purred, licking his lips and eyeing Dax's mouth. Enjoying the way he tried to posture and show off his teeth. Did he think he could be intimidating here?

Grant glanced to BabyFace and then back to blondie before he decided he knew how to keep them compliant. Threatening one of them at at time had sort of done it. Did he tie the hands up normally though? Do what Purple did to BabyFace? Where every movement would put strain somewhere else? He moved in behind Dax, gathering the boys wrists in his hand, thumb smoothing over the palm and giving a brief gentle caress of the forearm. "Now I don't want to hur--" but then a head slammed into his face. Grant gave a grunt, his hands tightened around Dax's wrists and he took a second to assess the damage. Well, there was a giant gash on the inside of his mouth, his teeth had sunk into his lip and he felt the hot rage boil in his chest.

Cassen was busy taking care of Titus. Purple lifted a hand to help but he was stopped by a quick look from Grant. Blood dripped from his mouth and he made quick work of tying up Dax's arms, wrists together, elbows as close as they could be. Uncomfortable and difficult to move in. Grant kept his grip bruising around Dax's bicep and he used his other hand to wipe his mouth away, pausing to look at the blood from his mouth before spitting blood onto his hand and wiping it on Daxten's cheek. "You don't need your balls to take it up the ass," Grant held Dax's face, fingers digging into his cheeks, eyebrows up and his expression grim, "You do anything like that again and I'll do those Essryni fuck's a favour and remove yours." Grant didn't bother asking if he understood. He simply grabbed Dax's shoulder and forced him onto his side, where getting up from with arms and feet bound would be difficult.

Angry now. The noises Sincuvo kept making just filled him with rage.

"Shut that fucking kid up!" Grant screamed at Purple who jumped to attention. Quickly, Purple moved back down to the small human, ears pinned back. The Kulshedra moved between Sincuvo and Titus, blocking his view, before he scooped the boy up awkwardly and shuffled away towards Kesrel. There was a fleeting pause. He kept his back to Titus and the boy's head at his chest. Purple paused. Remembering how he'd once comforted a smaller kulshedra when he was at home. "You should get some rest," He said, voice rough but soft. Cassen was occupied with butchering Titus and Purple looked at the blondish boy from over the fire. Grant had vacated the immediate area to return back to his smaller camp before he did something stupid like murder a cash cow.

The purring started not long after, an attempt to comfort. No doubt if it was silent the noise would carry through and the quick confused look from Cassen meant that it was loud. Harmless though, so he said nothing. Purple held Sincuvo in his lap and he kept switching his gaze from Kesrel to Daxten. Then his voice dipped, a strange vibration to it from the constant pulses of purring. "You need to stop fighting," he said softly, eyes wide and imploring, "Please. You'll do no good and you'll only get yourselves hurt more. I've seen..." Purple closed his eyes briefly, "Please." Purple couldn't help himself when he placed his chin on the top of Sincuvo's head, craving comfort and touch. Probably holding Sincuvo and purring was more for himself than the boy, but the least he could do was be a block so the body couldn't be seen anymore.

Though, Purple probably didn't smell much different. "You don't want to end up broken like me. Pretend to be compliant before they skin you, too." He glanced between the boys again before he placed Sincuvo to the ground and moved away, still purring and still being at an angle enough to keep the boy from looking at the corpse. "Now please rest. You'll need it."

Daxten felt a sort of sick satisfaction at the sight of the leader bleeding like he was. It warred with the pain in his arms and shoulders for attention, but it was still there, like an itch just beneath the skin where he couldn't reach to give it a really, really, deservedly good scratch. His eyes slid to where the dead man was being butchered, and his stomach tightened, but he wasn't sick this time. He doubted there would be any help for him if he did start puking. He could always choke on it and suffocate himself, but that was the coward's way out and he wasn't about to leave Kesrel and Sincuvo alone with these bastards.

At the sound of the rough voice, his eyes went to the Kulshedra, Purple. The wounded creature was telling him to rest, to stop fighting, because if they did, they would only hurt themselves more, and they would see even more horrible, terrible things. Dax didn't doubt for a minute that Purple had seen, and experienced, more terrible things than what the three Greenclaws were experiencing now. One look at the Kulshedra's truncated tail told Dax that. And Purple continued to experience horrible things every day and every night, horrible things that Dax could only hear and imagine, and know that, quite possibly, those same things were in his own future. Broken. Skinned. Dax swallowed hard at Purple's description of himself. A flare of pity caught fire in his heart for the Kulshedra. He didn't want that. He didn't want to end up like Purple. That knowledge - and the fierce desire to protect his friends and keep them safe - were reasons enough for him to keep fighting.

But his rational mind was finally reasserting its dominance over his bestial one, and Dax knew that Purple was right: he needed to pretend to be compliant to avoid further harm and he needed to rest. Beyond inciting more violence against himself and his friends, which he was loathe to do, there was nothing he could do now, especially not bound as he was. He couldn't run, he couldn't fight. There was no way he could protect his friends and keep them safe. So he had to rest, to regain his strength and husband it closely, so that when the opportunity presented itself, he could do something. So he could fight and win. Or so he could run. Bottom line was, really, to be able to protect Kesrel and Sincuvo and ensure they lived and were able to escape.

But Daxten was also wondering if his friends weren't the only ones he could save. Purple didn't deserve this life, and he didn't deserve whatever happened if they were rescued.

So Dax decided that he would watch and wait, and when an opportunity presented itself, whenever and if ever it came, he would take it. Until then, Daxten looked toward Kesrel, and then Sincuvo, trying to smile and reassure them that everything would be okay. Trying to tell them silently to hold onto hope and not let it go.

Because if they let hope die, then they would really break and be lost.

From his exhausted place on the other side of the fire, Kesrel could not help but flinch at Grant's threats of bodily harm to Dax's person. The youngest soldier of the trio curled in tighter, his hands moving protectively in front of his own bollocks as if terrified that the leader would suddenly change his mind on who was to be punished for misbehaviour.

Nevertheless, he continued to lay there complacently as time passed in its own strange way. He could not say if it was minutes or hours before his dull corner of the world where he existed was disturbed. That strange sound was echoing from Purple's chest again although this time it was louder and stronger. Entrances and curious, Kesrel could only blink slowly and stare as his brother-in-arms was settled close beside him with the lizard-man behind Sincuvo.

Wise, brave Sincuvo with his heart of gold that had come back just because of Kesrel looked worse for wear than the rest of them. It frightened Kesrel some to see this man that he so adored and looked up to, appearing so lost and vacant. It was as if the candlelight had been smothered and not even the embers remained within.

"Is that what happened to you?" He replied, his voice crackling as his gaze shifted from Sincuvo to Purple. "Did you try to fight them too? Your tail-" Kesrel shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. "Will they really eat him?" His eyes darted over the man's shoulder to the butchered remains behind him. "They wouldn't really, would they?"

Kesrel stared upwards for a few fearful and imploring moments before struggling to sit up again. It took some effort but he was able to use his bound hands to once more sit awkwardly in front of Sincuvo. The poor boy was caked in mud and while Kesrel understood his friend's distaste for physical contact he hoped he would be forgiven for what he had in mind. After all, the river town boy knew better than most how itchy mud would become once dried.

As best as he could manage, he collected a thick patch of moss from around one of the tree roots and scooted his tired, aching body close. "Let's see if we can get some of this off you," he whispered even more softly, unsure if it was said more for himself or Sincuvo. As gently as he could though he used the soft, sponginess of the moist moss to scrub away as much dirt off his friend's face as he could get. When it became too sullied he would tear up a new piece and begin again.

The repetive motions were hypnotic and soothing for Kesrel for a few short minutes. But tears soon welled in his eyes as his mind warred with his perceived burden of guilt. "I'm sorry," he sniffled in the boy's ear. "I'm sorry, Sincuvo. I'm so sorry." His voice waivered and his head bowed until his chin dug against his chest.

Kesrel's head pounded from all his moving, his injuries, and then building pressure of straining against tears. He did not see Dax's encouraging looks of hope. Instead he felt only his own despair and grief. He wished he had someone to hold him right then, to wrap warm soothing arms around him and promise that everything would be alright. Unable to obtain any of that though he offered the only comfort he had to give that he felt might even be grudgingly accepted. A gentle squeeze to Sincuvo's knee and quiet words bidding the older boy to rest. It seemed it might be another long, restless night for all involved if the antics of earlier were anything to go by. Kesrel was certainly sure he could not unsee the earlier carnage should he attempt to close his eyes and rest.

   He was being lifted, and he keened. It was a soft sound— he didn't seem to be capable of making more noise than that— but it was high and sustained, and somehow always far off in the distance. The world moved, and it felt like it would shake him right off it, just one little flea on the back of a dog sent off into the void of nothingness and wide wailing winds.

   Sincuvo didn't catch his breath again until they were settled down once more, until the world stopped moving and he was left in blissful, still warmth. Warmth and a low rumble, quiet and soothing and continuous, the feeling of tiny river stones rolling in his hands, settling into his bones, rolling and rattling over his ribs and spine and easing away the tension build from the rough, muddy rope.

   Sincuvo shuddered, staring down at his feet, still coated with mud. They would itch soon. Sincuvo couldn't feel them, not by themselves— couldn't tell where he began and the mud ended, and it still smelled so terribly of blood and vileness, of the stink of emptied bowels mixed with the tang of metal, and Sincuvo squeezed his eyes shut tight as if that would somehow help him tune it all out.

   Tune out the fire. Tune out the yelling. Tune out the talk. Tune out the weird not-quite-soft scrubbing at his face. Tune out the cold in his skin and the ropes burning into it. Tune out the smell, the awful smell, the awful sounds of metal on skin and the wild, electric sensation that drew across his own flesh with every swipe of Cassen's knife. Tune out his own breath, the feel of wet air in his lungs, the thudding of his heart and the grinding of his teeth, tune out how it all just kept happening all at once, over and over and worse and louder—

   The only reprieve was the rolling rocks, the steady sound, something to focus on besides everything else that demanded his attention, and slowly Sincuvo opened his eyes again. He looked, dazed and tired and exhausted and sick and all the other adjectives, over at Purple, skirting his view away from his eyes and mouth and instead focusing on his chest, where the rumbling rolling rock noise seemed to be at its deepest.

   Sincuvo took another breath, and closed his eyes again, lost to everything but the rumbling for fear of being lost completely.

With the momentary rebellion quelled, Grant quickly took his rest. Done for the time being. Krominic was busy wrapping his wound and Cassen... Cassen was getting their rations ready in what remained of Titus. Purple remained vigilant though his eyes almost closed a few times. Exhausted was a good word for what Purple was. There was little he could do for the little humans and aside from caution them to comply ...  Purple fell asleep eventually, though his eyes opened at every noise and pop of the fire.

Dawn eventually greeted the group and Grant was the first up. His belongings were packed up and he glanced at the corpse tied to the tree. What an eventful night. The majority of the meat was cut from what had once been Titus and the meaty skeletal remains stayed tied to the three. His head and face had been untouched, left to stare down at the group while they slept.

"Time to continue on, Kids," Grant said, voice loud, giving Purple a gentle kick in the thigh. Cassen grabbed Dax by the arm, Korminic grabbed Kesrel and Purple had Sincuvo. Though instead of making him walk, Purple hefted Sincuvo up and over his shoulder. Grant gave Purple a smack on the back before laughing and after making sure the fire was out and a little bit covered they moved on.

"Now. We don't want a mess today, right? We're going to walk, take a break to eat and then continue on and if none of you little fucks have a temper tantrum again the rest of our little walk about will be fine." Grant nodded to Sincuvo, "That one lost his walking privileges and if we need to we'll conk you on the head and drag you to our next destination." he sneered at the group, "I'm willing to accept what I can get for you at this point 'cause you're all being such a fucking hassle, which means I might start cutting off pieces. You understand?"

Grant smiled then, "Good. Let's go."

And then they began to walk again.

Daxten slept. Or he thought he slept. He couldn't really tell. If he slept he didn't dream. He didn't feel rested, as he thought he should be if he slept. His shoulders hurt from his arms being drawn so tight behind his back and bound. Despite his exhaustion, his eyes glared defiance, but he couldn't act on it. Not without causing his friends to get hurt. Because he understood the nature of the bandit leader now. There would be no surviving him, not even if they made it to wherever they were going in one piece. The bastard would forever be part of their lives, ruining them if not outright destroying them, because they wouldn't be able to escape the memories, no matter how deep down they shoved them. Grant's threats now were said with deadly seriousness, and Daxten was certain the man had no qualms about following through with them now. And he understood that Grant wouldn't take limbs off the one who was misbehaving; no, the bastard would take limbs off the misbehaving one's friends. And then he'd...

Daxten fought not to be sick.

He hadn't realized where their food had come from until he'd seen what they were doing to the man tied to the tree, and his stomach had begun to churn and bile burned his throat, and the more he tried not to think about it, the more his mind wanted to shove the images back into the forefront and force him to dwell on them.

And yet, Daxten couldn't help but feel hungry.

Maybe that was another reason he couldn't sleep. The hunger. And the knowledge of how it would be sated. That, and the nightmares wouldn't let him. Every time he started to drift off, those staring dead eyes would focus on him and accuse him, and the bile would burn Daxten's throat to the point that he simply couldn't sleep because of the pain. Or maybe he couldn't sleep because of the monsters that chased him through the darkness of his mind, wielding bright and silent knives, and laughing cruelly as they stretched out their claws to sink into his skin and batter him with a number of emotions Daxten just couldn't figure out how to name.

He didn't fight when he was hauled up to his feet. He just focused on Grant and stared in defiance at the man as he spoke. His eyes drifted to Sincuvo, draped over the shoulders of Purple. He looked at Kesrel, huddled and defeated beside his own "guide". They were his reasons for obeying. They were his reasons for giving in. As long as he could keep them safe, nothing else really mattered. And, finally, he looked back at himself, at his feet, at the ground, before he looked back up at Grant. He didn't argue, he didn't say a word, but there was some kind of violence boiling deep down inside him, whether he recognized it for what it was or not. Yet he buried it deep, whether unconsciously or consciously, and plodded along in perfect obeisance, his head angled downward so he could watch where he put his feet.

He laid there the entirety of the night, unable to sleep and unwilling to move. The skin of his cheek felt tight and cracked. It burned something fierce anytime he tried to move his jaw so he quickly gave up on moving his mouth more than necessary. The occasional wince only created a cycle of further pain though that he just could not seem to avoid.

Kesrel was tired, sore, miserable, and closer with every step he took to being completely and utterly defeated. How could he fight monsters that ate their own comrades when they died? He had heard tales of such monsters but thought them only something to scare naughty children back into their beds at night.

His stomach clenched at the reminder of mutilated flesh below an unseeing, yet intact face. He couldn't say whether it was the way the dead man's jaw had hung so limp and lifelessly open or the glazed look of dull, jellied cow eyes that bothered him more. Perhaps it was the stench of hot blood and sewage that really got to him. In his head he saw all the flies buzzing around in search of food and homes for their young.

He thought of his companions then. The bodies of the dead who had been left to rot in the warm sun and cold rains. They must have been covered in maggots now. Kesrel shuddered as if the thousands of worm-like white insects were crawling all over him en mass. He could imagine their saggy flesh moving above the multitude of insects allowed to breed and thrive within their bodies. They must have reeked by now with that sickly sweet and fetid odor that was worse than fish guts in a boiling, summer sun.

The young soldier choked then, coughing and gagging once before doubling forward and vomiting the very last bits of sustenance he had left in his system. Acidic bile burned his mouth and nose, making his eyes water while he swayed slightly against Korminic's pull to continue forward. It was the final straw that brought Kesrel right to his knees. He gasped for air between heaving, choking breaths.

Had Arami joined his comrades? Were they also lost to this world? Would they too become forgotten maggot feast, unburied and unable to be set free of their mortal shell, their soul forever trapped and lost so far from home?

Such thoughts forced the tears to stream down his face faster. It wasn't fair! All the capable warriors dead, and he was left behind to live. Maybe it was fair after all. He got to live and suffer eternally. Their deaths hopefully were relatively painless. All he knew though was that he didn't want to go on. He wanted an end to this. He did not wish for the shame of being such a burden to his friends and such an embarrassment to his country as a soldier.

What was the point of anything when he was such a failure?

   It was, probably, a good thing that Sincuvo had lost his walking privileges for the remainder of the trip. His sleep had been so awful, somewhere between sleep and not sleep and nightmarish sleep and the deep anxious miasma of being in a permanent wakeful fear. The short night they had was eaten up almost immediately, and Sincuvo was left utterly exhausted.

   So exhausted that he couldn't even do more than let out a soft breath in lieu of any real protest as he was hoisted up and over Purple's shoulder. The hold was obscenely uncomfortable: Purple's shoulder dug into his middle in a way that didn't at all get along with his gnawing hunger and residual nausea, the triple-whammy of internal turmoil further aggravated by the fact that he was moving forward while upside down.

   Still, the prospect of being sick was far, far worse, and so Sincuvo was able to push his thoughts into a focus, breathing in and out in time with the sway of Purple's movements. It was a hard match, at first. Purple was a weird walker, and what remained of his tail swayed oddly to keep their combined balance. But, scattered though it was, there was a rhythm to it, and it was that same rhythm that provided the undercurrent Sincuvo needed. In and out and in and out again, and in and out. Eventually the nausea passed, though the pressure on his gut did not.

   It was an annoyance, and impossible to ignore completely, but at the very least Sincuvo wasn't about to go spitting up like an infant all over Purple's tail. He was pretty sure Purple wouldn't have appreciated that, at all. He was pretty sure. Sincuvo wouldn't have liked it, and it made sense that unless Purple was really weird, he'd be the same. But then again, Sincuvo had been wrong about stuff like that before.

   He really hoped Purple didn't like things like that. He ate people. But then again, so did the leader of the bandits. So did Sincuvo, if the butcher cuts on the dead man meant anything. It was weird to consider— like wild game after a hunt, arrows pulled and hide skinned away, the chunks of venison peeled from bone bit by fibrous bit.

   Bloody work. Hungry work. Hunting work.

   "Do you only hunt people?" He asked quietly, voice raw and sandy from lack of sleep. He tilted his head just a bit, trying to look up— down?— at Purple, and catching a faceful of deep bruise-colored hair for his efforts. Sincuvo shook his head to free himself from the sudden strange sensation, paused, and then did it again. For being out in the mess of things like they were, Purple's hair felt nice. And they'd already stolen away Arami's things— this was the closest to touching their blanket Sincuvo had gotten in days.

   "Where I'm from, we hunt a lot. There's plenty of yew trees, and those make the best bows. It's a death wood, you know, and it helps with the passing better. Keeps them from being upset about dying..."

   Sincuvo frowned a bit, and looked back to Purple's swaying tail, unsure for a moment.

   "Maybe it's how it feels. I've never been shot with an arrow. Have you?"

It felt uncomfortable to be... Considered people.

For so long Purple had been... The teeth. Meat to be used as seen fit. The small human over his shoulder with the soft sleepy voice. Purple's ears flicked backwards to catch the words like gentle caresses that coaxed some rational functional side out of him. There was a frantic mental push back though. Needed to be stoic. Needed to feel nothing. He knew he'd fall apart like a hand through a cobweb if he broke the line between being teeth and being a person. Purple didn't reply, but he thought of it for a time, his ears flicking while he thought of replies. He'd already let himself get too involved, anymore and he'd... Make a mistake.

Grant and another human followed close behind. Occasionally giving one of the other little humans a push forward when they started to lag behind. Purple followed Cassen, who led the way back to the original camp. Back to sell ... Purple's eyes unconfused and he lost his footing for a moment. Licked his lips and shook his head to remember himself. He was Grant's teeth. He was his master's tool. His master's object. He was to follow orders and--

"Purple, the fuck you doing? Move your fucking ass." Grant barked, clearly angry and irritated with out this was going. It wasn't like the original plan at all. Titus wasn't supposed to be dead. He wasn't supposed to be wounded, and sure they had an extra meal now for a few days and one less mouth to feed, but at what cost? It was hard to find good loyal people that didn't expect half the pay! Everyone was tired, Grant would be lying if he said he didn't want to just get this over with. If it wasn't going to be his face on wanted posters he'd just set the kids loose in the forest to fend for themselves.

If they'd been rich stupid kids that would have been a real options. Sadly for them, they were (badly) trained soldiers.

"I don't want to hunt people," Purple said softly, a ghost of a whisper. He'd never had one of Grant's captors communicate back with him. He'd always try to push the line, but he was scarred, scary and had to do bad things to people that didn't deserve it. Why? Purple looked over his shoulder briefly at the human that commanded his entire being.  "And arrows and knives hurt."

Why?

The walk was uneventful. Purple was stewing in his own thoughts. Grant occasionally barking an order and demanding they stay in line. Purple's ears turned down every time he heard Grants voice. His eyes glazed over.

Before he knew it, after only a few pauses for bathroom breaks and to eat... A snack... If any of them could stomach it. The day slowly ticked down and soon enough it was dusk, with a chill setting into the air. Purple relished it.  His shoulder hurt from carrying 'babyface' all day, but he imagined the little human probably felt sore, too.

A gentle hesitant glance towards Grant when he finally got up and looked to his master for guidance earned him a violent slap. His head whipped to the side and he took a moment . "Go get some fuckin' wood!" Grant snarled, clearly angry and irritable. Purple should have known to get wood. There would need to be a fire or they'd be too cold over night. They had no blankets. They had nothing.

Obediently, Purple went to find wood, while Grant and the others situated the three humans. Cassen sat beside Kesrel, looking at him sideways for a moment, "Grant," Cassen said, his voice loud enough to carry into the slowly darkening woods.

"You sure I can't test this one out before we sell 'em?"

"Fuck sakes Cassen," Grant said, exasperated, "No. Don't touch the fuckin' goods. He'll be worth less." Cassen frowned at Kesrel before he got up and moved back to set up their own bedrolls for the night.

"Purple!" Grant yelled, "Hurry your ass up!"

Every step forward was heavy in his heart. But everything was already starting to feel like the new normal. How many days had it been since the massacre of their group? Two? Three? How many more days were ahead of them? Would they even live to see the end of the road? Kesrel had a sinking feeling that not only they would, but that he would wish he hadn't. That like the cowering mudfish burying itself beneath the muck, he would rather death over endless unknown torture in a broken life.

Every part of him throbbed and ached worse than any drill with extra rations on his back had ever done. He was exhausted, bleeding, and broken. Apparently despite the training they had all had together, despite this being his first real mission out of the city and an easy one at that, Kesrel was pathetically weak and unprepared for the real world, for what it really meant to be a soldier. What had he gotten himself into if this was what defending his land, his people meant? He was a dishonor to the true warriors as he apparently could only pretend to be like them and not even keep up. He weighed them all down. If it had not been for him Daxten could have escaped. If it had not been for him Sincuvo would have not come back. He was the weakest thread in the rope. He was the reason they would all end up dead or worse. Maybe if they had had a stronger friend, then they wouldn't be as badly injured, they wouldn't be tied up and carried like a pig roast, they wouldn't be dead.

One lone, strangled, despairing sob escaped him before the back of his already pulsing head was smacked hard, forcing him into silence again. On and on they marched. Food at some point was forced into his mouth but was evacuated as quickly as it had entered and no amount of jeering or laughter or threats would make him open his mouth again, knowing it was the strange lizard human that had been kind to the Greenclaws that was being fed to him.

The mindless movement forward came to a harsh end for him though as Cassen dragged and plopped him to the ground, eyeing him up like freshly caught fish. Kesrel heard the exchange but found himself unable to react, to even care. He was empty inside. There was nothing left to feel. He could only slide onto his side and lay there with unfocused eyes and a numb soul, rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth completely oblivious as the camp settled and moved around him.

To Kesrel's right, Daxten was once more shifting and squirming oh so stealthily in his mind. The blonde boy's eyes were especially dark as they glinted in the rapidly dying sunlight, full of determined and dark thoughts of escape and bloodshed. The boy froze suddenly though staring first at Kesrel and Sincuvo before raising his chin to look towards his captors.

"I'll tell you where others are if you let me go," he called out.

   Arrows and knives hurt. Sincuvo could understand that. He'd had plenty of accidents when he was small and learning the world and how to manage all the different things there were to manage. He'd cut his hand once, chopping carrots when his sisters started to argue and got too loud. That had hurt.

   Sincuvo watched from where he was put on the ground, and looked at all the scars and pieces missing from Purple, at how deep they went and how much more was lost than just a slice in chopping carrots. These men ate parts of him. Sincuvo had eaten parts of him. There had been no arrow to the heart to make up for it, either, just pain after pain. Sincuvo's nostrils flared in anger as Purple was struck.

   He wondered if these men would be so cruel if they had been the ones being carved up for food. If they had felt pain.

   Kesrel was crying on the far left. He wasn't making a sound, but Sincuvo could see the way he moved and had heard what one of the men had said about him. Sincuvo was about to speak, but other, closer noises distracted him, and he stared instead at Daxten between them. If he kept pulling at his ropes that way, he'd only hurt himself, the creaking and brushing harsh against skin in the evening quiet.

   But not quite so harsh as what Daxten said after. Sincuvo's eyes widened in disbelief. Where others are? Daxten knew where others were? Had more escaped? Were more alive?

   The quick bit of elation Sincuvo felt at the prospect of others being alive and well and free was very quickly overshadowed by the realization that they would not be alive and well and free for long. Daxten wanted to trade, and worse still he wanted to trade his people to these men who cut their dinners from their own friends. It was low, it was worse than low, it was against every code and promise any of them had ever made.

   Sincuvo snarled, tried to lunge at Daxten but fell hard into the dirt instead. His hands and legs were still tied, but that didn't stop him from swinging his legs hard in Daxten's direction.

   "Sellout!"

Words spoken from blondie made Grant's eyes light up and he was almost convinced for a second. Almost. He wasn't a fool though, the bandit knew that it was lies and the kid was just looking to save his own skin. While Grant was more than happy to back track a little to collect more flesh to sell, being lied to just made the pit of his stomach burn and he felt his eye twitch. While he was a vicious monster, being beaten didn't do much for him. He could recall all the little fists and legs that had beaten his chest of the years and he could only laugh at the memories.

Being lied to though?

Grant smiled his sharp, cutting smile and looked at Blondie. Cassen gave a weary look to Grant as he pondered at the boy like he was weighing options. On one hand, he had three stores of good flesh to sell. On the other hand, this one was a liar and Grant hated liars. Purple held wood in his arms, the stub of his tail instinctually moving to flick back and forth, though no long graceful appendage followed. His ears perked up and his scarred hands tightened around the sticks, he could smell Grant's anger.

While it had felt like an eternity of contemplation Grant smiled widely and walked over to Daxten, curling an arm around his back after smoothing a dirty hand over his cheek. "Well, that sounds like a good deal to me. More of them for one of you? Yes, show me," He lied - justifiable, of course. He undid Daxten's bindings, going leisurely and ignoring any cries from the other children as he gently rubbed feeling back into the terrified Daxten's arms. Grant smiled again, head tilted confused on why possibly Daxten was so scared. "Come with me, then you can tell me." Daxten ignored his comrades as well, having chosen his life over theirs.

Grant led Daxten out into the forest, whistling sharply from the shadows of the trees. Purples ears perked up again and after placing down the wood gently, he cast quick nervous glances, pupils dilated, to the two remaining Green Claws as he slowly made his way over to his master, his footsteps silent as ever. Purple was a predator now with one sharp noise.

Grant came back not long after, looking happy and smug, holding Purples muzzle in his hands. He smiled brightly at Sincuvo and Kesrel before he went over to the wood and started to build a tiny fire before he'd decided it was enough of his work and he went to set up his own personal camp not far away. Purple had been gone for what felt like a long, long time, though Grant didn't appear to be worried.

Cassen and Korminic had gone out for more wood after Purple failed to return and helped set up the camp, piling more wood than ever onto the pitiful fire it had been moments before. After setting up, the pair tried to feed the boys their rations to keep them alive but not well fed. The fire was warm and bright, and the wind was blowing different than usual. Hard enough to break branches. Sleep would be hard that night, with all the noise.

Lately, for the Green Claws, sleep was a simple wish that was barely granted. They had been ignored, their remaining friends sold off, and without Purple there to be some semblance of a guard, Cassen and Korminic got to be their overnight watch. They'd take turns, of course.

Kesrel had sat there frozen through it all: Daxten's betrayal, his departure with Grant, the whistle that had Purple at sudden attention before disappearing, Grant's return with an empty muzzle in hand and neither Daxten nor Purple. He had wanted to plead with the kind captor, not much more a prisoner than they were when the lizard's eyes had landed on his own, had wanted to beg and plead for him to stay as he had been the only comfort outside of his own friends. But he found himself lame of tongue and willpower.

Like stone he sat through it all. Daxten had betrayed them and Kesrel did not wish to think of the fate that had met him. Deserved or not, that had once been his friend. What desperately clung to hope he had of Arami getting help and finding them was fading. They were going to be sold off or die. They couldn't run. They couldn't escape. Sincuvo had tried but sweet, fool that he was had come back for Kesrel. It was hopeless. What could he do? What could they do?

That was it. There was only one thing left to do. The battered and broken boy looked to his left where Sincuvo had flailed in an attempt to strike their traitorous companion. It took several attempts to wet his parched lips in order to utter his name, his voice croaking and cracking worse than after the long nights on watch spent telling stories or singing songs.

There would be no more of those nights now anyway. A tear, one he didn't know he even had left in him, slid down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Sincuvo quit flailing the moment he saw Grant lead Daxten away. The gait, the syrupy talk, the way their captor smiled like it was all okay, all of it had Sincuvo freezing in place like a deer, like that would somehow save him from the predator lurking just out of sight.

Daxten wasn't coming back. The thought didn't gut him as the deaths of the others had, but it did fill every inch of him with dread. Carefully, Sincuvo wormed closer to Kesrel, an overall pointless gesture given that neither of them would be able to do anything, against anyone. But somehow, just that bit of closeness made him feel just an inch better. A pointless inch, but an inch nonetheless.

Kesrel was saying something, but Sincuvo couldn't hear. Their captors were rustling round, chatting now and then, too, but even that was dim in the wash of all that had happened. Everything was just so much, and he just... couldn't, anymore. He wished, desperately, for it all to just be over, and his stomach and chest twisted hard, because he knew it never would be. Not until he got led into the woods, too.

If he hadn't been so hungry and tired and scared, he might've started crying, too. Instead, he just squeezed his eyes shut, and waited.

The taste of blood was heady.

Purple felt deep shame at being conditioned so, shame that he'd rip and tore. Killed. Shame that he'd given in to baser instincts that screamed predator and killer and murderer and monster. When Grant didn't return to muzzle him, he just remained. The broken corpse of the young one at his clawed feet, his hands and mouth stained red. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, breath trembling out of him. He could help.

He flexed his fingers, frozen. Purple couldn't move. When was the last time he had a thought of his own? He remembered how Grant gave commands and the speed at which they were fulfilled. The promise of pain always lingering. He could help the others and then... It was dark and cold now. He looked up at the sky, trying to see stars. See what time it was. Grant still hadn't come back and Purple didn't know what to do. Would it be easy to save the two?

It was like a jolt, when the idea sparked across his mind. Movement entered his limbs and after what felt like hours of standing and waiting for instructions... Purple let out a little gasp, breathing like he hadn't in years. Like a veil had been lifted from his eyes and chains had been broken. He could hear the fire in the distance, though the sight of it was obscured. His fingers tingled and his heart raced, stress cluttering his thoughts and making his eyes water in fear.

So wrapped up in his own first steps towards the sound of fire, he missed the sound of beating wings. Purples ears twitched as he walked, slow careful steps. Maybe he could wait for one of them to enter the darkness of the forest, he could... Cassen was first watch, Purple noted, though both were still awake, Korminic was clearly getting ready to sleep at least. Purple crouched and picked up a rock, standing up and dropping it from far above his head. Korminic's head shot up and he looked into the darkness of the trees.

"The fuck was that?" Cassen said, looking worried, pulling a dagger out. Purple took a few noisy steps back, "It's just a rat," Korminic said, rolling his eyes, "ah shit I didn't realize how dark it got, go get the muzzle, the lizard should be done with the kid by now." Purple winced, hyper aware of the dried blood on his hands and face now. Cassen got up and got the muzzle from Grant. Maybe hide?
 
No.

No more hiding.

Cassen whistled while he walked into the trees, muzzle in hand. Purple was complacent. Purple was trained and taught. Purple was being eaten alive. Purple was theirs and would do what they told him. Cassen realized too late that the dark figure in front of him wasn't just a shadow of a tree, realized too late you needed functioning vocal cords to scream, throat torn open and pitiful wet gasps were the only noise Cassen could make anymore. Purple let the body of his captor drop to the forest floor with a thump and he carefully took the muzzle, glancing down at it before dropping that to the ground too.

"Cassen?" Korminic said, glancing to the tent the three men shared, contemplating if a little thump in the forest was enough to get Grant. He was so distracted by Cassen in the forest, he didn't hear the quiet footsteps come from the opposite side. The soft sound of metal and leather. He did notice when the spear head pierced through his chest, his eyes went wide with surprise and he grabbed at it like that would accomplish anything.

Pallaton glanced at Sincuvo and Kesrel, felt a burning in his throat that he couldn't spot his son before he ripped the spear out of the waste of a human soul, sweeping the spear to the side to fling blood off and away. A raspy gasp and Korminic lay bleeding on the ground, heart giving its last pitiful beats. Another rider went to check out the tent, a sharp shout followed by a gurgle and the dragon rider gave a look to Pallaton before shaking his head and giving a hand signal that he was going to look around.

"Children," Pallaton started, spear at his side, the whites of his eyes red and his voice almost trembling. It was beyond a relief that they'd been found and the disappointment at it being just two, instead of all of them, weighed heavily. A single step forward, before a scarred, long haired purple beast-man bolted from the trees.

"No!" Purple shouted, arms thrown wide in front of Sincuvo and Kesrel, the spear tip pressed to his chest so quickly could feel the tip dig in. "Don't hurt them," Purple's voice was rough, barely used, "I..." he had nothing to barter with, he didn't even have his skin, "Please. They don't deserve this, I'm good at following instructions and I have a strong bite. Let them go and take me instead," Pallaton's eyes widened in shock before his gaze turned into a glower and he dug the spear in a little deeper, angry. Lethal.

"Arami is with Arcturus," Pallaton said, glancing at the purple beast-man again. Pallaton and the other Dragon Rider were only supposed to be scouting, but when they saw it was one man dozing by a fire and one preening in a tent it was too good an opportunity to pass up. He looked behind the boys to the other dragon rider who moved behind the two and began to unbind them. Carefully check them for injuries. With the purple beast-man basically impaled on his spear, Pallaton didn't have to negotiate, "Sincuvo, Kesrel." He looked to the two, his gaze steady but softening when he looked at them, "I know you're both exhausted but this is very important. Do you want me to kill this one? He has blood on him and he smells of them."

The alarm of their captors hardly phased Kesrel. He watched the unblinking stare of a dead fish as they bickered amongst themselves, their words the buzzing of flies in his ears; constant but near indiscernible. And then like a ghost from the shadows, a figure fierce and known was suddenly impaling Korminic. Kesrel did not believe his eyes, thinking the hallucinations of lack of sleep and pain were taking him. He shook his head, shoulders slumping in further defeat. Would this hell never end?

The apparition spoke to them and yet he remained unreactive until their captor-prisoner came barreling from the treeline and shouting to stand in front of them. His head shot up then, eyes widening in shock and awe. Purple could see them. This must be real!

He barely felt or noticed as another unbound him as his eyes could only focus in horror at the sight before him; a bloody and begging Purple, a fresh trail of blood slowly trickling down his breast from where their commander's spear dug into his chest.

"NO!" he shouted emphatically as he weakly threw himself at their feet, his arms wrapping around Purple's closest leg, his head buried against his thigh. The movement made his stomach twist and such loud words turned his vision blindingly white and hot for a moment. "He protected us! No kill! No kill, no kill, no kill...."