Shura didn't move much in his sleep, less so when he was cold and trying to conserve energy, so he hadn't moved from where he'd scooted into the blankets and pressed against the stranger for warmth. During this time he was easily at his most vulnerable. No blood magic to save him. No voices. Nothing but black dreams and soft, quiet breaths that turned to steam in the cold air.
But he did look statuesque and peaceful. White hair still stuck together with the dried blood from yesterday a garish contrast to his very pale complexion. There were signs of the brutality writ on him in the stains, but nowhere else. Splashes of red against his white skin or hair. He slept like a babe, though, and had only his usual dark dreams.
He'd killed before, he would again.
Shura didn't wake up around the same time Volker did, or even a couple minutes after. Just shortly, though. Slow blinking into the chill and reflexively pressing closer to the source of warmth while he processed, to the best of his ability, here he was, what had happened that he could recall, and what he should do next.
Cold, it's still cold. A reminder. If he left the blankets, he'd have to deal with that. Were he a man of hindsight, he could've saved people for days to use as fuel so he wouldn't have to get up at all. Instead, he made an unhappy noise and, without a word, reluctantly left the warmth.
A creature of satisfying his base needs, indeed. Shura used his own blood-gift to keep him warm, this time. Quickening it in himself to ensure nothing would become frozen and snap off while he tugged on his coat. Then, without glancing back at Volker, he trudged out into the snow. Wood. Cold. Fire. He knew how to make a fire. Knew what he needed in a bout of clarity afforded to him by the blood's need for him to survive.
Shura stepped into the closes house. They had a small stock of wood, so that would do. And when that ran out, he'd break the house down. Lifting a hand, his own blood sliced through his palm and became a greater, tentacled appendage to snag the wood and drag all of it back to where he'd been staying.
His eyes were half lidded as he returned. Half focused, vaguely aware as he went to a singular task. It was cold cold, cold and he needed to be warm. Like the fire he'd started before. It was faintly draining to use his own energy, his own blood, but Shura had been doing so since he was a babe abandoned in the frozen forests.
He left the wood piled messily before dragging a couple of the smallest with the blood-craft tentacles. Some ends turned razor sharp and split one long into smaller kindling on which the larger pieces were piled. Then, kneeling in front of the wood pile, Shura fed the wooden pile his own heat and warmth until a small ember burned to life in the nested kindling. From there, he actually had to breathe it manually to life.
By the time the fire started up, he was shivering – a sort of inward cold that fire alone wouldn't chase away – from the use of his gift. Shura wrapped his arms around his legs and just sat near the fire to get warm. Not that the task was satisfied, he could hear vague murmurs around him. Like a conversation he was just on the fringes of. Dancing shadows that were almost shapes, from the fire light. But he paid none of it any mind. He didn't have to, right now.
