Spirits of the Earth

---

Night falls over the foothills of the Kilanthro Mountains like a shroud. Dark, hazy clouds hang in the sky, blocking what little light might have been provided by a wan moon, sickly and pale. Kanimir's breath frosts in front of his face, ghostly in the chill wind, and he tugs his coat slightly closer around his frame. He's lost feeling in his toes, tough and hardy boots of leather perhaps not best suited to the snow crunching underfoot, and he wraps his free arm back around his torso to keep his coat close. His other hand is held up in front of him, sparks and cracks of red and gold bouncing around in his palm and between his fingers as a source of light in the cloying darkness.

He had hoped to make better time, reach the foothills before dusk. But, as usual, circumstances had changed, they had been slightly waylaid, and those precious hours that should have been put into the journey were lost. It's not the first time he's made this particular climb in the dark, nor does he doubt it will not be the last, but he can't deny he feels poorly for his companion. Glancing back, he half turns to illuminate her, sparks flaring brighter in an ever so tightly controlled effort to add a little more light to their path. At the very least, he had managed to convince Keithia to actually acquire more than an oversized shirt before this particular leg of their journey, quite certain that, nature nymph or no, she would be frostbitten and hypothermic before they even made it to Rienna if she didn't.

Satisfied that she was still a few paces behind him, if looking slightly miserable, he turns back ahead, squinting through the darkness and snuffing the magic in his palm for a moment when his eyes catch the faintest outline - there. Lights twinkle in the distance, and he lets out a relieved huff of air, adjusting his bag straps across his chest and turning back towards Keithia.

"Almost there." He says, voice almost lost in the wind wailing gently around them, and pushes his chilled body forwards, snow crunching underfoot in a way that is quietly satisfying. The village is less than twenty furlongs away, and the prospect of a hot bath and a tankard of something strong to warm his innards is motivation enough to push his chilled limbs forwards once more.

Perhaps, tomorrow, he might look at buying them both some furs. Again. He really should stop loosing his travelling apparel during the interim between countries. Then again, it's not like he needs furs in Adela, and his likes to travel light.

The village draws ever closer, twinkling lights drawing them on like beacons in the dark.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia had never known a cold like this. Her life had been sun and tropical humidity, then the heat of Connlaoth. The further north they went, something frigid and old carried on the wind. It was like the ground beneath her started to grow still and silent. Not dead, certainly not, but it wasn't the same electric life that Keithia knew and loved.

Suffice it to say, she hated the cold. Not only did it mean she had to wear far more clothes than she ever wanted to, but her connection to the land around her felt... muted. Quiet. There, but not something she could really feel. Like trying to touch someone through layers of cloth, or hear someone even though there was cotton stuffed in her ears. The awareness was real, and she was comforted in a way, but made all the more annoyed because of how close, but detached it all really was.

Regardless, Keithia dutifully followed her friend and savior into the cold. Her eyes were squinted against the wind and she was certain her toes and fingers were numb. Fire. She would demand a fire. It didn't matter she was as bundled as she was, with her long hair wrapped around her lower face like a scarf.

It was just cold.

She didn't respond to his nearly lost to the wind almost there. People, and their settlements, left a stain on the land that Keithia could feel. If the earth was quiet, cold, and still, mortal towns bubbled with stink. The sort that lingered in her nose no matter what she did, until she was well and truly away. It didn't matter that the wind moaned around her. The closer they got, the more her stomach turned. Keithia would, and could, endure. She'd been a slave for a long time, and already torn from her home. Mortal filth could be tolerated, especially if it meant warmth and fire.

They push on, plowing through the thin layer of snow underfoot and fighting against the wind with every step. Soon, the lights grow to more than distant orbs, the glow of them spreading out into the surrounding area, and Kanimir lets the sparks of light in his hand die once and for all. The wooden pike fences rise up in front of him and he veers towards the entrance to the village proper, glancing back again to ensure Keithia is still on his tail.

There's a slight reprieve from the wind amongst the low, squat houses, enough that Kanimir knocks his hood back and lets the breeze play havoc through his hair. It's refreshing, the air crisp and cold through his lungs as he inhales deeply before pushing on for the largest building in the entire village. A simple wooden sign hangs above the door, carved lettering invisible in the hazy glow and shadows, and Kanimir doesn't waste more than a second squinting up at it before finding the door handle and pushing his way inside.

Immediately, warmth washes over him, the kind only produced by a crush of living bodies in the same room, and he breathes in the meaty smell of man and ale. Wrinkling his nose, he scans the full tavern, aware of the numerous eyes on him but simultaneously ignoring them. He busies himself pulling off his damp, snow crusted coat, shivering as his cold flesh starts to warm up in the toasty warmth of the great indoors. In a matter of moments, the regular patrons go about their business, and Kanimir scans the crowd once again for a table. Regrettably, the corners have already been filled, and he clicks his tongue against his teeth before choosing a mostly uninhabited table close to the fire.

Without even really thinking about it, he drapes his coat over his arm and reaches back for Keithia's hand, her cold fingers sliding through his mostly gloved ones and settling neatly inside his palm. He crosses the room with an ease born of practice and slides into one of four empty seats around the circular table, directly across from the lone man already seated there. He glances up at them, something both wary and curious in his gaze, and Kanimir flashes a winning smile, idly wondering how much dried jerky is stuck in his teeth.

"Don't mind us."

@SanctifiedSavage

Another time, another place, Keithia might've been hesitant to wander into a tavern she didn't know. Exposure to more and more places where mortals gathered was making it... easier. While she wouldn't say she was curious – as that implied an interest – she didn't want to be entirely ignorant as she had been before. If something were to happen and Keithia became separated or alone once more, she wanted to have a basic understanding of the world around her.

Even if the world happened to be ugly.

Her eyes remained narrowed as they pushed into what she guessed to be a tavern or inn. Her nose crinkled at the smell, but the expression didn't last and was adequately hidden by her scarf of hair. No one was looking at her face, anyway. The slender, bone-white horns that rose from her ink-black hair drew more looks.

Something Keithia was both used to and easily ignored.

Her hand fit neatly in his and she followed, her eyes fixed longingly on the fire and not much else. Individual people didn't hold much interest for her, especially when Kanimir was around. There didn't seem to be a need to be so vigilant. He took care of her in the cities, she took care of him in the forests. It seemed a fair trade.

It wasn't until they sat down and she was facing one in particular that her attention shifted. Keithia adjusted her too-big coat, drew her legs up into it, and watched the man across from them with the sort of apathy a cat might an empty cup. He was furniture. A prop. A talking one, she supposed.

The man's attention, however brief on Keithia and her horns, was drawn more so to Kanimir. It was more than just idle interest, or so Keithia thought.

"No minding at all. Where you traveling from?" He had an accent Keithia couldn't place, that felt rough and sandy and familiar, but most humans tended to sound the same to her.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir's eyes narrow ever so slightly, the way the man's eyes hone in on him both familiar and enough to make him wary. He can't quite place the accent, but it, too, seems familiar. He settles himself properly into his seat, taking his time dropping his coat underneath the table and following it with their -mostly empty - provision bags. He takes a fleeting glance over the man as he does; he's not much to look at. Average. It would take less than a second to slit his throat and be done with it.

He leans back in his chair, at ease, and smiles, arms folded over his chest.

"Uthlyn." He purrs, his usual La'Marri lilt layered on perhaps a little thick. He makes no move to indicate it, his gaze unwavering and relaxed as he lazily scans the crowd for the tavern keep or a maid. What he wouldn't give for a hot meal right about now. He glances at Keithia out of the corner of his eye and barely smothers a snort when he sees her still all bundled up in her coat, using it like a blanket now.

A few heads were still turned in their direction, the village folk no doubt gossiping about the exotic creature that just wandered into their inn. Kanimir's next glance around is icy and sharp as cut glass, boring into more than a few hungry faces with a pleasant smile that only thinly hides the sharp teeth behind. Most heads turn back to their meals, and he settles in a self-satisfied way.

"And yourself?" He asks of their table companion, raising an eyebrow blithely. "You don't sound the villager type."

@SanctifiedSavage

She'd have wandered off to the fire, if her toes weren't so cold. Wrapped in thick furred leather, it didn't seem she could get warm enough. That feeling of just being cold after being out in such a thing. Keithia decided she was a warmer climate nymph.

Since she didn't care about the mortal across the table, she subtly leaned against Kanimir for added warmth while her dark gaze turned to the fire. Enjoying the sight of it even if she wasn't seated directly next to it.

The man across from them was certainly not dressed as one of the villagers, though they were all layered in leathers and furs. It was too cold not to be. But the cut of his clothes was a bit too neat, and certainly foreign. He also had that cleaner look about him. Clean cut, well tended clothes. The villagers here lived a harder life and didn't have the spare coin or time to be bothered with such things.

Kanimir's sharp look kept the local's attention mostly on their tables.

Their new 'friend' grunted his response, an acknowledgement, before nodding a little. "Passing through, on my way farther north. I'm a pelt trader." He gestured with an elbow to a furred pack next to him, on the ground. "Returning to hunt. Though the wind and incoming storm has put me up for the night."

Moments later, an older woman with grey running through her brown hair and a plain dress stopped by the table. She wordlessly set a tankard in front of the man before glancing at Kanimir. She looked tired, but offered him a smile that reached her pale green eyes. "What can I getcha?"

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir's gaze snaps briefly to the man's pack before fixing back on his face. He nods along, a frown touching his brow as he hears of potential delays to their travel plans. A rough breath somewhere close to a sigh escapes him and he drags a hand through his messy, tangled hair. He's aware of Keithia leaning against him and his arm drapes over the back of her chair lazily.

"How inconvenient." He mutters. He had known the storm they were moving towards might be clinging to the passes, but had hoped otherwise. He itches to be free of Connloath and it's bothersome restrictions, not that they affect him most days, but still. It's the fact that they might. He has to be aware of the fact magic is outlawed if only to avoid having to deal with the inevitable backlash of someone witnessing him performing his Rivening. Of course, most often the people who witness his magic are either clients, or victims, neither of which are particularly prone to talking about him.

He glances up as the harried maid appears at his side, flashing a sweet grin and nudging Keithia's shoulder with the hand behind her back to get her attention.

"Your strongest ale, if you please, and whatever meat happens to be warmest." He looks to Keithia, prompting her to make her own decision. He's been trying to do more of that lately; get her to interact, engage, make her own decisions about what she wants and how. The clothes were a good start, though he supposes he did have to pressure her into getting them in the first place - though not very hard when he explained how cold it would be up here.

That thought in mind, he leans back into his seat and addresses their slightly...off, companion. He's still not sure what's wrong, here, but there's definitely something. That or he's just exhausted.

"I don't suppose you would be willing to cut a fellow traveller a deal?" He asks, eyeing the pack of furs again letting his lips pull back in a lopsided smile, "Hard to find good pelts at a reasonable price in the Valley at this time of year."

@SanctifiedSavage

She remained oblivious to the news of the storm, lost in the dance of the fire right up until Kanimir tapped her back into reality. Her attention shifted to him quickly, searching for why he'd bothered her, before she realized someone else was even here.

Another human, this one softer around the edges and looking at her expectantly. "Something to eat or drink?" the woman asked, sensing Keithia's confusion.

The nymph considered a moment, glancing back to Kanimir reflexively, before she murmured her answer. She hated talking to strangers. It always made her anxious – especially in town. It came easier out in the forest, when there were places she could run to. Where it was familiar. In town, surrounded by people, it felt too much like... well, like a suffocating cage. Her attention flitted back to Kanimir before she managed a soft answer, "Water." They had food. She wouldn't ask for more.

Keithia huddled more so in her large coat and brought her attention back to the fire, more so she didn't have to interact with the human any more than out of a desire to watch the flames. The maid smiled a little, not put out by the lack of conversation, before she nodded and slipped away to retrieve their requests.

Their new friend took a sip of his drink, apparently considering, before he glanced at Keithia and asked, "Depends on the size of pelt you're looking for. I don't have a lot of large ones with me, seeing as I'm heading back to the hunt. Just some small, left overs."

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir snorts softly, not bothering to muffle it this time, and lifts his free hand in a vague gesture that might be taken as 'Does it look like we need big ones?' He follows the man's gaze to Keithia briefly, still huddled against his side and staring longingly into the fire across the room. The warmth of the indoors has already thawed out his frozen bones, but he's also not a creature native to warm, even humid forests and nature.

He sighs softly and shakes his head, recalling how much coin he has stored in his satchel, still draped over his frame alongside the straps for his Chakram holster. Honestly, he can't remember the exact amount, but he's sure it will be enough to cover whatever this odd, foreign man wants for his leftover pelts. Admittedly, the last few jobs he's done haven't exactly been paid in coin, rather more material means, but still.

"Show me what you have and we'll go from there, I suppose." He says, drawing a foot up onto the edge of his chair and draping his free arm over his knee. He doesn't exactly trust this man, he trusts no one, really, but if his pelts are good - and cheap - then he isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It occurs to him that he doesn't know the hunter's name, but fair is only fair, after all. Kanimir is more than happy to refer to him as Hunter in his own mind, anyway.

@SanctifiedSavage

The trapper takes another drink, shifts in his seat to grab his bag, then pulls out a couple of rolled furs. They belong to smaller game – foxes or coons – though they've been skinned and cleaned neatly. He puts them on the table, between them two of them, before casually asking, "You heading to family, or away from? I can't exactly place what either of you... might be." He paused at the end, glancing between the two of them.

The maid returned with a tray of what they'd ordered – roast turkey and ale for Kanimir, and a pitcher of water and glass for Keithia. That, at least, drew her attention from the fire. She waited until the maid had placed their things on the table before she simply picked up the pitcher, requiring both of her hands to do so, and drinks straight from it.

The trapper watches her a moment before he settles in his seat.


@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir reaches for the nearest pelt, removing his hand from around Keithia's back and turning in his seat to unroll it a ways and give it a critical eye. His gaze lifts back to Hunter with a raised eyebrow as he speaks, lips curling into a sharp, toothy smile as he pauses. There's uncertainty in his eyes, something almost uncomfortable, and Kanimir enjoys it.

"Neither." He replies flatly, running a hand through the soft fur. He does like the rich, reddy colour of this particular piece, fading into a paler shade around the edges... "And does what we are really matter?" He tilts his head, bottom lip snagged between his teeth, before catching the approach of the maid from earlier in his peripheral.

Food, hot food, hasn't looked quite this good in a while, and he sets the pelt aside swiftly to dig into his meal. He ignores Hunter for the moment, checking on Keithia in the edge of his vision and chuffing softly when he sees her drinking straight from the pitcher. 'Because why not', he thinks, and chugs a fair portion of his own, decidedly more alcoholic, beverage. The ale burns a path down his gullet, bitter and acrid in the back off his mouth, and he sighs contentedly, leaning back into his seat with the mug cradled in hand.

He looks Hunter up and down, letting a small, considering smile pull at his lips. On most, it might have appeared warm, quietly friendly. On him, it probably just looks predatory. "You ask a lot of questions, Hunter. Is that a job requirement, or are you just a curious type?" He asks, running a finger around the rim of his mug and pulling his leg back up onto the chair edge.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia down the entire content of the pitcher in one go. It has a faintly mortal, salty taste, but it's still water and she's all the happier for it. When the pitcher is empty, she lets out a soft, pleased sound and places it back on the table before reclaiming her hunkered place in her seat. Ignoring the rest of the world in favor of the fire. It was the only thing worth paying mind to, anyway. Besides Kanimir, and he was busy chatting up the odd stranger.

The trapper took a drink of his own, after having watched Keithia down hers, before rolling a shoulder to hide his bewilderment. "Color me curious, I suppose. Do a lot of traveling up along the mountains and I haven't seen anything of your sort." He leaned back in his seat, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose that means there's not many like you running about."

@HeartOfFlame

It's slightly unnerving to have his efforts prove fruitless. He tries not to let it show, but he feels his brows draw down slightly as Hunter just rolls right past his pointed words and sharp expression. He feels suddenly like walking on unstable ground, and his grip on his mug tightens slightly, teeth grinding as his jaw clenches.

But no, he's letting this man get to him. Strange as he may be, he's harmless. As weak and powerless as the next mortal to come along. Kanimir has yet to meet a being powerful enough to stand against his magic, and he very much doubts this peasant will be any different. Whatever his intentions, whatever reason there is for him to sit here so calmly while a being that reeks of power and danger sits not five feet away from him, it doesn't matter, because in the end, he'll turn to dust as surely as the burning logs in the crackling hearth.

He lets out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort, taking another haughty draught from his ale before bothering to reply. "To be frank, I wouldn't have the slightest clue, but I suppose I like to think not." And it's true; he has no idea how many men his mother seduced in her life, or if she's even still alive. He doesn't particularly care, either, but he's not about to get into a long winded discussion about his unusual family with a man he's probably going to kill in the morning.

@SanctifiedSavage

The trapper watched Kanimir, as though searching for something in his words, before nodding a little and gesturing to the fur. "If you're interested, I'll part for three piece." He was referring to local currency, but he was quite curious what Kanimir would pass over. Every place had their own stamp, of course.

It'd also be nice to have something he'd owned for a time. It made dealing with people easier, later on.

@HeartOfFlame

He glances back at the pelt, chewing his bottom lip in a more truthfully thoughtful way now. It's a good deal, surprisingly good, but he supposes the man is just trying to clear his stock before heading back to his hunting grounds. That or he's trying to pull something, but again, Kanimir doesn't care. He huffs softly to himself. He can just get his money back after the fact anyway, then the pelts will be free.

He nods, placing down his ale and reaching over to snag another roll from the table, unravelling it a ways. It's a coon this time, and he twists in his seat to hold it up against Keithia's hair. The black stripes are almost a perfect match for colour, and he smirks a little to himself as he turns back to Hunter and lays the the fur out next to the rich, red one he had selected earlier.

"You've got a deal." He says, reaching for his satchel and digging about for his coin pouch. It's a mess of whatever currency he's been paid over the last few weeks, or months if he's lucky, and he grabs the first six pieces that touch his hand. Miraculously, they're all the same print - Connlaothian - and he slides them across the table with a sickly sweet smile. "Enjoy."

@SanctifiedSavage

The trapper pays a cursory look at the coins, like one might to make sure all six are there, before he simply puts them away in his bag. The man smiles, lifts his cup in a toast, and downs the rest of his drink. "Good business, then, friend. I hope they serve you well, in your travels." His cup is set down and he stretches, before he stands. "At that, though, I'm going to retire to the room I paid for. It was pleasant talking to you."

He does certainly seem in good spirits from the sale – quite pleased with himself – and dips a small nod toward Kanimir before he collects his bag and meanders through those cluttered around the tables to the stairs that lead upstairs, and to the rooms there.

Keithia notes his departure and yawns a little, before she looks to Kanimir. "You are done with the humans?" She's not exasperated, but curious. She glances around the room to see a lot of the patrons are winding down – excusing themselves or having quieter conversation. A fair few retire up the heavy wooden stairs. The maid remains at the bar, wiping it down.

"Can I sleep next to the fire?" She hadn't really grasped the concept that some rooms were 'public places'. They were all boxes to her with arbitrary functions.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir watches him go with narrowed eyes, flexing his fingers as they itch vaguely, the familiar pull and throb of Rivening through his veins, like insects beneath the skin. 'Not yet,' he thinks quietly, pushing it down, 'Not until he shows me what he's really up to, if anything.' He sighs again, collecting their recent acquisitions from the table and throwing them on top of his other bags as he slides slightly further down into his seat and focuses on finishing his ale.

He rolls his head towards Keithia when she speaks, huffing air through his nose at the sleepy look about her. He's not surprised, given how exhausted he himself is, and he's accustomed to the constant travelling, fighting the elements. Honestly, Keithia's done well these last few weeks, better than he would have expected for someone who appears so frail. He smiles, glancing around the room and noting that the crowd has thinned quite dramatically from the hustle and bustle it was when they entered.

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I'll ask, but so long as I pay I don't imagine they care where we sleep." He replies, glancing over his shoulder at the maid and downing the last of his ale. He pats a hand on Keithia's coat covered shoulder and stands, stretching out his spine with a muted groan as his body protests. He crosses the room, plate and mug in hand, and deposits them on the edge of the bar, leaning one hip against the wooden surface and flashing that winning smile again.

"You mind if me and my companion camp out by your fire? She's not real great with the cold." He asks, using his best 'sweet young man' voice and tilting his head slightly, smile firmly affixed.

@SanctifiedSavage

Trusting his answer, she decides to wait rather than just... go over to the fire. It might've been something Keithia would've done when they first started traveling together, but she was learning to wait for his 'go ahead' in a lot of situations. Fully aware she didn't always do the correct thing. Apparently she stared at people a lot, too. Another reason she didn't like looking at people in general. Such a thing, in and of itself, could be insulting. Even if she didn't understand it.

Her eyes partially closed as he got up and walked away, unconcerned even if he wasn't expressly next to her.

The maid at the bar considered a moment before, with a tired smile, she shook her head a little. "I'm supposed to keep the main room as clear as possible..." She trails off, her attention wandering to the seemingly dozing Keithia. "I... do have a room, behind the kitchens. We usually have other servers stay there, but we recently had one quit. It's right up against the stoves so, it's warm. I could let you sleep there. Though, it's not much of a room... I wouldn't charge you for it, in that case." She ended with a smile in Kanimir's direction. She was trying to be helpful, thinking they didn't have the funds for a room. She certainly didn't want to turn them out into the dark cold if it could be helped.

@HeartOfFlame

A frown pulls at his expression for a moment before she continues, and he vaguely wonders when he started being bothered so much by what Keithia wants. He shakes it off, fixing the maid with a truely grateful smile and nodding graciously. "That would be wonderful, you have my thanks."

She's a kind woman, trying to help a pair of wayward souls, and he feels a tiny bit bad for taking advantage of that. But, hey, if she's offering, he's not going to rush into giving her his money. Every coin counts, and with gear to upkeep, clothing to replace, and goddamn boots that seem to need repairing ever more often these days, he needs as much of his coin as he can keep.

Giving the woman one last smile for posterity's sake, he turns and wanders back to Keithia. The main room is mostly empty now, and he pauses by the table to gaze into the fire as well. It really does look inviting, the perfect place to just curl up beside it and sleep for a solid few hours, but alas. He reaches down to collect their bags and new pelts, nudging the foot sticking out from underneath Keithia's coat as he does.

"Not quite by the fire, but the maid's given us permission to sleep by the kitchens. Won't be as warm, I know, but it's better than a cold bed. And it's free." Priorities, after all.

@SanctifiedSavage

The maid actually seems relieved that he accepted her offer, pleased she won't have to shoo him out into the cold and that she had a solution to a perceived problem. She waits behind the bar while he goes to collect Keithia.

When he approaches, her eyes open to narrow slits but it's not entirely certain she's fully awake or paying attention until he nudges her foot. She makes a grumbled sound of acknowledgement before she slowly, with a murmur, slides to her feet. "Warm sounds good," is all she manages while shuffling to be close to him. Drawn to exactly what she'd just mentioned – warmth. If she can't sleep damn near in the fire, any place warm is the next best thing.

The room the maid leads them to is just as she describes – not much of a room. It's a small storage closet where herbs are being kept, hanging from narrow shelves. The floor is mostly clear and it is quite warm. On the other side of one wall are stoves that are still lit to heat up food for breakfast.

Though it's a narrow space, it's enough for one person to lay comfortably – so enough for the pair of them given their size. She smiles a little. "I'll wake you in the morning." At that, she leaves them pair of them in the dark – the only light provided by flickering light through faint cracks in the wall.

Keithia stands in the doorway, her eyes considerably wider now that she's faced with a very tiny space. Fully alert. Despite it being warm, she doesn't enter. Her body is tense and her breathing is soft and slow. Like she's considering sleeping outside rather than close herself in the tiny, dark, human box. Because that's the very thought running quickly through her mind. Cold, vast, open sky is far more preferable...

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir eyes the closet for a moment, gnawing the inside of his cheek, before he sighs and throws their bags into the farthest corner, moving forwards to lay down before he realises Keithia is frozen and barely even breathing. He takes a step back, glancing between her and the small room, before lifting a hand to touch her shoulder.

Her eyes are wide, breathing slow and deliberate, and the look on her face is - not quite fear but something close. Discomfort, unease. He leans to the side slightly, bringing his other hand up to brush her hair away from the side of her face and meet her gaze.

"Keithia." He doesn't use her name often, doesn't need to, not when it's just the two of them in the grand outdoors, but it rolls off his tongue easily enough. He chooses to think about that rather than the righteous anger curling in his gut. His voice is soft when he continues, lowered to tones he really wasn't sure he had, or knew how to use. "Would it help if there was light?"

@SanctifiedSavage

She wasn't really aware of where she was anymore. Her world narrowed into that closet, into that tiny space. Into what that might meant and how it felt to be wrapped up and smothered. Disconnected and lost. Keithia held absolutely no illusions about her ability to escape. If anyone wanted to crate her, and keep her, they could.

They had.

A weight pressed on her chest and her heart beat drummed heavy and loud in her ears. She should run. Sleep outside. Go see the stars, remind herself that there was a sky...

Keithia.

Her inhumanly wide eyes blinked, slowly, before her attention shifted, almost reluctantly, to Kanimir. Right. He was there. His voice was so quiet, her heart has to calm so she can hear him. Would light help? She's not sure. Would seeing the confines of her cage make it any less a cage? One of her small hands lift to grip his wrist. Her pale hand is still cold, and though she's squeezing, it's likely nothing to him. "I... Can... the door... can we keep it open?" It's a struggle for her to talk. The words no more than a sigh as she keeps looking between him and the closet. The cage.

No, no. Not a cage. Kanimir wouldn't put her in a cage. Holding on to that thought, she moves into him. Releasing his wrist so she can press against his chest. It's easier, this way. It's not a cage, it's not a cage... It's a mantra she clings to as she simply leans against his chest, her face buried against him.

@HeartOfFlame

He nods, letting his free hand rest over her cold fingers. "Of course." He says, but the words are barely out of his mouth before she's turning into him, burying her face in his chest. He's struck speechless for a moment, his brain sputtering like a dying fire, before he slowly lifts his arms around her, one hand patting awkwardly on her shoulder, the other resting over her hair.

She's warm against him, small beneath his hands, and, god, how long has it been since he's felt the heat of another body? He relaxes slowly, tensed muscles releasing as he curls his spine slightly forwards and breathes in the scent of forest that clings to her like blood does to him. It's selfish, because he knows that she's hurting and afraid and reliving whatever horrors linger behind those kind eyes in the depths of her mind, but he relishes the contact. It's warm and shockingly familiar and loosens something hard and painful in his chest.

"I won't let anyone hurt you." He whispers, before he's even fully aware of it, and the part of his brain that isn't screaming in outrage at this lunacy confirms the words to be true, like gods laying down covenants, he will keep this promise. He doesn't know when she became so important to him, but she has, she's his as much as he can lay claim to a life, and he will protect her.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia isn't entirely aware of what he's doing while she's trying to calm herself. Selfishly relying on him, knowing that she had been unable to take care of herself before. It's wildly unfair, and she knows that, but it makes her feel markedly better. Knowing she can't fight, trusting him to for her.

Trust. Such a difficult thing for an immortal creature that's already been broken once.

A fine tremble works down her spine, however brief, before she lets out a long sigh. Her breath warm. Rather than move away, she just mumbles against him, "I know." Her small hands grip his shirt and it becomes quickly apparent she's not going to move away. The less she has to see of the closet, the better. It doesn't occur to her this might be wildly inconvenient.

@HeartOfFlame

He feels her tremble, feels something that might be his heart ache fiercely in response. It's uncomfortable and painful and something he really doesn't want to think about but cannot escape. Her voice is muffled, but the words still mean more than they should, hold more power than they ever have in the past. It's both chilling and heartening to know that she trusts him, something he has never had to worry about before because he's never had it before.

He sighs softly himself, aware of the fact her hands are fisted into his shirt and also how they're standing in the middle of a hallway and his legs ache. He hesitates for half a second before making up his mind. Firmly shutting out the angry voices in his head takes decidedly less effort than he expects, and he straightens slightly, turning them so his back is to the small room and slowly backing up. It's one of the more awkward things he's done, but far from the most awkward, and he huffs a vaguely bemused breath as he stops halfway into the small space and turns to the side.

It's a bit of a process, guiding them both down to the floor with Keithia stubbornly pressed into his chest, hiding her face from the world, but they manage, and after a bit of shuffling, he settles. He's using their new pelts as a pillow, coat draped awkwardly over both of them, and despite how strange it is, despite the fact Keithia is hiding from how cramped the space is, the memories it must bring up, it's also strangely peaceful. He rests an arm over her shoulders, holding her close, and settles his face into the soft furs.

@SanctifiedSavage

No matter how obnoxious it might be to try and move her, with her clinging to him, it is infinitely easier for Keithia since she doesn't have to see how confined it is. It's bad enough she can feel it. How enclosed and oppressive it is. Mortal building are already stuffy... This is nigh overwhelming, almost too much. Keithia latches on to the smell that is decidedly Kanimir, focusing on that, trying to shut out the rest of it.

She can do it for one night.

Once he gets them both in the closet not a cage, she curls up against him. Her eyes have remained closed the entire time, and it's a fair bit longer before her breathing evens out in what could be considered fitful sleep.

~

It became easier and easier to track someone when they weren't hiding. Especially when they left a trail of bodies to follow. What had started out as a curiosity had turned into a real hunt. Magic users who couldn't control themselves, who killed without thought, were some of the worst.

He became a priority.

The randomness of it had made it difficult. The lack of evidence left over doubly so. If anything, it only made Yukina more determined then over to collar the monster. No one had ever gotten away from her, and he would be no exception.

Before they'd been able to spring a trap in Uthlyn, though, he'd moved on. Left them scrambling to find a trail and come up with a different plan. Such a thing didn't dissuade the Blessed, and they were off on the hunt once more. It was harder to track someone across the country side then in a stationary place.

Weather, invariably favored them, and eventually forced their quarry into stopping where they might be able to catch them. It wasn't until one of the scouts confirmed they'd found him that Yukina called for them to move. It didn't matter there was biting wind and heavy snow beginning to fall.

They had a murderous mage to catch.

It was rather late into the night when Yukina and her three honor guard arrived. They would likely die in the encounter, and they understood that. Provoking a mage to use their magic was their job. The three of them were dressed identically in fur and armor. Protected from anything except a magical attack. Highly skilled with the swords they carried. Those who knew of the Blessed were frequently hesitant to use their magic and required convincing to do so. The cold wind caught the door and threw it open, causing the maid who tended the bar inside to jump with a start. Before she could say anything, the Blessed gestured and one of the honored guard moved forward. "Time for you to leave."

It was in her best interest. The maid was in no position to fight them, but she still protested being tossed out into the cold.

The Blessed remained in the main room, her short swords sheathed at her hips and her white wings slightly fanned out, before she gave another sharp gesture. At that, the honor guard pushed they way into the building. One to block the stairs, two more to make their way to the back. The scout had said he was on the main floor.

Yukina walked slowly behind them, her foot steps quiet to the heavy falls of her guards.

Kanimir isn't sure what wakes him, be it the flashing images behind his eyes, or something external. He jerks into wakefulness, taking a moment to orientate himself, glancing down at the body still pressed firmly against his. It's warm under his coat, heat from the kitchens seeping through the wall, and he lays still for a long moment, frowning into the darkness.

Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, reach his ears. He stiffens slightly, levering himself into an upright position and peeling Keithia's hands from his shirt. Armour clanks somewhere through the wall, low voices muffled through the stone. Heat floods through his veins, his lips tugging upwards, and he pushes himself to his feet in a single, smooth movement. His senses are tingling, suddenly alive, and though he hasn't seen who those footsteps belong to, he knows. It has been less than two hours since they lay down, and the only reason for heavily armoured beings to storm a tavern in the dead of night, is a hunt.

He's been aware of someone tracking them for a few days now, something constantly nagging at the edge of his senses. He's almost surprised they're so determined, the pieces fitting together as his suspicions regarding the trapper come to bare. They're well organised and determined, and maybe that should frighten him, make him wary at least, but it doesn't. Because, no matter how good they might be, no matter how many informants and spies they have, they still won't stand a chance.

Sparks flicker into being in his hand, the rush of molten fire through his veins exhilarating and freeing all in one breath. He glances back at Keithia, resting underneath his coat, lost to the world, and mutters a soft apology before stepping out of the small storage room.

This won't take long.

@SanctifiedSavage

Their gauntlets rest on their sheathed longswords while they walked into the kitchens. It was dark, lit only by the glow of the stove fires that flickered off their heavy full plate. They weren't trying to be stealthy. There was no reason for that.

Yukina tailed them into the back room. Her brilliant white wings flexed behind her so she could walk through the door, but otherwise remained flared. A Blessed wasn't going to hide either. Her armor was significantly less than the men before her. Delicate plate across her chest so as not to hinder her wings and leather breeches since she liked to move when she fought. Still, her hands lingered close to her swords but not resting on the hilt. Red-violet eyes scarred the small interior, and caught the door opening to the small, hide-away before her guards did.

Not that they were slow on the uptake either.

The hiss of steel being drawn woke Keithia. Not because it was familiar, but it was so out of place and wrong. Icy dread shot down her spine when she realized she was alone. In the box. Reflexively, Keithia scrambled until her back hit one of the walls and she drew her legs up. Cowering in the corner as her breath came quick and rapid. Panic washed over her and all logic fled. Landing her right back to the holding cells of when she'd first been trapped.

She just needed to be small and quiet...

He slips across the hallway silently, footsteps ghostly silent on the wooden floor. He takes a few steps forwards from the storage room, placing himself as a barricade before it. He has little doubt this will be over and done in a matter of moments, but he is not about to take chances. Keithia trusts him, has put her faith in him to keep her safe, and he has every fullest intention to follow through.

Heavy armour footsteps grow closer, and he plants one hand on his hip, sparks and fractal flames dancing between his fingers as he waits for these fools to round the corner and enter his line of sight.

They're not quite was he's expecting, one brow lifting and a quiet breath escaping him as they come into view and he gives them a brief once over in the flickering light of his magic. Three heavily armoured soldiers, their steel plating padded with fur, come first, swords in hand. They're plain, boring, faces hidden by full helms. Behind them, though, is an oddity. Kanimir has seen a lot of things in his travels, killed more, but this one is new. She has wings, for a starter, dressed in lighter armour and leather.

He rocks back and forth on his heels, a light smile pulls at his lips as his eyes narrow, gauging her. She has an air of importance around her, a quiet strength, and his teeth grit slightly in the back of his mouth.

"All this for me?" He purrs, running his tongue over pointed teeth while spiralling sparks dance and flare around his knuckles, "I'm flattered, really. I'd offer you my signature, but, well," He grins, snapping his fingers together and watching one of the soldiers jump, "I doubt you'd want to keep it."

@SanctifiedSavage

The Honored Guards didn't say anything when they finally saw him. It wasn't their place  and the occasion was too somber, too important. Rather, they drew their swords and advanced. They'd force his hand, one way or another, or they'd cut him down. Either way, the mage was going to be dealt with now that they'd found him.

Yukina's wings glistened with melting snow while she regarded him. The murderer they'd been hunting this whole time. It delighted her that he seemed eager to fight, and even more so to use his taint. The sooner he brought it to bear against her, the sooner they could begin his training. To keep up appearances, Yukina drew one of her swords and continued her advance forward. Tailing her Guards, but giving them space should an actual fight break out. Her red-violet eyes never left him, though. The Blessed would know, as soon as that power was directed at her, and she'd snatch at the reigns that would bind him to her and make him obey.

@HeartOfFlame

They advance without a word, and Kanimir sighs dramatically, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Not the talkative type, eh? Shame, I was curious what your last words would be."

He grins, a savage expression that syncs with his boot skidding back on the wooden floor. His left hand reaches for his Chakram  and his eyes flash a brilliant gold, all within a single breath, before his fingers snap once again and the air grows tight. Sparks fill the air, a crushing, suffocating heat bursting forth from him, and the three soldiers drop their weapons and writhe. In the blink of an eye, veins of red and splintering gold spread across their armour, stretching outwards in ever reaching fingers, and in the next moment, they're gone.

Drifting ashes of crimson and black hang in the air, suspended by the sudden thickness that fills the air, and behind them, Kanimir's eyes burn, not with magic, but exhilaration. His blood sings, the release of pent up energy like a ice cold bath in the desert, and he draws the two halves of his Chakram across his chest with an expression that is more feral than the wildest of wolves.

"You," he says, voice somewhere between a growl and a whisper, "Will you provide more of a challenge?"

@SanctifiedSavage

She was no more impressed with the display of destruction than if he'd spit on the floor in front of her. Yukina had been to the realm of a God and blessed with the Divine. Nothing anything mortal and mundane could impress her. Rather, her wings flared a little and her lips tugged in a line of distaste, but she no more mourned the loss of the Honor Guard then she would concern herself with their ashes. Everyone knew they would likely die, especially since they all had seen the remains if this filth's victims.

Yukina was there to put a stop to it.

She rolled her shoulder, sword feather light and ready in her hand, before she made her way forward. Through the ashes of her Guard and toward her intended target. Wordless and inevitable, just like his capture was. Of that, she was certain.

@HeartOfFlame

Still, she refuses to speak, to show fear, and he will not deny that irks him. His teeth grit together in a growl, nostrils flaring as he breaths, feels the burning heat in his core, and pushes forwards. He's as in tune with his blades as the power flowing through his veins, and his movements are as effortless as the laughably simple act of snapping his fingers. He looses himself to the ebb and flow of the battle, the clash of steel against steel like music to his ears. He sees his opponent's eyes flash, the white of her wings flared in his peripheral, and he smiles as he dances around her, light and effortless on his feet, moving with an inhuman grace that is both enchanting and toxic.

He skids back a few feet, blades criss-crossed before his chest, and takes a step back himself, panting and grinning a toothy grin. It's hard to tell if he's ruffled her or not, her face remains impassive, but there is an unfamiliar burn through his body he hasn't felt in years, and he bows a little in a patronisingly grateful manner. He has enjoyed himself, that he will not deny, but this confrontation has drawn out too long, and he has little doubt Keithia has been awaked by the racket of their clash.

"You're surprisingly sturdy."He chuckles, snapping his Chakram back together and lifting a hand that acts as stage to the dancing, twirling embers of his power, "But this play has gone on long enough."

His fingers snap together with a harsh crack that is both muted and deafening in the same instance, his eyes flashing like molten steel as invisible arcs of splintering destruction race towards her. Something feels different, off, but he is too caught in the heat of the moment to bare it much mind. A mistake.

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina had hoped he would simply unleash his magic on her, as he had her guard, but he advanced wih his weapons. A real fight it was, then. A test of physical skill before he would be pressed to unleash his taint in her direction. For that, Yukina drew her other blade.

The blue-steel with weighted light and moved as an extension of her. She was made for quick fights, slashing sweeps, and used her wings to give her additional movement. As angelic as he was not, they were nigh equal when it came to weapon-play. Were that it, if that was the way she must best him, Yukina would've lost.

When he withdrew to further taunt her, bowing in mockery, she held her blades low but at the ready. Her breathing was quick, but steady. There was no humor in the Blessed. She'd danced amongst the ashes of good men to see this murderer collared, and she wouldn't leave until it happened. Before she could advance, and press another attack, he brought up his hand. That same flickering, lightning like magic appeared.

She hesitated. Looking for all the world like she might be concerned because that had made her pause, when nothing thus far had. However, Yukina didn't need to advance if he was going to finally play his hand.

When the magic cracked across the space, Yukina could feel it. Electricity in the air, an almost tangible thing that she could take, that she could make her own. Yukina was no fledgling Blessed. She'd caught mages before, knew how to take someone's magic quick, and how to bring them down with it in the same breath.

She should've burned like her Honor Guard, but it wasn't the Blessed that felt any pain. Instead, it was Kanimir's nerves that burned as though he were hit with his own spell. Not that he was actually being harmed, of course, but Yukina wanted him to feel what he'd done to her men. Punish him, immediately. Now that he was caught, she sheathed her blades and approached. "About time."

@HeartOfFlame

Fire. Burning and melting, searing across his skin like a thousand blades of glass. He can't think, can't breathe, can't move. The exhilaration and satisfaction from only moments before it forgotten, lost in the flames, the agony, that spreads over him like a blanket. His weapons fall from suddenly numb hands, clattering on the floor, echoing in his ears as he struggles to breath, to draw air into paralysed lungs. It fells an eternity, but cannot have been more than a moment, a split second.

His knees buckle, but he is unaware of hitting the floor, can't feel his fingernails digging through his skin as he pulls his hands to his chest, eyes wide and panicked and reflecting only pain. He draws a breath that scorches through his throat and explodes inside his lungs, and the air remains only a second before he is screaming. His vision whites out, sparks of red and gold dancing behind his eyes like a taunting reminder of his power, suddenly ripped from him. His veins burn, the glowing feeling of almost god-like power swept aside in a tide of pain, pain pain.

His screams peter off as he runs out of air, rasping, choking breaths following in their place as he realises he is on the floor, curled into himself, fingernails chipped and bleeding where they dig into the splintered wood beneath him. He can make out the woman's boots through hazy vision, beyond her, the open door. His eyes widen, body shaking as he tries to pull himself forwards, up, moving.

"Keithia," He rasps, choking on the blood in his mouth from where he has bitten his own tongue, "run..."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina savored his scream. A tribute to the men she'd lost this night. The Blessed stood, just out of arm's reach and watched her new pet on the floor. Letting him wallow in the wretched eternity that mind numbing pain inflicted. It could last as long as she wanted it to, and she could end it with a thought.

She appreciated that he tried to move, and let him struggle. It was important he know the futility of what he did, for him to know there was no getting away. But before she could say as much, before the lesson could begin, he said something.

Yukina frowned, then looked in the direction he was. She had assumed he was looking for escape, but that didn't seem to be the case. "Stay." An order that he would be unable to break and, should he attempt to try, would only result in pain until he passed out.

The Blessed drew one of her swords as she progressed further into the establishment. She had assumed whomever he'd been traveling with wouldn't be in the same, small space as him. Perhaps that had been the wrong assumption. She came to stand in the doorway and would have completely missed Keithia huddled in the corner if flickering light from the kitchen hadn't caught on one of her horns.

What was known about his traveling companion was very little, so Yukina was cautious. "Come out."

Keithia wasn't even aware anything had happened. She trembled in the dark, lost in horrid memories, and clung to her legs throughout the brief interaction. When Yukina arrived, she no more acknowledged the woman or knew she was there then before. Not until Yukina went into the room and pulled her out by her arm. Then she whimpered in fear.

Sensing that the creature she had pulled from the closet wasn't necessarily a danger, Yukina didn't do anything more than pull her from the room and toward her pet. For now.

@HeartOfFlame

The woman moves away, her boots clipping a steady pace on the floor. He hears her voice, but the words are unintelligible. She's moving in the direction of Keithia, though, and he growls somewhere low in his throat, past the pain, past the inability to breathe without choking. He gets his arms under him, swaying vision finding his abandoned weapons, and he reaches for them with trembling fingers before the fire sweeps over him again and he looses time like one might misplace a favoured quill.

For how long, he doesn't know, there is nothing but the flames. His skin burns and he can almost smell the sickening stench of his own charred flesh, something hot and acidic rolling in his gut as he struggles for purchase, almost face down once more. A soft sound reaches him, impossibly small, but like a thunderclap in his ears. Keithia. He growls again, though it comes out more a groan, and tries to reach for her, vision impossibly blurred and distorting into cracked, crystalline colours.

He can't even find the strength to say her name, bloodied lips parting to release only strangled air. His bones ache, a deep, all-pervading burn and throb, but still he struggles, fighting with everything he has left in him, even as those efforts become weaker by the second. His vision blurry, distorting and warping more with every breath, but still he tries.

"Release her," He grinds out, glaring blindly in the direction of Keithia's whimper, "It's me you want. Let her go."

@SanctifiedSavage

Well, well. Yukina's grip on Keithia's small, pale arm is bruising, but not intentionally cruel. Rather, her attention is on her new pet. Impressed by his determination. Not on his own behalf, but rather, for the creature she's holding. Keithia.

Yukina is fully aware that people can endure far more for another's sake then their own. With that thought in mind, she shoves the odd little girl at her new pet, so she stumbles and falls close to him. With a thought, the pain recedes, and she crosses her arms. Stance relaxed, for the moment. "Rule number one, pet. When you address me, it will be as Blessed. If you do not, you will suffer until you beg for forgiveness, and I have forgiven you." Then, to see if he point is driven home, she asks, "Do you understand?" For the moment, her attention is strictly on Kanimir.

Once Keithia is nearly thrown, she scrambles to Kanimir's side and immediately looks him over. Searching for a wound... something. Anything she might do to help him. She's still trembling, but she's been broken out of the 'shock' of waking up alone, and in the dark. Reverting into a more subservient state, she doesn't even look in the direction of the winged woman. Instead, she whispers soft and desperate, "Are you ok?"

@HeartOfFlame

Keithia falls on her knees next to him and in the same moment the burning fades, if only a little. He draws a gasping breath and proceeds to choke on it, coughing and spluttering as his lungs remember how air works. He rolls onto his side, seeking out her hand, grasping it in his bloodied, trembling ones. His vision is still wonky, blurry and dark around the edges, but he manages to find her eyes, wide and worried and confused. He reassures himself that she is unharmed, physically at least, and turns his gaze on the winged woman.

There is hatred in his eyes, burning and flaring with every greedy inhale. He shuffles his body almost upright, legs bent underneath him, and rocks his head back, defiance and pride in every line of his body even as he pushes Keithia slightly behind him and grasps her hand like a lifeline, for whom, he's not sure. His lips press firmly together, pale and thin, while his nostrils flare with the continued effort of breathing. He says nothing, but there is no need for words when his body language so clearly conveys his message.

He will not be subservient. Not to her, not to any man or God. He never has been, and he does not intent to start now, no matter what power she holds that she can deflect his magic, his power.

@SanctifiedSavage

Unsurprised, he is allowed a breath of defiance before the pain returns. It burns across his skin and sears its way down his spine. Only progressing into black oblivion should he decide not to beg for forgiveness.

When a pet is first caught, this usually takes some time.

While he goes through his fit, Yukina turns her attention to her unexpected 'plus one'. "He wasn't wrong. I am only here for him. As far as I know, you are neither a caster of magic nor a murderer. You are free to go." While it was obvious he had a connection to the oddly antlered girl, Yukina saw no reason no further involve her.

Except...

"No. I'll stay..."

It was softly spoken, and the girl didn't look at her, but there was no stammering. Neither did she move. Rather then offer a second chance, Yukina simply nodded before she said, "Then you won't be any trouble and do as you are told." It was what any Blessed expected of any recruit or attendant in the camp. Depending on how long her new pet wanted to be obstinate, she would have to drag him through the snow and to her horse. Having another body didn't make that any harder.

"Yes, Blessed."

At least the girl was a quick study.

The pain is instant and merciless. He expects it, but still is not prepared. A guttural sound rips from his lips as his vision goes white, then grey, sound lost in the pound of his blood in his ears. His body hits the floor once more, but the pain of it is inconsequential when his bones feel like they are ripping themselves apart and his skin is being flayed. He can't breathe again, his throat burning as he tries to draw in air his lungs won't accept for anything more than screaming, the sound like shards of glass in his mouth.

He's only distantly aware of writhing, his fingers clawing into the unforgiving wood beneath, nails chipping and tearing, smearing blood on the otherwise clean surface. The taste of blood is overwhelming  on his tongue, biting and bitter. He chokes on it, one hand clawing at his throat, his chest, as he tries to breathe in more than stuttered gasps.

Suddenly and finally, there is nothing. He has never taken the option of giving up without the strongest of fights beforehand, but this time, he relishes the relief, and slips soundlessly into the void.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia couldn't begin to guess what was being done to him. It looked like... well, it looked awful. It constricted things in her chest and made it difficult for the nymph to breath as she lingered near Kanimir, feeling useless. Smothered in mortal taint, she had absolutely no connection to the land – and thus no way she could even try to alleviate his suffering.

She could only remain. There was no way Keithia would have run, even though she was utterly terrified of becoming property yet again. It just... she wouldn't abandon him. Couldn't, seeing him suffer so. Even if she didn't understand what was going on. If there was a way to help him, maybe not now, she wanted to make sure she could.

Yukina waited patiently for Kanimir to slip into unconscious oblivion. Too stubborn to beg for forgiveness. Which suited her just fine. Most went through a period of defiance. It didn't bother her any. It wasn't like Yukina was suffering for any of this. Once he was well and truly out, though, she stooped to grab ahold of an arm and began to drag him through the building.

One of the Honor Guards, the only one left who had been told to guard the stairs, moved to her when she entered the inn proper. He didn't ask about their companions and she didn't need to say what had happened. Instead, the Guard wordlessly bent over to collect Kanimir and toss him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Keithia followed, quick and quiet, with her eyes on Kanimir.

The storm had blown in, but that didn't prevent Yukina from walking out into it. Her wings partially curled around herself as she moved to her horse. There was only one. She would ride, the rest would walk.

The Sentinel camp wasn't far, but Keithia struggled in the blistering cold and thick, falling snow to keep up with the horse and long strides of the man in armor.

The Sentinel camp was a small thing, protected in a grove of tall, aged pines that sheltered them from the wind. Snow still fell, but it was slower. Collecting on the heavy canvas tents, wagons, boxes of supplies, and melting around the large, central fire. The members of the camp numbered roughly twenty, at any given time. Most were Sentinels dressed down in padded leather, tending to the needs of the camp and its horses, with a handful acting as apprentices and attendants.

They easily drew the attention of the small camp, and Exalted Bjarth was the first to actually greet them, though. He was a mountain of a man, both physically and with the presence he carried. Older, with a rough beard and scarred face, he'd survived many winters as a Sentinel until he'd assumed the honorable position as Yukina's Exalted. Trustworthy, stubborn, and hard to kill, Yukina could think of no one else she'd trust to take care of the camp when she was away.

Bjarth took in the sight of them, brown eyes lingering on the captive mage, before he said, "Welcome home. 'M glad ta see the hunt was successful. We've already set up your tent. Wha's this?" At that, he grabbed ahold of Keithia's antler and jerked her forward, causing her to stumble and whimper. Her antlers, being as sensitive as they were, generally caused her pain when someone was rough.

Yukina slid off her horse, allowing one of the attendants present to take it, before she shrugged a shoulder. "I suspect the mage's familiar. I'm not sure, and I didn't care to ask. Not yet, anyway. I was more interested in getting out of the storm." She smiled a little, but it was sad. "It was a bad night." Spoken in reference to only one Guard returning with her.

Bjarth, not one to linger in such a thing, simply grunted his acknowledgement before asking, "Wha'tcha want done with it?"

Yukina turned to make her way toward her tent, the Guard with the mage in tow. Without looking back, she waved a hand before answering, "Put her to work."

The inside of Yukina's tent was spacious, not just because she was a Blessed, but because she needed the room for her wings. A small, cast iron stove provided heat in the enclosed space, a heavily blanketed cot was her bed, and a small table and boxes consisted of her work space. For Kanimir, her new pet, a section had been cleared and a threadbare rug spread across the cold ground. That's where the Guard dumped him, before being dismissed by a grateful Yukina.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir wakes slowly. Drifting in and out like a leaf on the tide, consciousness comes in fits and bursts, fragments of wakefulness that leave him confused and restless. He feels heavy, both physically, and something more. Something he can't quite place a name too. It's a tight, constricted feeling of suffocating while having plenty of air in his lungs. Not quite pressure on his lungs, but similar enough to make it a struggle to breath.

The first thing he sees when his eyes open is dirt. He blinks slowly, tastes the dry, cottony feeling of blood crusted in his mouth, and remembers. He sits up quickly, too quickly, by the instant stabbing pains all through his body, and his gaze flits around the large tent like a beast in a cage. Searching for weaknesses, exits, weapons. His gaze settles on a living being in a matter of moments, and his teeth grind together sharply as he recognises the woman from the tavern. She isn't facing his direction, large, pristine wings turned towards him, and he slowly draws himself into a comfortable sitting position, uncertain of his surrounds, but still clinging to his pride.

Legs folded underneath him, one hand on his hip and the other resting over his knee, he coughs quietly, both to attempt to clear his airways and draw her attention. As clueless as he might be to what the hell is going on, he has little patience enough on a normal day, and would distinctly like to get this whole thing over and done with, preferably with a blade in this woman's neck to destroy whatever rebound she seems to have for his power. He wonders, briefly, if she is a Mordecai, but dismisses the thought quickly. She doesn't seem...quite right. Besides, he's fought his fair share of the nullifiers, and they are just that - nullifiers. This woman is something different.

"Nice digs you have here." He purrs, lips quirked up in a confident smirk that doesn't quite reach the thin slant of hatred in his eyes, "Have to say the room service is terrible though."

@SanctifiedSavage

The Blessed knew when he woke up. Mostly because he was noisy, but she'd been keeping an eye on him. Now that her pet had been brought back to the camp, the conditioning began. She'd dressed down, and into something comfortable, while he'd remained passed out. Now, she wore padded leather and fur to keep her warm though her feather light short swords were ever close at hand, across her desk.

Yukina turned when he sat up, then sighed a little when he spoke and did not address her properly. The punishment was quick and fierce. A lash of pain across his back, stealing his breath as she turned to fully face him. "You will address me as Blessed. And you have yet to beg for forgiveness for your previous rudeness. Until you have done both, you can live in agony." And she meant it. He could wallow in pain for days, weeks, or months until he was broken in oblivion.

With the conditions of his punishment set, the magical binding went to work. Alighting his nerves with warning, steadily increasing in intensity. It would only get worse if he did not comply – and passing out would only save him until he woke again, to repeat the cycle.

Yukina was as patient as a saint and remained in her tent, near by should he decide to behave.

@HeartOfFlame

A soft gasp leaves his lips, his hands clenching tightly as his spine bends and he leans forwards, breathe stolen by the sudden lash of pain across his back. He glares at her as she turns, all pretences lost in his pain and outrage. How dare she presume to shackle him, to control him. Few have ever tried before, but all have failed as surly as she will. Soon enough, one way or another, he will end her.

The pain builds, spreading across his body and setting his skin aflame He's prepared for it this time, not thrown quite so far off-guard by the rebound of his own magic, but still, it steals his breath away. He grits his teeth, denying a single sound to escape him even as his breathing quickens and the crippling tightness in his chest compounds to a feeling of boulders settled across his lungs. His strength falters, arm quivering where he has place his hand to the ground to steady himself. The pain is overwhelming, searing through him and flaring with such intensity it feels as though his very mind is being set aflame. He has suffered worse, he reminds himself, a half-hearted effort, he knows, but one that keeps him firmly planted in his own self control.

"Who are you?" He asks, less because he cares, because he's curious but because it gives him something else to think about, something with which to ground himself. The mental images of his hands around her throat only get him so far. He huffs a breathless laugh, clamping down on his bottom lip as an airy groan almost escapes him, before continuing. "Wait, wait, don't tell me. You're 'Blessed'. Whatever the fuck that means."

It's petty and he knows, even as he says it, that it would most probably result in yet more backlash. But, he can't bring himself to care. He has nothing to go on here, nothing to make sense of any of this, nothing but the pain burning through him like he's made of paper and the sudden, chilling realisation that he is alone.

Keithia. He almost says it aloud, catches himself just shy and isn't able to contain a mewling groan in its place. If this bitch has hurt her...He doesn't finish the thought, shakes his head and gasps as dizziness and nausea crash over him all at once as a result. She hadn't been interested in Keithia, had offered to let her go, if his hazy memory is correct. She's fine. She has to be

@SanctifiedSavage

"Language." It was said like she was speaking to a child. Patronizing and bothered, but more at his own ignorance and stubbornness than anything else. He would learn, as did everyone else. She had nothing but time.

As to who she was... Well, Yukina didn't feel a need to answer his question because he'd yet to do anything proper. So she tsked, as though scolding a child, and turned her back as oblivion would invariably consume him in his stubbornness. When he decided to properly beg for forgiveness, the pain would end. Only then, and however long that took.

Keithia, on the other hand, picked up instruction quick and only spoke when prompted to. Ever with a "Yes ma'am" or "Yes sir" where applicable. As far as the nymph was concerned, the least amount of attention she drew to herself, the better. Not that it was entirely possible to blend in when she was so small and had curled antlers where... no one else did. She was a monochrome oddity moving amongst them and everyone kept an eye, ensuring she followed the task assigned.

Most were fetch tasks. Grab leather for one of the workers, collect water for a bath, tend to a fire while others cooked. Mundane chores no one else wanted to do but just about anyone with a brain and hands could accomplish. She was never allowed to stray far, but it became quickly apparent that the nymph didn't want to run. No attempt was made. Rather, her attention frequently wandered to the tent she knew Kanimir was kept in.

@HeartOfFlame

She ignores him, but for a chiding rebuttal of his language and an off-hand 'tsk' that reminds him brutally of harsh, stone cold eyes and a father who never cared. The flash of memory takes him unprepared, forcing a heavy exhale from stuttering lungs as his arm finally gives out and he falls to the side. He grits his teeth and growls, at what he's not really sure; the woman, or the memory, as his eyes clench shut and his hands curl into fists around the fabric of his shirt. He bites his tongue, uses the sharp, centred pain to ground himself amidst the feeling of being simultaneously burned and buried alive.

Oblivion would have been easier, but release does not come so mercifully this time.

He drifts, for how long, he doesn't know. All he's aware of is the pain, pulsing and thriving with every laboured beat of his heart. The taste of blood in his mouth becomes almost normal, as much so as the loss of feeling in his hands as they cramp and throb with stress. He's lying on his side, face pressed into the dirt so only one eye opens, but it hardly matters, for every time he peels an incredibly heavy lid open, his world is the same. Hazy, unfocused, the interior of the tent swaying and fading in, out, in, out, in sync with his stuttered breaths. It gets progressively harder to breathe, the effort taking that much more out of him every time he fades back into the world of the living that he doesn't even have the energy to scream anymore.

He tries to tell himself it will end, tries to bolster his own flagging strength with the knowledge that there must be a limit to how long she can do this to him, how long she will be willing too. He recognises the desperation for what it is, and it sickens him in the same moment as he realises how far he's fallen. He can't remember the last time he's felt pain like this, deep and stabbing and burning, driving down through his bones, splintering through his veins like broken glass and tearing him apart from the inside out. He wonders if this is how his victims feel, in the seconds before they turn to ash and dust, blown apart in a soft wind and forgotten as easily as him.

He drifts, and when next he wakes he chokes on air. His body convulses, jaw working around a tongue swollen from dehydration, and the grating coughs that rip from him tear embers through his throat, until they settle in the bottom of his lungs and burn. When he can breath again, wheezing in crippled gasps that whistle in his ears and rattle somewhere near the sharp pit of hunger in his stomach, there are tears in his eyes. He can feel the warmth of them on his cheeks, mingling with the dirt no doubt smeared there as he writhed against the ground, salty and bitter. He pries open the eye not blotted with wet, cloying dust and almost chokes again as the world shifts sickeningly around him.

Somewhere amidst the shifting colours and light that stabs pins through his eye, a dark shape that vaguely resembles a human takes form. He blinks at it dazedly, searching for white wings he has ironically come to associate with pain and finding only empty air. A voice pounds against his ears, muted and hazy, but somehow recognisable through it all. Something cold and icy curls around his chest and freezes his breath in his throat in the same moment the figure's face comes into view and the only thing stopping him from physically recoiling is the complete lack of control over his body.

"Are you sorry yet, boy? Have you learned anything?" He flinches, unable to stop himself, and bites his teeth down on his lower lip to stop the trembling shake he can feel starting in his jaw. It's not real, he tells himself, thoughts scattered and panicked, He's dead. Long dead. I watched him die!

"Speak up, boy! Are you sorry for what you did?" He's frozen, breath trembling through his teeth as he spirals, desperately screaming into his own mind that the spectre before him is just that. A hallucination, a creation of his own tortured mind, the pain, anything but reality. He can feel his eyes burning with traitorous tears, his chest hitching in an unsteady breath that threatens a sob. The spectre's hand lifts, something sharp and wicked glinting over its knuckles, and a strangled sound escapes him as he breaks.

"I'm sorry!" He cries, the words riding on a sob, not quite a scream, not quite a whisper. He's shaking, hands digging holes into the soft earth beneath him as his eyes clench shut and hot, shaming tears roll down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." It becomes a mantra, spoken over and over and over as he curls into himself and trembles, awaiting the strike of steel on flesh and the added, blossoming pain in a body that has almost become numb from the constant, invisible flaying of his flesh and bones, the blow from the only being who can strip away his pride, his confidence, and lay him bare and helpless as a naked babe.

"P-please," He gasps, voice hitching into a whimper as his chest aches for air, "make it stop."

@SanctifiedSavage

It always takes time. Yukina knew that so she wasn't fussed with the ragged, dirty, whimpering creature in her tent. His screams were a reminder of the damaged he'd done, the murders committed, and a penance for it all. A shame she could not take more. Those in the camp, who had been with the Sentinels long enough, went about their business as though nothing had changed. Gear to tend to, horses to feed and water, supply shipments for their minor camp to check.

The daily routine was simple, but it kept their life working.

The new people, though, frequently looked toward the tent. Toward their superiors for affirmation that everything was ok.

Yukina spent most of that time in her own tent, reviewing new maps, corresponding with other Blessed and planning her next move. She was to meet up with another, farther south, when she was actually able to move. When that would be was largely dependent on her pet, but she didn't feel a sense of urgency. Breaking a monster took as long as it took.

His wordless cries turned to begging, which took her off guard. Yukina looked up from the book she'd been reading, sitting at her desk, to regard him. The pain lessened, if only so he could hear her. Comprehend what she was about to say. It didn't go away, of course, because... "Please, what? If you cannot address me properly, it will never go away." Her voice is as cold and clear as the first snow fall. There is no pity, no mercy. Only the certainty that if he does not do things her way, he's welcome to lay on the floor and wither away.

@HeartOfFlame

Distantly, he realises the pain is fading, only a little, only enough that his lungs suddenly burst with air as he pulls in a desperate, greedy gulp of air. It's enough to snap his mind back into clarity, if not strength, and in a blink, the spectre is gone. He shudders, letting his eye close as he shakes and trembles, pressing his lips together in a pathetic attempt to contain the muffled sobs breaking from him. It's pathetic, a sight that would have him rolling his eyes and burying a blade in soft flesh on any other. He knows it, and it grates against his pride, his dignity, what little of it he has left.

But he can't take anymore. He can't face that thing again. The memories he can live with, the past, he can control, lock away, ignore. This was different, present, almost real. He chokes on a breath, pulls his eyes open again and wills his vision to focus, to find her gaze. Her eyes are hard and unbothered - a blink and they're his, the image gone just as quickly - but he meets them firmly even as he pulls words from his throat and tries not to choke on them. He tries to hold her gaze, to show her his defiance, his anger, but he is weak and tired and he can't do this again and his voice is broken when he speaks.

"Blessed," He chokes, breath shuddering as his stare falls away, unable to hold out in the face of his surrender, even while trying and failing to lift himself off the ground, to salvage some minuscule thread of his dignity, "stop it. Please."

@SanctifiedSavage

She considers, if only to show that she can, before Yukina stands. As she does, the pain lifts like a great weight off of him. He's made a bloody, sweaty mess of the rug that was designated to him but that was to be expected given his obstinate nature. The Blessed takes a couple of steps toward him, her white wings flaring a little as she looks over her pet.

"Better. Remember this lesson, or you'll end up right back here until you do." Then, arching a slender brow, she asks, "Do you understand?"

Yukina half expects him to defiantly throw a fit again and is fully prepared to return to her seat and continue reading. Whatever he decides doesn't bother her much regardless.

The instant loss of pain is enough to make him lightheaded. He supposes he should be grateful he's already face down in the dirt, but really, he's too tired to be much of anything. A quiet sound that might be relief breaks from him, a soft whimper he hates himself for, and his eyes slip closed as he lays there and just...is.

She speaks to him, demanding his obedience, and he only half hears her, but he understands. He doesn't know how long it's been, how long he suffered, but he knows that he is tired and weak and hurting, even in the wake of the active pain. There are aftershocks of it tingling across his entire body, sharp like needles, but not burning, not ripping and tearing and shredding. He finds himself nodding, as best he can with his head maybe two inches off the ground, and when his eyes open he can't make himself look above her boots.

The wave of disgust and hatred for his own actions is almost overwhelming, but the way his head spins as he slowly, shakily levers his torso off the ground is enough to make it an afterthought.

"I understand," He whispers, voice little more than a quiet wind, and he doesn't need to look at his shaking hands to know that somewhere, somehow, she has broken something inside him, "...Blessed."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches him a moment longer before she nods a little. "Good. I'll have food and water brought. As well as someone to clean you." For now, that's all she has. It's a nice lesson to learn and she has no interest in trying to teach anything more while he's barely conscious.

Keithia's routine is broken when she's tasked with taking a small tray of food into the Blessed tent. While she's eager to actually seen Kanimir, since she hasn't in however long they've been there, her steps are still measured and she hides that enthusiasm.

Entering the tent, however, is an entirely different thing. The thick, coppery smell of blood hangs heavy in the air, underlaid by sour sweat. The cutting cold from outside provides some relief but... It's coming from someone on a stained rug. Someone.

There's no way...

Yukina is sitting at her desk, writing on a roll of parchment before she absently waves without looking up. "The food and water are for him. Bring water and soap. He's filthy." Talking about him like he's not there, like he can't hear. Something Keithia has heard countless times, though it's usually about her, not...

She's trembling by the time she's crossed the short distance to kneel and place the small tray near what had to be Kanimir. Realizing now who the food is for, it seems woefully inadequate. A roll, dried jerky, and tankard of water. It wasn't nearly enough...

As much as Keithia wanted to linger, she quickly slides to her feet and leaves to quickly retrieve the soap and water. Knowing, now, that it's for him, it's almost hard for her not to run. Not to cry. Melting the snow that had fallen takes some time, but she's not gone too long. Keithia hesitates just inside the tent, glancing between the Blessed and Kanimir.

Yukina doesn't look up from her work, but she gestures absently again. "Clean."

Keithia isn't sure if the Blessed means Kanimir or the rug, but she kneels and lightly touches him. Just to make sure he's... there.

@HeartOfFlame

She speaks again, but he's not listening now. He just...sits. His vision is unfocused, a low throbbing still present in the back of his skull that probably has something to do with the growing, stabbing thirst in his throat. Swallowing around his swollen tongue and the persistently burning lump in his throat, he lifts trembling hands to scrub at his face, motions rough and clumsy, desperate. He manages to clear his eyelids enough to pry the second one open, squinting and leaning to one side as half his vision goes even more blurred and foggy.

A figure looms to his left and he flinches instinctively, head ducking away before he can correct himself, mind still raw with the memory of a memory. The spectre. By the time he can force himself - angry and ashamed of his own pain-fuelled instincts - to turn back, a tray has been left at his side and the figure is gone. He blinks slowly, looking towards the Blessed, uncertain, afraid, before the pit of hunger in his gut wins out and he reaches for the dry bread roll, the shake in his hands only more pronounced, before reconsidering and taking the tankard.

He knows enough to pace himself, desperate as his need is, and he's only halfway through the realistically small portion when the side of the tent lifts up and someone enters again. The water works wonders, freeing the solid, choking lump in his throat and washing away the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth. It settles in his stomach, cold and empty, in a way that makes him vaguely nauseous, but it also clears a little of the fuzz from his brain, and he's coherent enough to recognise the face of the one who enters this time.

He freezes, eyes undeniably wide and almost pained at what he's seeing. His mouth forms her name but he cannot find the air to verbalise it, simply watching her numbly as she crosses to his side and kneels, her touch feather light. His throat works, that lump come back to choke him once more, and a shuddering breath leaves him, almost a whine, as he leans into her without even really realising it.

"Why are you here?" He whispers, voice stumbling even over that, "Why didn't you leave? Why did- she said you could leave. Why?"

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia's charcoal grey eyes water, but she doesn't cry. A talent she picked up during her time serving. Her throat tightens and she finds it impossible to answer him, so she simply scoots a little closer and starts to, gently, wipe at his face. She'd been made to wear new clothes, since he'd last seen her. Proper, morta fitting top made of leather and fur that felt like it smothered her then it helped, with pants that did much the same. The only thing Keithia appreciated were the boots, which were too big but kept her feet warm. They'd also cut her hair. It'd been too long to properly manage, so now the ink-black strands fell just at jaw length. Frayed where they'd been cut unevenly.

The why of it was obvious to her. Why would she have left him?

Yukina glances back when she hears muffled words, though she doesn't actually hear what it is. Seeing who is attending him, though, she straightens and watches a moment. "You could learn something from her."

Keithia flinches, but it's only noticeable on her face, at the words. Her touch, feather light, continues to gently wipe at the blood, dirt, and dried sweat on his face.

Then, Yukina stands before taking a couple of steps closer. Curious, she asks, "Is she your familiar? Something you summoned? She doesn't seem to know where she came from."

His hand lifts towards her face, fingers twisting a strand of her hair like it's spun gold, impossibly gentle even as his eyes never leave her face. 'Why?' his mouth moves without sound, his face twisting into an expression somewhere between disbelief and pain. He's angry, angry that they've done this to her, angry that she stayed, even though, in that moment, all he can feel is relief that she's here. It's selfish and painful and his chest is hurting in all new kinds of ways. In a way, he's glad when the Blessed speaks, moving towards them and snapping his attention from Keithia, dutifully cleaning the grime and blood and tears from his skin even as his hand drops back into his lap and curls into a tight fist.

He doesn't want to answer her, doesn't want to give her anything that she does not have to wait and work for. But Keithia is here, and as much as she has already seen, he does not want her to see that, to see his weakness, to see him falling apart. A small voice in the back of his head whispers that witnessing him cowing to the Blessed is equally as bad, but he ignores it without a thought.

"She belongs to no one, Blessed." He grits out, managing to almost stress her 'title' as an insult even as he twists his head to try and look into her eyes but never quite manages to follow through, "She never will."

@SanctifiedSavage

She can't quite look at Kanimir's eyes. It's too much to take in. Rather, she's intent on doing what little she can to help him. To clean him up, as she was tasked to, and quietly thankful that she'd been selected to do so. When he touches her hair, her eyes narrow some. Like it pains her, and in a way, it does. Having it cut off in such a way.

Yukina frowns at his answer, but she doesn't think it a lie. Rather, she watches the oddly antlered girl before flaring her wings in a half shrug. There were all manner of odd creatures living in the world. She didn't seem magical, at least not actively, so she wasn't a problem. Not a present one, anyway, and Yukina had been told she was well behaved. No reason to turn her out. Not yet, anyway.

"I will assume, then, that there is another reason for this loyalty." Her attention drifted back to Kanimir. "You should keep in mind your behavior here will affect her stay." A subtle warning before she lightly taps a tip of an antler. It makes Keithia flinch, like she was hit, but she doesn't otherwise make a sound. "Enjoy your reprieve, pet. I'll be back. Don't move from that spot." An order that, if disobeyed, would cripple him with pain.

Then, with a passing look between the two of them, Yukina left her tent.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir glares at her retreating back, wincing as his fingers tighten around the half drained tankard and remind him he has skinned them to hell and back. As soon as the woman is well gone, he turns his attention back to Keithia, placing the tankard to the side and bringing his hand to gently close around her outstretched wrist, halting her attempts to clean him up and turning her ever so slightly to face him.

"Are you alright?" He asks, hating how his voice scratches over the roughness in his throat, the lingering sound of his breakdown. The tension in his chest is building; the knowledge of what the Blessed has done to him, how she has gotten under his skin and twisted until he's so desperate for the pain to go away that he does as she asks. He never knew he could hurt that much, but the scars it leaves behind are almost worse. He clears his throat, twisting his body to kneel directly in front of Keithia, focusing on her rather than the ugly feelings in his gut. "Did they hurt you?"

It feels wrong, to see her so humanised. Her hair, cut short around face, makes him angry in irrational ways it shouldn't, and he only resists lifting a hand to run through it, to try and reconcile the fact with the denial in his mind, because of how she almost flinched the first time he touched it. Gods know he doesn't want to cause her anymore pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if they intend to do the same to him. His long, burgundy locks are already filthy, tangled around the gold rings and clips that holds them, matted to the side of his face where the dirt and blood coagulated. The little voice that lives in that portion of his mind hisses at the thought, and he almost laughs, an airy, aborted sound that never makes it past his lips.

He has so many things he wants to ask her - where they are, how long it's been, what other soldiers the Blessed has out there - but he can't. His first and foremost priority is making sure she's alright, making sure they haven't harmed her, followed oh-so closely by asking why she stayed. She's suffered this life enough, been treated as nothing more than an object, a tool, for too many years. He had promised to protect her, to keep her from this. He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought, that same, bone-deep pain settling over his chest like an anvil.

"Why did you stay?" He whispers in the brief silence, his gaze flitting over her face, seeing the damp in her eyes, the thinly veiled pain, and feeling the hurt in his own chest tighten and twist even further.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia is glad when the Blessed leaves. Not because she things that the winged-woman would hurt her, but because she doesn't like how oppressive the air is around her. Not even Bjarth's presence is so suffocating.

When he stops her, Keithia does so unresisting. The ghost of a frown touches her face and she does bring her gaze to his. When asked if she's alright, she hesitates before answering, softly, "I'm... fine. They're rough and strict, but not anything I've not dealt with before." If anything, it was nice that they didn't pay her much mind when she was set to a task. No one had any interest in her beyond what she'd been told to do and anyone who had expressed too much interest had been warned off by Bjarth. Not out of concern for her, but because 'good people shouldn't mess about with creatures'.

She'd take it.

After a moment, she gingerly frees herself from his grip so she can continue tending to him. Wiping down his neck. It gave her hands something to do. Made her feel like she could help, even if it were in a small way.

Then he asked again. Why...

Keithia takes one of his hands, encouraging him to expose his palm so she can tend to his hands. Only then does she answer, softly, "I'm not going to leave you." It seemed obvious, to her. "When we left, it was so we could travel together." The nymph couldn't reconcile leaving someone for her own sake. It just wasn't in her nature, wasn't in who or what she was. Kanimir was her friend, and she would stay so long as she had the ability to do so.

When she'd been in the pens, being transported, or even set up for auction, the thing that had pained her almost as much as being torn from her home was suffering through it alone. Having none of her sisters, no one who actually cared about her, around. She wouldn't willingly put Kanimir in the same state she'd been in. Not when all it meant was to work for, and deal with, the rank mortals around her. Keithia had certainly relished the brief stint of freedom she'd enjoyed with Kanimir, and treasured the times in the forest. The sunlight, the lakes, the feel of the earth moving beneath her... But that would all be tainted ugly if she left him behind for it.

It wasn't worth leaving him behind, trapped, as she had once been.

@HeartOfFlame

A frown pulls at his brow at her answer, his hand dropping back into his lap when she carefully frees herself and continues about her task. The way she says it, soft, accustomed, coils that deep seated anger only further in his chest. The fact that this isn't new for her, that it's something she's 'dealt with before', just reminds him of what he had been trying to free her from, what he had freed her from. She was never supposed to become a captive again, a tool, a worker for some human agenda.

A shuddering sigh escapes him as he watches her care to his hands, impossibly gentle and calm. Still, the pain is sharp and stabbing, a mere shadow in the wake of what he has suffered before this, but still enough to make him inhale a sharp breath and lock it between his teeth. 'I'm not going to leave you,' She says, still soft and gentle and calming in ways he can't quite understand. He blinks at her stupidly for a moment, both ignoring and denying the warm pricking at the back of his eyes. What did he do to earn such loyalty from her? What could she possibly see in him to make her wish to go back into this hell of being treated as nothing more than a means to an end? He can't understand it, can't fathom the reaches of her reasoning, and where normally he would smile and move on, accept it as who she is, this is different.

He shakes his head, clenching the hand not under her care into a fist and almost relishing the pain that flares through his fingers and up into his wrist. He can see, even as she tends to him with such gentility, follows the Blessed's orders without complaint, that she is set in her decision. He can't understand it, almost can't bare it, but he cannot sway her either, that much is clear. He exhales softly, grits his teeth as his own decision is made clear. If she will not leave without him, that is simply further motivation for him to get them both out of here as soon as possible.

"How big is this camp?" He asks, clearing his throat roughly when his voice continues to shake and rasp. He's still trembling bodily, the stabbing pain in his gut faded to something numb and hollow that is equally hard to ignore, but he's able to summon enough composure to steady his face and voice, if only for a moment. "Have you seen how many more of her kind there are?"

He doesn't need to specify whom he means. The hatred in his voice is clear.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia looks at him when he sighs, not because the sigh was unexpected, but because it had rattled out of him. With one hand as cleaned as it was going to get, she twists to grab the tankard of water. It's almost empty, but... She puts it in his hand in a wordless sign he should drink.

Then, she takes his other hand. The water she's been using to rinse her rag is dirty and red, but at least it's still helping to clean him. Better than nothing. She would've gone to fetch more water, but she was too reluctant to leave his side. Afraid that if she did, they'd take it to mean she was done and she'd not be allowed back in the tent. Whatever time she could take, in the quiet with him, she would.

When he asked how big the camp was, she glanced at him. Keithia had been all over the camp, running errands, and believed she'd met a handful of the apprentices and attendants there. Even so, she paused to make sure she had as accurate an answer for him as possible. "The camp itself is spread out in the clearing of a forest. Sheltered from snow and wind. There are... fifteen? Most have weapons and armor. I've been working with four that seem to tend to other tasks."

She shakes her head a little. "She is the only one I've seen, but they talk about another." This time, it's Keithia that frowns a little. She knows better then to ask him not to do anything that would get himself hurt. Obviously that wasn't something he'd do. And as concerned as she might be, the risks he took were likely the only thing that might get them out.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir nods, taking the tankard from her wordlessly and draining what little water is left. The cool helps clear his head a little, focusing him almost as much as her information. He feels a little more like himself, suddenly, now that he has a purpose, a goal, something to puzzle. He sets the empty tankard to the side and leans away from Keithia briefly to snag the dry looking bread roll from the tray, vaguely realising the hole in his gut is hunger. He hasn't been this starved since...He shakes that thought off like rain, feeling it leech into him despite his efforts but doing his best to move forwards despite it.

Fifteen armed men and women is hardly the worst odds he's faced over the course of his life; numbers don't mean much when he can turn them to ash with a snap of his fingers, less than, if the mood strikes him. No, it's not them he's worried about. Provided they are just men and women, they won't be the slightest problem. It's her that concerns him, a glaring, ugly hole in any plan he might try to conceive for their escape from this place. It irks him that 'escape' is the first thing that comes to his might, not to fight, not to slaughter them all, not to make them pay for what they have done to him, to Keithia. He's afraid, a feeling that hasn't haunted him since, well, since he found out what he could do with the proper motivation. He hasn't felt fear in decades, and somehow, that just makes the crushing, suffocating notion of it that much worse.

It all rolls back to her, the Blessed. She has control of him, an invisible leash he cannot seem to tear. He doesn't know what she is, how she can do what she does, but he cannot deny that the first emotion that hits him when he thinks of her, following nearly simultaneous with his frustrated anger, is that cold, chilling fear. Perhaps not strictly because of what she can do, what she is, but because of what she reminds him of. Who.

"I need to get rid of her." He mutters, only realising he's said it aloud after the fact. He glances up at Keithia, realising his gaze has fallen to his lap, a little scowl twisting the space between his brows. "This other one you've heard them talking about, do you know what for? Are they coming here?" He can't deny the way that thought makes his stomach flip, the thought of two of her kind throwing fire on any half-baked schemes he might think up. His magic won't work on her, that much he well and truly knows, but, perhaps...He licks his lips, absently realising how dry and cracked they are, and wonders what happened to his blades.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia watches him as he murmurs under his breath. It hurts to see Kanimir in such a state, but she doesn't really know... what to do. How to help. Perhaps providing information is about the only way. After a moment of mulling over what she remembers, she responds with, "I think they are apart of this camp too. They talk about them returning. That they've been gone for a time. Not like they're visiting." Then she shrugged one of her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I don't get to spend much time around Bjarth..."

When Yukina returns, she doesn't do so silently. The tent flap is thrown open, casting bright, white afternoon light into the tent. "Nice to see you're up and well," she said, though her tone is flat. It's more a statement than anything else. She makes a shooing motion and Keithia obediently stands, with a parting look, before leaving the tent.

"Now that you're aware, follow me." Yukina doesn't wait for a response, she simply turns and makes her way out of the tent. Knowing that if he doesn't do as he's told, the pain will return. Just outside the tent is one of the attendants. A stout woman with calloused hands and layered furs. She's holding a pair of shears, with a couple bucks of water near her that haven't frozen yet.

@HeartOfFlame

The light blinds him. Stabbing daggers pierce through his eyes and he ducks his head away with a sharp hiss. Her voice, flat and cold even as she uses words that should come from one who cares, makes his skin crawl, and he lifts his gaze to glare at her even as she shoos Keithia away. He barely stops himself reaching after her when she stands to leave. He refrains, just barely, and clenches his hands in his lap instead, teeth ground together.

He wants to fight her, here and now, go against what she says, ignore her, but he can feel the crawling sensation of pinpricks over his skin, and knows almost subconsciously that the pain will follow. Getting to his feet is harder than it should be, his legs shaking as he sways for a moment before extending a hand to balance himself. Formerly steady vision sways, and he growls somewhere low in his throat in frustration. Only once he's vaguely confident he won't fall on his face - and wouldn't that be the icing on this fucked up cake - does he move forwards, shuffling awkwardly as his aching limbs slowly come back to life.

The light outside is just as blinding as when the Blessed opened the tent, and he squints into it dazedly as his boots sink into snow with a crunch. One hand lifted to try and block a little of the glaring rays, he doesn't notice the new woman immediately, only once his vision has cleared enough to make out her outline. He feels a fool, squinting in the bright - what he guesses to be mid morning - sun, but he's been in the dark for gods know how long and his head is pounding again, throbbing in time with the elevated beat of his heart.

After a moment of glaring at her mutedly, his eyes catch the shears in her large hands and he visibly balks. The step back is unconscious, the hands lifting before him defensively less so, and he only refrains from summing sparks between his fingertips because of the knowledge of how much it will hurt.

"Fuck, no." He spits, teeth set in a feral snarl, "Get those things away from me."

@SanctifiedSavage

The attendant doesn't seem concerned about his reaction. Her weathered and wrinkled face is set, much like Yukina's, in one of patient annoyance. When he balks and snarls, she doesn't move.

Yukina does. Her boot connects with his face, dropping him down, and the order comes quick. "Sit, pet, and be still while she sheers you."

The rest of the camp continues on as though the small scene isn't happening. There's a roaring fire some fifteen feet away, with a cook and a couple Sentinels around it. Two in armor. They don't even glance their way. Other tents are spaced around the small clearing shadowed with branches, but there's still trampled snow in paths.

The only one who does respond to the scene is Bjarth, though it's more to greet Yukina then it is out of concern for what's going on. He stands just off to the side and behind her, waiting patiently while she deals with the disobedient mage.

@HeartOfFlame

He doesn't see the blow coming. Stars explode behind his eyes as his jaw cracks to the side, and he crumples like a leaf in the breeze. The snow is cold enough to be painful under his thin shirt, and he shivers in the same breath as he feels blood welling in his mouth. That warning tingle races across his skin and he groans softly, unable to contain it, as he lifts himself half upright and spits into the snow, staining it crimson. He lifts his head to glare at her, pulling himself back towards his feet in some form of defiance, before his nerves flare with pain and he buckles. His breath leaves him in a sharp gasp and before he can really think about it he's sunk back to his knees and settled over his calves. A cool wind whips over his frame, cold and wet from his brief meeting with the snow and he shudders, chilled and hurting.

His gaze flicks towards the newcomer as way of distraction, sizing up the hefty man with a considering eye. He looks tough, but not so much that Kanimir couldn't take him. Once he's rid of this damn leash, these fuckers will rue the day they thought they could take him.

He swallows, nearly chokes on the blood still coating his tongue from the split in his cheek and the growing ache in his jaw, and turns towards the attendant. Anger is curling in his gut, cold and hot and burning all at once, but the fear is more powerful, more crushing, and he faces her squarely with his teeth set as firmly as his jaw will allow.

"Fine." He growls, eyeing the shears like one might a particularly venomous beast. It's, well, it's petty, he knows, but his hair is...he's attached to it, in more than just the obvious physical sense. His choices with it were some of the first he was given, his first methods of rebellion against an iron thumb he couldn't escape, and this, this threat grinds against him in so many ways it almost physically hurts.

@SanctifiedSavage

The attendant waits a moment, watching Yukina, before the Blessed nods once. Then she turns to address the man who was waiting for her. As she does so, the attendant steps forward with the sheers and goes to work. She tends to him like one would a sheep, tugging at his hair and clipping it close to his scalp. Once a chuck is loose, she tosses it to the snow around him. It doesn't take long, in reality, but his head likely stings all over from her pulling.

Then, when she's done, she douses him with one of the buckets.

It's the splashing of the cold water over him that draws Yukina's attention back to him. She nods to Bjarth, dismisses him with a wave, then addresses him. "Undress. The faster you do this, the less likely you are to freeze." Another might've found cruel humor in his situation, but Yukina did not. She just wanted him rinse off and out of his bloody and sweaty clothes.

The attendant stands off to the side, another bucket ready for when he has his clothes off.

@HeartOfFlame

He knows what's coming, what the woman is going to take from him, but he's still not ready for it. A sharp hiss leaves his lips as she pulls at his hair, long, tangled strands tugging between her fingers and stinging at his scalp. Hot, burning tears threaten behind his eyes and he grits his teeth together in defiance of them. It feels like an eternity before she's finished, his gaze fixed resolutely ahead, into the blinding snow, as his treasured locks fall to the snow around him, dull and bland against the bright, sun-lit powder. He's not sure when he lost his battle, but there is warm wetness on his cheeks, and he feels them burn as he refuses to shift his gaze, to look anywhere but the horizon.

That, as it turns out, is a mistake, for he sees the water coming about as well as he'd noticed the Blessed's boot. He gasps involuntarily, inhaling some of the freezing liquid and spluttering as the shock of it burns over his skin and he clutches his arms to his chest. He's shaking again now, his jaw trembling as the wind cuts through him as surely as a blade. The Blessed comes back into his line of vision and he glares at her as best he can while shaking with barely enough strength to hold himself up on his knees. She orders him to undress, and he hesitates for all of the time it takes him to notice the creeping burn along his nerves.

His body is barely cooperating, bones aching and burning with every slightest movement, but he manages to slide his drenched tunic over his head and deposit it amidst the discarded remains of his hair. Seeing it makes his eyes burn anew, a choked sound breaking from him, and he barely remembers the rest of the whole, torturous process but for the fact he has to bite his lip to keep himself contained. He can barely breath around the knot in his throat, gasping in almost whimpers by the time he's finished, bare feet freezing in snow so cold it burns, arms trembling where they're wrapped around his naked torso. Every scar and blemish is laid bare to the world, and where normally he wouldn't care, has no shame, his eyes are persistently burning and he cannot quite console himself with thoughts of how, exactly, he will rip them apart.

@SanctifiedSavage

The attendant wastes no time in using the two remaining buckets of water on him, dousing him like they might an animal. The water is cold, and hits him like needles. Once done, she gathers up his dirty clothes and simply walks to the  fire, tossing them into it. Some of the Sentinels around complain, almost playfully, about the smell to her but it's good natured ribbing in her direction. She shushes them like a mother would children and wanders off to her work.

Yukina walks past him and toward her tent, with a simple "Come." command. Like he's a dog. A pet. As she keeps referring to him as. The interior of the tent is warm, at least, with the wood burning stove keeping it so. She gestures to 'his rug'. "Kneel."

Only once he has complied does she toss him a fur to wrap around himself.

Yukina draws her chair closer and turns it to face him, so she can sit. Relaxing while he most certainly is not. She's still dressed in her clean, padded furs and leather. Comfortable. Her pristine white wings flare out behind her. "We're going to start your training now. That show of defiance in you? That hesitation to do what I say? We're going to break that of you. Only then are you going to be able to leave this camp. Do you understand?" She's speaking matter-of-factly, like one might when reciting from a book. Not with enthusiasm or even anger, and perhaps it is the lack of emotion that makes the words seem colder.

@HeartOfFlame

He's numb by the time the water stops, his whole body shaking and legs trembling so badly he feels as though they might buckle underneath him at any moment. His teeth clatter despite how he has clenched them together, even the base of his horns ache from the incomparable, unending cold. He doesn't really register the attendant taking his clothes and burning them, too concerned with trying to stay upright as his vision swims in dizzyingly bright circles. The Blessed moves past him, easily within stabbing range, were he not bare as a lamb and about as strong as one.

He turns without even really registering her command, dragging his frozen body back into the tent with a gasping sigh of relief. The warmth is minimal, really, but it might as well be a roaring fire compared to the ice sliding through his veins. He manages to throw her a weak glare before all but falling onto the rug, swaying as he struggles to keep himself upright, his arms barely holding enough strength to remain wrapped around his torso, for all the good that's doing him. If he scrambles desperately when she tosses a fur towards him, he ignores it, mind too numb to really register the weakness in the act as he grasps it with shaking fingers and wraps it around his frozen frame as best he can, melting into the almost instant warmth.

The ache that follows, as his limbs begin to thaw, is almost worse than the biting cold, his breathing still coming in short, choked gasps as he sinks into the fur and closes his eyes for a fleeting moment, a singular moment of nothing in the hell he's fallen into. Her voice snaps him out of it, his spine straightening with an almost audible crack. His eyes track her, almost wildly, but in such a way that is less feral ferocity and more desperate anguish. She speaks of breaking him as simply as one might discuss the weather, her voice flat, emotionless. Even he had held more inflection when intimidating his 'clients', a self-confidence for the work, smug satisfaction in his knowledge that they would never out him because to do so would out themselves, surety in his own abilities, something.

He swallows again, muffling a cough as the water he had inhaled continues to disagree with him. He wants to fight her, continue to defy her, make her wait for his compliance, as she has just so clearly outlined. She hadn't said it with annoyance, but she had admitted it was a problem, and if that's as close as he can get, he'll take it. So he does, he waits a beat, then another, feels his heart thrumming laboriously in his chest, and before he can really think about it enough to realise how much this is going to hurt, he swills the blood and saliva still coating his mouth and spits on the earth at her feet.

"Go fuck yourself."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina sighs, and again it is with the same annoyance one might have with a child. "You'll learn," is all she offers before the pain crawls up his back and wraps around him like a long lost lover.

She decides to leave him in that anguished hell for another day. A restless night of mind numbing pain that doesn't allow him to pass out, that he can't escape into unconsciousness.

It isn't until the afternoon of the following day does she crouch in front of him and lift the magical pain off of him. There's a bowl of hot porridge near her, just off of his rug, with a tankard of water. Her words are as patience and cold as ever. "Do you understand?"

@HeartOfFlame

The backlash is instant, as he knew it would be, and he's aware of crying out before his body sways to the side and he becomes closely reacquainted with the ground. It's the same pain as before, only stronger - be it because he is weaker, or because the pain is actually more intense - and he doesn't even have the energy to fight it. His hands curl into fists by his side, hidden beneath the thick fur that is, at the very least, warding off the chill. Fire flickers through his veins, wrapping around his spine and slowly, agonisingly crushing his lungs. He can barely breath for the pain, short, laboured gasps his only reprieve, and for a time that becomes all he is - desperate agony, and the shackled need to breathe.

He has no concept of time, has no idea how long he lays there, curled into himself underneath the inadequate fur pelt, and gasps for every tortured inhale. He loses himself to it, a castaway drowning in a sea of fire and molten metal. He's breaking and broken and the only thing he wants is for the pain to end. Where oblivion evades him, memories torment, dancing just beyond his reach and replaying themselves in his head like some garish stage play. He isn't sure when he cracks, only that the next time he becomes vaguely aware of himself there are tear tracks drying on his face once more and a hard lump in his chest that has nothing to do with the Blessed's cruelty.

When the pain stops finally, it feels like it has been an eternity. He blinks his eyes open blearily, lifting his head and catching the faintest scent of something he should recognise but can't through the fog of exhaustion and lingering phantoms of agony. The Blessed is crouching before him, her lips moving out of sync with the words that slowly trickle into his brain. He feels numb, hollow, the thought of defying her, aggravating her, not even a concept in his brain.

"I-I unders-stand, Blessed." He croaks, voice thick and rasping all at once. The effort of holding himself up is too much, and his temples rest against the rough rug underneath him once again, body aching in the aftermath of the tension and strain of laying in the same position, stiff as a board, for gods know how long. "I'm...sorry."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches him a moment but stands when he offers the apology at the end. Pleased, she gestures to the food and water on the tray. "Help yourself. You might wither away otherwise." It might've sounded like concern coming from another, but it's just a statement from the Blessed. She feels no way about whether or not he lives or dies, so long as he lives by her rules.

Content that he does, indeed, understand she moves her chair back to the place she'd had it before and sits to wait, and watch. Intending to remain there while he eats and regains a bit of himself.

It's after some time of cool silence in the tent that she asks, "Where were you headed, when we caught you?"

@HeartOfFlame

He blinks at the tray for a moment, the few feet seeming suddenly like miles. His arms quiver as he levers himself upright, angry and weak from the abuse at the same time. Cool air rushes over him when the fur falls aside, and he clutches at it pathetically, holding it close around chest with one hand while reaching for the tankard with the other. He nearly drops it, fingers spasming as he extends his wrist, and a soft sound of frustration rolls off his tongue before he can stop it. He pauses for a moment, tormenting his bottom lip between his teeth, before trying again, this time managing to bring the tankard to his lips and drink greedily from the ice-cold water.

It reminds him of the day before - or days, he doesn't know anymore - and he shivers involuntarily, adjusting his grip on the thick fur as if it can offer some added protection against the torment in his own mind. His head feels cold, light, and he can't tell if it's from the loss of his thick mane of hair, or the after-effect of the pain. Eating is awkward with one hand, but he refuses to give up the warmth provided by the fur pelt, and despite his shaking hand and uncooperative fingers, he manages. He almost manages to pretend she's not there, too. At least, until she speaks.

He glances up briefly, half-way to meeting her gaze before he falters and glares into the dirt instead. He swallows, trying to recover some of the strength to his voice, if only for his own sake.

"Adela," He murmurs, rasp gone but tone still impossibly small. He closes his eyes, frustrated but too spent, laid too bare to react to it. Belatedly, he realises his mistake, and hurries to correct it before the pain returns. "Blessed."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina continues to watch him, pleased with the lack of hesitation and defiance regarding his response. She does note the glare, but that'll go with time too. For now, she's content to let him regain some strength. There's no point in him dying if he's behaving. If he's to lose his life, it'll be his own fault. Not from lack of care.

"What is in Adela?" Sometimes mages had plans, other times they just cut paths of death and destruction in their wake. She knew he had a home, though not where. His home didn't particularly concern her either. He had been the target. Though he might've associated with others, like the odd antlered girl, that didn't make them guilty of his murders. Not unless they'd helped, of course.  Given the nature of how he killed, though, it wasn't necessary to have anyone else.

The more she learned, though, the better.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir shrugs lopsidedly, pausing to smother a grimace as the porridge settles heavy in his stomach. "Nothing in particular, Blessed." The title is rolling off his tongue easier now, and he isn't sure if that is a relief or a point of frustration, anger at himself. He tells himself it's self preservation, a means to gather his strength back, a way to stop the suffering enough to come up with a way to free himself, and Keithia. That same little voice that tells him he's weak for cowing to her tells him he's a liar.

He shakes it off, placing the half-eaten bowl back on the tray and tucking his hand back beneath the fur wrapped around his shoulders. He probably looks a fool, but he doesn't care; he's warm - and also decidedly naked - and the chilled skin of his arm against his chest is enough to make him shiver, let alone the full extent of the cold air he can feel kissing his cheeks. Absently, he thinks of why he did want to go to Adela, what had drawn him there. He wanted to show Keithia the world beyond Connloath, it's true, but there was also an opportunity for work, both in the Dragon Kingdom, and along the road. A soft, bitterly self inflicted huff of amusement breaks from him unbidden, and a slow smile, toothy but faded, pulls his lips.

"There's chaos there." He murmurs, to no one in particular. He's rocking slightly from side to side, an unconscious motion that both comforts him - a notion he denies, even now - and quells a little of the sickened feeling in his gut. He feels tired, a bone deep, jagged exhaustion that leaves him hollow and cold, deep in his core. The near constant thrum and vibration of power in his veins is gone, replaced only by a cold, sluggish feeling that keeps his heart working harder than it ever has before. It's both strangely freeing, and terrifying in an incredibly lonely way to be stripped of that power, the magic like a constant voice and companion in the back of his head simply...gone.

It's been with him since the time he was a child, a curse he resented with a passion at first, but eventually learned to embrace and wield as his own, and he misses it almost as fiercely as his freedom.

@SanctifiedSavage

It shouldn't come as a surprise to Yukina that he doesn't exactly have a plan, and that the people he'd killed along his travels just happened to be a victim of circumstance. Many of the mages she'd caught and trained in her time were of the same sort. Random killings along their path.

While there is distaste and disappointment, it doesn't show. Instead, she nods a little. Accepting his answers as the truth. The odds he'd lie knowing the punishment for it is... Well. Slim, now. Yukina isn't under the impression he's entirely broken, but there's little hesitation and even less defiance now.

She then gestures to the food. "You may want to eat. After you rest some, I'll be putting you to work in camp." He was weak. That much, she could see. He'd only done it to himself, mind, so she didn't feel any sort of pity. Neither was she going to afford him any real amount of rest. Just the afternoon. Enough for him to orientate himself in the world.

At that, she stood and returned her chair to her desk. "Stay put." After that, she left him alone in the tent for a small stint of time. It was hard to say exactly how long, but the light outside didn't change much. She returned shortly with a simple leather shirt, pants, and boots. Yukina tossed them at the edge of his rug, just beyond his reach, before she said, "Now, ask for the clothes."

He knows he should eat, but the fact that she is right is vile enough that any hunger he might of had fades away in the space of a moment. He watches her stand through half lidded eyes, snorting softly at her order to stay put. Where, exactly, does she think he's going to go? She leaves, then, and it's all he can do to stop himself falling face down on the spot. Instead, he slumps down over his knees, a shuddering exhale leaving his lips as heavy lids fall closed over aching eyes and his head lolls against his shoulder. He's so tired.

He drifts off, for how long he doesn't know, and the feeling of actual sleep is a wondrous thing, rest provided, not by retreating from pain or succumbing to it, by just by the need for sleep. He's bleary eyed and momentarily confused when he's snapped from it, straightening his spine with a low groan and blinking at the clothes thrown towards him shallowly. He raises his gaze to the Blessed after a moment, swallowing around the dry feeling in his mouth and, while he can't quite muster a glare, the anger in his eyes is still present, if dulled.

He knows exactly what she's doing, now, what she's trying to degrade him too, and the most terrifying part is that he knows she's already won half the battle. His first instinct is to do what she orders, ask for something so simple as clothing to wear, and the urge to resist it is a rushed afterthought. He grits his teeth, turning his glare on the items just beyond his reach and vaguely considering just reaching for them anyway. He flinches a moment later, shrinking back into himself as his skin tingles, sparks of embers racing through his veins. He can't tell if it's actual punishment or just a phantom pain, but it's enough to break him and he hates himself for it.

"Can...can I have them, Blessed." It's more of a statement then a question, his face turned towards his knees and eyes almost clenched shut as he tries to breath around the suffocating weight of 'weak weak weak' in his chest.

@SanctifiedSavage

The Blessed watches him as he struggles with the order. Not quick enough, not demure enough. Her wings flare a little and she crosses her arms, looking down at him like one might a dog that has misbehaved. "Forehead to the ground. Ask properly." Pushing him, just to see how obedient he'll be for something as simple as clothing. Just because it's warmer in the tent doesn't mean it's warm.

But she doesn't like the pauses and she doesn't like the cowering. She wants quick, unflinching obedience. It's just a matter of training him to that point. Of getting him to understand that, from here on out, anything he wants or needs is because she grants it.

@HeartOfFlame

He chokes on a breath, the hand to clinging to his fur clenching into a fist. His fingers are still raw and scratched, splinters of pain knifing through them, but it's physical, it has a cause and effect that he can identify beyond 'I did something wrong'. It's not a thought process he's used to, a way of life, and the sick feeling in his gut has nothing to do with his physical state of being.

He blows a shaking breath through his cheeks, feels his eyes burn and his throat constrict as he rocks forwards on aching knees and drops his temples to the dirt. A breath to steady himself, another as he tries to stomach how low he has fallen. The tips of his raggedly shorn hair tickle his ears, another reminder of the degradation, the sense of self they're trying to rob him off.

"Can I h-have the clothes, p-please, Blessed."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches him critically. Not as one watches another person, but like a butcher would an animal they might slaughter. Checking to see if its ready. After a moment, her wings flare a little more and she says, "You may dress yourself."

She doesn't move away after the permission is granted, but rather, continues to look down on him while he does so. Noting his movements and expression. Gauging his progression. Then, when he's done, she gestures a little, a hand wave he isn't likely to see, and issues her new order, "Ask for rest." Driving it into him that he will need to ask her for just about anything.

@HeartOfFlame

His movements are slow and pained, half expecting those flames to spread across his skin once more as he extracts himself from the fur and dresses. He tries to ignore her, pretend she's not there, but it's not so easy, and, if anything, he's more acutely aware of her eyes on him than anything else. He shivers as the cold air outside his wrap hits his bare skin, a brief burst of energy seeing him to his feet in order to dress properly. His fingers are shaking again by the time he gets to the boots, his teeth grinding against each other for the hundredth time in how long he doesn't know. An eternity, it feels like.

He's cold and shivering and tired again by the time he's finished, his gaze flicking towards the Blessed cautiously as he reaches for the fur and wraps it back around his shoulders. He's on his feet, but he might as well be curled into a ball under her feet for all that he feels like himself.

He feels defeated, a notion he's less than familiar with, and the shock of it leaves him hollow. "May I sleep, Blessed?" He's not really aware of speaking until his voice hits his ears, small and strangled, a fragment of his former self, much as the rest of him.

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina is quite pleased, this time, with how quick he is to ask permission. Bend someone long enough and they break. She nods, but also says, "You may." It'll be the first real rest he's had since arriving at the camp. If he hadn't started to submit, he'd likely end up killing himself.

Something the Blessed always saw as the fault of the Pet, not hers. He need only do as she say to get food, water, and rest.

Once he was down, she left the tent. It was time to start planning an outing. To test the extent of the leash and see just how obedient he was willing to be. Such things had to be carefully orchestrated, of course. If he ended up throwing a fit and crumbling in the street, screaming and bloodying himself, they needed either people who didn't mind, or a place to take him. Bjarth had been scouting out such places and it was high time they planned a visit.

@HeartOfFlame

He nearly crumples then and there. His legs buckle slowly, lowering him back to the ruffled rug as he clutches his fur around his shoulders and curls into it. He should be wary, his honed battle instincts on high alert against sleeping where 'the enemy' can see. But he's beyond that. He's exhausted and hurting and something in his core is broken. He can't be bothered trying to fight it, and as him as that sounds it pains him, because it's not. It's his way to fight, always. To resist and defy and frustrate and then smite, but he can't.

He draws his legs up under the fur, arms wrapped loosely around his chest, and lets his eyes close. He's cold and tired and just wants to sleep. To sleep and maybe wake to a world where this is all just some garish nightmare, haunting his dreams and tormenting him in his mind. It's a vague, desperate hope, but it's all he has. It doesn't take long for him to fade, slipping into a dreamless sleep like that of the dead, little more than a ball of fur and too-short hair against the dirt.

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina let him sleep throughout the rest of that day and through the night. They didn't have plans to go anywhere until morning, anyway, so there was no reason to rouse him until then.

Breakfast was brought into the tent. Cooked meats, cold, fresh fruit, and a buttery roll for Yukina. A tray of water and oatmeal for Kanimir, set just off his rug. Yukina waited until the attendant was out of the tent before she woke him with her boot to his hip. "Wake up." An order. One that, should he be slow in obeying, would hurry him along with the burning pain along his back. Proper motivation.

She sat and ate slowly, as she usually did. The Blessed wasn't usually in a rush to do much, though she watched him. When she was done, popping the last bite of fruit in her mouth, she said, "If you ever have a question, request, or something to say, you are to ask kneeling. Head to the ground. Then I'll consider what it is you have to say and whether or not I'll respond."

Then something heavy and metal was tossed in front of him. A thick leather collar with the chain already attached. A leash. "Put that on."

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir's woken by a solid blow against his hip, pain blossoming across his back and down his leg before he even has his eyes open. He groans, rolling to the side and peeling his eyes open. The world comes into focus quickly, the ache around his eyes faded to a tolerable irritant rather than a pounding pulse. He blinks for a moment, adjusting to a world not swaying and washed out, before flames lick at his spine and he lurches upwards, rising to his knees with relative ease. He pauses, then, clenching and relaxing his hands, feeling a soft, but present, thrum through his veins. A small smile pulls at his lips, slow and measured, before he quickly shakes it off and turns towards the Blessed, wary. There's a tray near the edge of the rug and she has yet to address him, so he reaches for it, sculling the water like the precious resource it truly is.

There's still a feeling of something not quite right in his gut, but he ignores it in favour of folding his legs underneath him and eating, quietly and quickly. The return of his power, if weak, is bolstering, washing away a little of the despair and helplessness that had gripped him the night before. He knows he cannot direct it towards the Blessed, knows that to do so would just be signing a warrant for his own suffering, but it's there. He's not helpless, he never was, he was just alone and terrified. The pulse of Rivening through his veins gives a little of his confidence back, and his gaze scans the tent in a calculating way, if still wary.

For all that his self confidence has returned a little, he still flinches when she speaks. It's an involuntary action and he mentally slaps himself for it, but it doesn't really matter. She has a sway over him, that he cannot deny. She's...that thing inside of him that she's broken is still in pieces and as much as he can tell himself he's not afraid of her, his power gives him the conviction not to be...he's still afraid. She sparks that cold, chilling fear in his chest that wraps around his lungs and makes it hard to breathe. He doesn't know what to do with it and so he simply ducks his head, feels the short tips of his hair brush against his neck and focuses on his anger for that particular offence.

He's finished the small bowl of oatmeal before she moves again, setting it aside and in the process of folding his hands in his lap and wondering what humiliation she has planned for today when something solid is thrown in front of him and he almost bodily recoils. Hand planted on the ground in front of him and halfway to pushing himself back, his eyes catch up with his instincts and an invisible hand slides ice down his spine. A collar. It's a fucking collar.

His gaze snaps up, trying to read her face, searching for some sign this is all a twisted joke. But who is he kidding, he knows well and truly that there is no joking here. She's tortured him for days on end just to make him obey her word, left him to suffer for hours upon hours just to hear him say he understood her twisted, fucked up plans to make him 'obedient'. Her eyes are cold and emotionless, and despite the anger and desperate frustration coiling in his chest, he knows he can't fight her.

His hand, previously so steady and sure, shakes with finite tremors as he reaches out for the collar. The material is cold and unforgiving under his palm, and he almost drops it in the attempt to pick it up. He swallows convulsively, mouth suddenly dry, and turns the heavy leather band over in his hold. A warning flicker starts at the base of his spine, fingers of flame dancing across his ribs, and he chokes back a pathetic sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl before lifting it, chain and all, to settle around his neck. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely find the clasp, breathing suddenly laboured, and whatever composure he has is slipping from his grasp like hot butter. Hot tears prick the back of his eyes and he wishes, suddenly, vehemently, for his Chakram, a dagger, something sharp and steel. For whom, he's not even sure anymore.

After what feels like an age, he manages to cinch the buckle, the tug of a few wayward strands of hair caught in the process little but a pinprick in comparison to the burning rocks settled over is lungs and the damp, heat in his eyes. The heaviness of it almost drags him down, his spine straightening forcefully as he tries to readjust his shoulders to account for the extra weight around his throat. He feels suffocated, like he can barely breath around the thick leather strap, even as he knows he wasn't capable of fastening it that tight. He has a feeling the difficulty breathing has nothing to do with the physical presence, but far more what it implies. He's spiralling again, the strength he had summoned from the feeling of magic in his blood lost in the crashing current of fear and desperation and self hatred. He can't look up, gaze fixed on his hands where they rest in his lap, clenched together fierce enough to make his knuckles pale, still shaking despite that, but even so he knows she's watching him.

@SanctifiedSavage

It's a process for him to collar himself, but he does so without inflicting more pain on himself. Progress. Yukina remains sitting, her legs crossed and wings fanned out. Relaxed. Her breakfast is finished. She extends one of her hands, palm up, before she then orders, "Bring me the leash." Forcing him to hand over the other end of his collar. The physical representation of his enslavement to her. A nice reminder of what he is and his placement in this world, now.

Yukina doesn't exactly relish the training, and there is no joy in her expression or words. It just is. This is what must be done to monsters, to murderers. To break them, to create something useful and reshape them with purpose. Fashioning some order out of the chaos.

Every interaction she's had with him has been cold and succinct. Expecting him to either do as he's told or suffer until he does. However long it takes is entirely up to him and how much pain he's willing to endure.

Each step of the process is necessary, and she is anything if dutiful.

@HeartOfFlame

He tries to steady his breathing, regain some semblance of control over himself, but he can't shake the weight of the collar. Heavy and unforgiving, tightening by the second. His lungs are working a mile a minute, nostrils flared as he grinds his mouth shut, muscles through his jaw tensing and then spasming. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it's loose enough for him to fit his fingers between the leather and his skin, but the foremost thought in his mind is the heavy weight of it against his skin, crushing his throat, trapping him. He doesn't even hear the Blessed speak until pain, hot like lava and sharp as needles, flares across his spine and through his veins.

He looses that last shred of self control, falling forwards onto his hands and knees. A cry rips from his lips, breathless and distraught, as one hand lifts to tug at the chain dangling between his arms, coiled next to the rug. He's gasping for breath now, each sharp, whistling inhale seeming to provide less and less oxygen, and the longer he panics the worse the daggers through his bones become.

"I can't. I can't, I can't breathe!" He wheezes, vision blurring as his voice cracks. His chest feels like it's caving in, like if he looks beneath the material of his shirt he would find his bones bent backwards, stabbing shards and splinters through his lungs, his heart. "I'm sorry," He sobs, fingers loosing feeling where they tug fruitlessly at the edge of the leather band, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm sorry."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches him break again. The collar too much, the weight of it, the knowledge. Whatever it was. She doesn't move, her hand remains outstretched. Right up until he falls on his hands and knees. Another sigh escapes her. A dog disappointing their master with the failure to complete a trick. But the pain doesn't end and she feels no sympathy. He has his order and she remains sitting. Waiting.

He'll either pass out from hyperventilating, collapse as the pain flares like a demon, eager to embrace him once more, or he'll bring the leash to her. Whatever happens, Yukina waits for it. Patience as a saint, with the expression as forgiving as one carved from marble. His pleas fall on deaf ears.

She feels nothing for him. Sees his pain and suffering as penitence for all the lives lost. A way to pay for the fraction of the damage he's done and the lives he's ruined. In that, there is no sympathy. No mercy. The Blessed waits for him to either break or obey, as she usually does, and their will either move forward or wait another day while he suffers through his inability to comply.

@HeartOfFlame

His pleas go ignored, much as he subconsciously knew they would, and the pain flares hotter, fiercer. He crumples, meeting the dirt for the umpteenth time since this heel began, and his wheezing breaths shorten even further. His vision is fading, the sound of his own panting loud in his ears, but also distant. The pain is stronger than the panic, washing over him like a wave of a thousand knives, and he screams soundlessly into the dirt with what little air he has left.

For a moment, there is nothing. He's aware of the pain, of the inability to draw breath, of the way his body is twisting as the fire consumed him in its hungry maws, but he's distant from it. He can't feel, can't hear, can't see. He just..is. A staggered gasp, and the moment is over, everything comes rushing back, worse by tenfold, and he chokes on another scream in the same moment he drags in lungful of air and forces his body back off the ground. He isn't sure where the strength comes from, the only thing he's aware of if the desperate need for it to stop. He's already broken, he can feel the jagged pieces of himself, fractured and fragile, and now she's just shattering the fragments further.

He isn't really aware of his movements, only that he somehow crosses the distance between where he lay and where the Blessed is sitting. He can't feel the chain in his hand, only knows when the weight falls from his palm into her outstretched hand. Instantly, the pain stops, and the surge of strength leaves him as swiftly as it had come. He crumbles back to the dirt, weak and pathetic, his chest heaving as he tries to draw air to fill his burning, aching lungs. His throat is dry and scratched, each inhale aggravating it more, and he can feel the skin on the back of his neck rubbing red under the stiff leather of the collar. The panic is still there, bubbling beneath his skin, waiting, but he can breathe, is breathing, and for the moment that is enough to keep it at bay.

@SanctifiedSavage

It takes as long as it takes. Something Yukina's teacher had told her, something she'd been taught during her own lessons, and something that had been etched into her skin during her own training. Time didn't care about mortal plans, so she never made things set in stone. His training, his breaking, would take as long as it took to do so. Every Blessed knew that. Every mage was different. Every tool took a certain finesse in working.

Yukina knew without a doubt she could break it, it was just a matter of time.

When he crawled to her, her hand went out. Palm up. Not stretching, mind. Only as far as was comfortable, so he would rightly bring it to her and place the leash in her hand. When he did, he collapsed. Unsurprising. Yukina gives him but a moment before she stands. "You are to follow and there should be no tension in this leash." It sounded simple enough, but learning the proper distance was going to be a hell all in its own right.

Then, without a word, she turned to walk. Like training a puppy, she went until there was tension in the leash. Just short of dragging him, because she wouldn't do that. It was time to take him for a walk around camp.

@HeartOfFlame

Leash. He isn't even aware that he's been denying that is what it is until she says it. Then, the word is in his mind, and the full impact of what she's doing to him hits him. He bites his lip to keep the strangled, almost pained, sound that wants to break from him contained, focusing instead on pushing his body off the ground, every joint and muscle aching once more. The leash tightens against his throat, pushing the collar against the back of his neck, and he feels panic flare for a moment before he finds his feet and takes a few hurried paces forwards, easing the slack. He's too close to her, then, his immediate instinct to shy away from being so close to her wings, to put as much distance between them as possible. He falls back a step, only to feel the sting of the leather against his skin once again and immediately, without even a chance for thought, move forwards.

They step outside, then, and the light is blinding. He reels, aware of staggering slightly to the side as his equilibrium slides out from underneath him and threatens to plonk him straight on his rear. The stabbing light through his eyes is like daggers in his brain, and the nausea from before returns in full force. He chokes on a hot breath, managing to keep his legs under him and moving through force of will alone, and wraps his arms tightly around his torso. His eyes close to narrow slits, watching only the Blessed in front of him, as his point of focus becomes solely, and keenly, the intense desire not to throw up.

He should be taking stock of his surroundings, examining the camp, looking for escape routes, exits. Looking for Keithia. But once again, he's tired - already - and sore and feels sick to his stomach. So, for now, walking and not puking are his main objectives in life.

This is what she's degraded him to.

@SanctifiedSavage 

The Sentinel camp didn't have that many people. Twenty-three at best, though currently about twenty. Sentinels, attendants, recruits. There was freshly fallen snow with new tracks in it, reflecting the bright afternoon light. Seeing him out and about, though, drew some attention. Not because it was completely odd, but because they knew what the leash represented. A mage in training.

For some, it was a thing of awe. The physical manifestation of Shinrai's powers at work. Especially for those new, who had never seen a mage collared before. For others, they were simply curious as to the progression. How it was all coming along.

Yukina dressed as she had since she'd returned to camp, in padded leather and furs. Clean cut as always, in dark brown and black that made her snow white and silvery wings stand out all the more. She led him around the various work stations and spoke as though he weren't there. A prop, a pet, tailing its master. People remarked upon his progress, commented on the weather, and spoke of local news. All of this felt normal to them. Was normal.

Save for Keithia, of course. She didn't see him until Yukina made her way to the cooking tent, where she was dutifully shucking corn. Kneeling on a mat that was her work spot. The chatter of Yukina's arrival drew her attention briefly, but the person tailing her caught her attention and stole her breath. Keithia had known terrible things were happening, but with no real opportunity, the tidbits she'd heard didn't do the reality of it justice. It was effort not to cry and she bit her lower lip to quell a soft whimper.

It was a sharp pain, feeling helpless. Unable to do anything for him. She wanted to. Desperately. Anything. Her imagination hadn't been so cruel as to what had really happened. She couldn't have conceived of what was really being done. The nymph just didn't have the capacity for such wickedness. She tracked his movements, hoping beyond hope that he was still... there.

@HeartOfFlame

He shuffles along behind her, pained and miserable. Eventually, his eyes adjust to the light and the rolling feeling in his gut subsides, if only a little. He begins to take a little interest, then, his eyes flickering from face to face in the small camp, finding only calm and perhaps a little excitement in the eyes of those around him. He's not entirely surprised, but the realisation that he is surrounded by those who will not even try to help him, are quite happy to see his suffering, is an icy one. He shivers, bare forearms covered in goosebumps by now, and redirects his attention ahead. Every now and then, he will fall a stride too slow and the collar presses against his neck. The panic, mostly under his control now, if only because he's too tense to let it not be, will rear it's ugly head then, and he almost scrambles to cover the distance, to slacken the leash.

Most of the faces pass him by in a blur after he sees their indifference, but when they reach the cooking tent, he catches pale ivory antlers in his peripheral and his heart leaps quite effectively into his mouth, head snapping up from the low bow he has adopted. A small noise escapes him before he can stop it, his chest constricting as he twists to catch sight of her. Keithia looks healthy, if uncomfortable and smothered in such human clothing, and he is relieved for as long as it takes her eyes to meet his. She looks sad, a worried tilt to her expression. The wrongness of it all is like a dagger through his heart, the memory of his promise to her, to keep her safe, to show her freedom , driving that pain home all the more.

He slows his pace a fraction, swallowing around the dry lump in his throat, and speaks, voice soft and weak, pleading. "Blessed...M-may I speak to-to Keithia? P-please?"

@SanctifiedSavage

He'd been so quiet and tailing her obediently up until this point that Yukina almost misses when he does speak. She finishes her short conversation with the attendant cook before she glances over her shoulder at her pet. It takes her a long moment to consider, debating whether or not she should even allow the connection to continue. Ultimately, she decides to allow it if only because the girl had likewise been so well behaved. No reason to deny a brief conversation under supervision.

More to the point, she's curious what he'll do. So, she nods once before saying, "Keep it brief."

Keithia's breath is soft and shallow. Her entire attention has zoned in on Kanimir, to the exclusion of the rest of the world. Not even really aware he's asked to talk to her. It pains her to see him in such a way, and she's already trying to think of some way – any way – that she might actually get to see him when no one else is around. That he's actually allowed to speak with her doesn't register until permission is actually granted. Vision blurry, she stands and rubs her reddened, calloused hands on her human leathers before she walks over to him.

@HeartOfFlame

He's expecting a rejection, rebuttal, more pain. The approval, when it comes, is almost like a physical blow itself. His breath leaves him in a rush, a feeling like dizziness washing over him, and he turns towards Keithia before the Blessed can change her mind. He takes a few steps to her before the leash tightens against his throat, pressure at the front now, and he back-pedals almost as quickly, fear flashing through his eyes while a hand half lifts towards it before settling on his chest instead.

Keithia looks so normal, even with her cropped hair and the clothes that do not fit her at all. There is emotion in her face, ever unguarded, and hesitance in her stance and he never imagined something so simple could mean so much to him. He feels weak in the knees just looking at her, a small ray of normality and the familiar in this hellhole, and his vision is blurred by the time she reaches him, and he doesn't even bother trying to stop the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Before he can really think about it, he's lifted a hand to her face, touch feather light and equally as gentle. He doesn't want to hurt her, he never has. Her skin is warm but cool under his fingertips and a hitched breath escapes him.

"Are y-you okay?" He rasps out, his eyes flickering over her, checking her antlers, what skin he can see, never settling on one place for long. "Have t-they hurt you?"

@SanctifiedSavage

Though Yukina continues her conversation with the cook attendant, she watches her pet speak with the odd girl. The concern and care obvious, though she doesn't understand it. Certainly not because he seemed to kill indiscriminately. The odd loyalty, then, is something she can't place.

It's an effort for Keithia not to cry. Years of practice and a desire not to make it worse for him prevent the tears from falling, but she takes his hand when he reaches out to her, holding it in both of hers. Her throat seems constricted and her chest heavy. Words won't come. Why is he asking after her when what has happened to him is clearly so much worse? It pales in comparison to the rough treatment, the suffocating humanity, the detachment and cold. None of it matters so much as how he might be hurt and trembling in front of her.

Unable to answer, for fear she might lose her tentative grip on her own sadness, she simply brings his hand to her lips and gently kisses his knuckles. Feather light and full of affection and heartbreak.

It's that display that has Yukina pull on the leash. "That's enough." She might not understand the odd loyalty, the odd connection, but she doesn't need anything empowering him either. Seeing it, though, she's decided to have Bjarth question the girl a bit more thoroughly on who she is and what she might mean to the mage. Obviously they were missing something.

Yukina doesn't wait to see if he'll keep up, she simply continues to walk around the camp.

@HeartOfFlame

She doesn't speak, but her actions say far more than she probably could anyway. Her grasp on his hand is gentle, a word he's almost forgotten the meaning of, and the sharp edges in his chest both loosen and dig deeper for it. For being reminded it exists and knowing he will not feel it again. He wants to say more, to comfort her, to reassure her that he hasn't forgotten his promise, but the Blessed's voice hits his ears and he flinches, gaze snapping towards her immediately before flying back to Keithia.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, holding his ground as the leash gains tension against his neck. "I'll g-get us out." His voice is little more than a breath, all he has left in him and still seeming too loud, surely travelling to those around him. The collar digs into his neck before he can even try to say more, to stay with her longer, and the pull of it nearly shatters his fragile balance.

He stumbles back, clinging to his vision of Keithia before he's forced to turn and jog to catch up with the Blessed, his throat aching from the unforgiving pressure against it. The panic, at least, has been dulled, if only for the moment, perhaps by Keithia, he can't tell. His hands are shaking again by the time he's reestablished the appropriate distance between himself and the Blessed, and he doesn't waste much time tucking them back around himself. It's still cold out, the chill sliding down his spine and over his bare arms, freezing the moisture on his cheeks, but he barely notices.

He has to get Keithia out. She doesn't deserve this, not again, not ever. They won't let her go, not even if he obeys every word the Blessed throws at him, every humiliating, degrading order. There is no choice but to escape, and the fact that that thought raises first fear and then denial in his mind is sickening and infuriating. Once, what feels like an eternity ago, he would not have hesitated to do what needed to be done, to cut down anyone who stood in his way, no matter their powers or emotional bluntness. He can't quite reconcile that past self with the shadow he feels like now; weak and afraid, even when he resists, brief efforts that crumble as soon as the pain returns. The hatred he has for this shadow only pales by comparison to the hatred he has for her.

@SanctifiedSavage

It's difficult for Keithia to release his hand, but she invariably does so the collar doesn't pull on him any more than it does. Watching his retreating form is heartbreaking, but she tracks his movements for no other reason that she can't just look away. Can't just pretend he's not there.

The walk around the camp eventually extends to a brief stint in the wood. During this entire time, Yukina says nothing to him. Letting him keep pace with her and learn the distance to keep just enough slack in the leash. Like one would do when walking a new dog. They don't return to the tent until it's later in the evening, when he's likely tired from the walk.

When they enter her tent, her dinner of meat stew and hot rolls is already waiting. He has the same oatmeal placed near his rug. A new fixture has been added to her tent, as well. Hanging from one of the supports is a slender chain, directly over his rug. It hangs low enough he could sit with it attached to his collar, but nothing more. Yukina directs him to stand so she can exchange the leash chain with this new one. "Same rule applies. No tension in the chain." This chain could be easily broken if any force was applied. Its purpose is quite clear – to restrict his movement and force him to sit in one place, in one position. This leaves the food well out of reach, unless he puts some sort of tension on the delicate silver chain.

Before he'd be able to touch his food, he'd need to ask for it. Yukina wordlessly sits at her desk to begin her dinner.

@HeartOfFlame

If nothing else, it's a breath of fresh air to get out into the woods. As a general rule, nature and Kanimir don't get on particularly well, but he can't deny the - not quite relief, but maybe comfort - that washes over him when they step amongst the trees. There's wildlife there, flitting to and fro, going about its business. Birds chitter overhead, disturbed by the human intrusion into their domain. It's something normal, something familiar, and while not quite the same as his interaction with Keithia, it brings a small measure of repose, if only briefly.

By the time they return, though, he's dead on his feet. He hadn't realised how weak he felt, how little strength is left in him, and he's stumbling in the shallow snow when they reenter the camp, legs cold and tired, joints aching with each step. The effort to keep an appropriate pace with the Blessed is equal parts frustrating and exhausting, every time he misses a beat and falls too far, the fear claws back up his throat. He's almost glad when they reenter the tent, hoping in a small part of his mind that still has the capability to hope, that she will let him rest. It's a forlorn concept, and he sees almost immediately that its pointless.

The new chain is lighter, if nothing else. He can still feel the collar around his throat, heavy and oppressive, pressing against his skin every time he swallows,  but the weight of the leash doesn't drag it back and forth across his neck. He simply stands for a moment, finally taking a moment to pay some attention to the inside of the tent. There's nothing useful there, the rest of the interior bare and plain, and he draws his attention back to Yukina, eyes narrowing slightly.

He wonders what would happen if he just...moved forwards. Snapped the chain. Wrapped his hands around her throat and crushed it surely as it felt like his was being crushed. He knows, even as he entertains the thrilling fantasy, that he wouldn't make it halfway across the distance between them before the excruciating pain of his own magic turned against him returned and reduced him to little more than a writhing, wailing mess. Instead, he breathes out slowly, reminds himself the collar isn't that tight - he can breathe, and folds his legs underneath him. Being able to sit, at last, is a small mercy, and he slumps for all of a second before the collar presses against his flesh and he immediately, instinctively, straightens his spine.

Belatedly, he realises there's a tray of food just outside of his reach. He eyes it for a moment, aware she wants him to ask her for it, unsure if he should. He still feels off, underneath the exhaustion and aching bones and burning desire to slay the Blessed where she stands. He frowns a little, wondering if she will punish him for not asking, lower lip caught between his teeth. Rationally, he knows he needs to eat, to conserve what strength he can muster for getting them out of this gods-forsaken place, but the prospect of it holds little appeal to him. He sighs softly, eyes closing while he folds his hands in his lap, a fairly decent portrayal of defeat.

"Can I eat, B-Blessed?" A tight breath, gaze flickering upward but not quite to her face. He's been aware of his speech hitching and stuttering over the last few days, done his best to ignore it, move past it to deal with everything else. But, this is the first time he's stumbled over her title. Already, he's anticipating the vicious flames through his bones.

@SanctifiedSavage

When he asks, Yukina twists in her chair to look at him. To make him away she heard, but she finishes her own meal before she eventually gets up and uses the toe of her boot to scoot his now chilled meal within arm's reach. It's gotten quite late by now, so the only light they have are the interior, flickering oil lights.

After Yukina sits, she crosses her legs. Relaxed and studying him. Then, just to see his reaction, she says, "I'm going to have Bjarth question your friend. He's a bit heavy handed, but I think it'll be more effective in drawing out new information. He's especially good with those that don't like to talk." If anyone else might've said it, the words might've come out threatening. For Yukina, it was a statement. Informing him as to the plans concerning the one person in camp he knew and had expressed any interest in. Of course it was manipulative, but her tone nor her intent was malicious. Yukina didn't really care whether or not the girl was harmed – the Blessed always believed the means justified the end – and one could never go too far when it came to their holy war. Because that's what it is. A war.

The Blessed is convinced they're missing something, she's just not sure what it is. Since she can't place what the girl is, they'll have to start picking at her to find out. Her expression never changes and her eyes never leave him, studying his reaction to her news.

@HeartOfFlame

She completely ignores the stumble, and he can't decide if that relieves or irritates him. He breathes out through his nose, feeling it shudder in his chest, and watches her turn to look at him briefly. She says nothing, but there is no flare of pain to indicate he's done something wrong either. She's just making him wait, then. He sighs, resigning himself to it, and closes his eyes, dozing as best he can with his spine stiff and straight, the collar a constant presence against his skin.

He drifts in and out for a little, coming back to himself every time he starts to lean to any particular side and the chain tightens. It's not really restful or productive in any way, but it's better than sitting here thinking about how screwed he is. He's settled on the fact that he's going to kill her, for the moment, and he doesn't need to think himself out of it before he even gets a chance. When he blinks himself back to wakefulness for the tenth time in what feels like the same amount of minutes, the day's faded fast, leaving them in flickering lamp light. The Blessed is on her feet, crossing over to him and pushing the bowl of oatmeal into his reach. He regards it blandly, making no sudden move to reach for it. He's really not hungry, even though he knows he should be. There's a dry, tingling feeling down the back of his throat and what feels like needles in the bottom of his gut, but not quite hunger.

He chooses to leave it for the moment, shifting his gaze over to the Blessed as she seats herself and speaks. His eyes narrow, something in their depth that hasn't been there since before all of this sharpening back into existence in an instance. Heat flares in his chest, a hiss muffled mere seconds before it can leave his lips. She won't touch Keithia, he won't let her. Again, he considers moving forward, snapping the flimsy chain, taking her down. His eyes flick briefly to the bowl at his side, gauging how good of a weapon the accompanying wooden spoon will make, before a much easier option presents itself to him.

He blinks, surprised by its mere existence, before defeat washes in its wake and he slumps as much as the chain will allow him. He drops his gaze again, searching for something, what he's not sure. A better option? A way out of this that doesn't make his skin crawl and those angry voices that sound like the man he used to be scream in indignation. He finds nothing, no better alternatives, nothing to make him feel less like her plaything, her willing pet, and a soft sound that scales somewhere between a sigh and a groan leaves him as he turns his face back towards her, eyes narrowed and spiteful, if still broken.

"What do you want to know?"

---

Two years.

His breath fogs in the air, melting the dancing snowflakes where they curl around him before immediately freezing in the blustering wind once more. The winds howl, whistling through the foothills with little mercy and less compassion. Even through his thick furs, the cold is palpable, sliding down the back of his neck and battering his face as he pushes against the wind. In the distance, swaying light reaches out, calling him forwards to safe harbour and shelter.

Two years of searching, following, tracking; losing the trail and thinking it gone, only to pick it up a few weeks, a few bodies, later.

Flakes are frosted in his hair, the wind battering it around his eyes and then pulling it back, attempting to free it from the band keeping the majority out of his face. His beard is already frozen, filled with flakes and tiny droplets of frozen ice that coalesce into a solid shape. It doesn't matter. His journey is near its end. The boy is a few days ahead of him, tracks almost lost beneath the fury of the winter snows upon the passes, but the storm that batters him now has been settled here for almost as long. It's doubtful the boy would be foolish enough to try and cross the mountains with such a powerful outlet of Mother Nature's fury upon him.

Unfortunately, he is not so foolish.

Two years of barely scraping by on the occasional odd job, of having to pull his sword on those who acquired his services just to incite them into coughing up what was owed. Two years of chipped blades and weary boots and clothes that grew more threadbare by the day.

The village comes into reach, perimeter fence rearing up on his left, and he lets his hand fall from where it has been shielding his eyes, squinting into the bright lamplight that reaches out towards him from firmly closed windows and shutter. A tavern appears from behind the low sat houses, and he turns towards it firmly. There is little chance the boy has found refuge with any of the village locals. He'll be holed up in the tavern, no doubt drinking and whoring as his heart desires. Filth.

The tavern is quiet when he enters, the wind howling behind him, snow twirling merrily through the door on a sharp breeze. His boots thud heavily on the worn wooden floor, made louder by the sudden silence, and his gaze scans the scattered faces that greet him, lips drawing back in a displeased scowl when he does not find the one he seeks. He shakes himself off, peeling off his heavy, fur lined coat and hanging it over the side of the bar counter. This won't take long.

His the tip of his scabbard clinks against his belt with every step, the tiny sound projected to greater volumes in the hanging silence. These people are wiser than they look; they can smell the intent on him, sense the weight of his objective here. None try to stand in his way, to ask after his business. He's grateful for that, if only because to deal with them would be a bother, and he's only after one being's blood tonight.

The woman behind the bar is into her elder years, perhaps a decade or two his senior. He doesn't particularly care. She straightens as he approaches, wiping her hands nervously on a dirty dishcloth and glancing up and down his frame. Her gaze lingers on his sword, a wise woman. Still, she overcomes herself, clearing her throat and ceasing her wringing of the dishcloth between her fingers.

"How may I help you, sir? We don't have many beds left, but we have warm food and drink to warm you from the storm."

He shakes his head, dropping a hand on the bar with a solid thump that makes the maid, and several patrons in his peripheral, jump.

"I'm not here for refreshment." He rumbles, voice like sandpaper over gravel, harsh and grating but smooth all at once. He raises a finger towards the ceiling, the floor of the rooms above. "I'm here for one of your guests. Younger man, dark hair, pale eyes."

Two years, and finally, finally, he has found his target. His blood. His filthy, traitorous, magic using son.

The maid's expression remains confused, worried, no sign of recognition in her eyes. Kytorin sighs, lowers his hand to rest on his sword hilt. "Scars like a beast's claws on his cheek, eyes with no pupil. Horns."

Realisation registers in her eyes, and Kyto knows that he has won.

@SanctifiedSavage 

His reaction was interesting. Like a caged animal looking for an escape. Perhaps a weapon, even. Still searching for a fight, or a way out. There was life in him yet, at the mention of his friend. Social, familiar, and loyal ties were the strongest. Some mages clung to their sense of self for so long because of them. Yukina frequently had such mages severe those ties when it became hindersome.

She was trying to find out if they were reaching that point.

Her head tilted, just a little, at his question. What do you want to know? He'd dropped her title. Pain blossomed up his back and embraced him like a lover. Burning through him as it did all those he'd hurt before. "You become so spirited at the mention of her, at the sight of her." Yukina stands while he suffers. Pacing near him. "The last mage I trained had a sister. He became quite complacent and obedient, but any time she was mentioned... He would resist. He would fight." The Blessed stopped just in front of his rug, looking straight down at her pet. The pain left him so he would hear her words, cutting crystal clear in the chill air of the tent. "I had him kill her with his own magic."

---

The fun thing about Fiachna's life was that opportunities, and fun, frequently fell into her lap. No plan, no effort. It just strolled into the same room as her, brooding with years of built up angst, and presented itself.

That was how she found her husband. Her dear, sweet Kytorin who had aged since her parting. No longer with a babe – their song had grown since – and with a sour disposition that radiated an aura of go fuck yourself. It suited him. He wasn't the sweet boy whose life she ruined. Rather, he was the product of all that. Broken, bitter, and angry. She could feel it without even having to talk to him.

Most would want to stay away from someone they'd wronged so thoroughly.

Fiachna followed him. At a distance. Admiring her husband as he wandered through towns and tracked down the gods only knew what. Watching him hunt was a joy in its own right. He was as determined and goal-orientated as the angel was frequently not. A harsh dash of order that drew her like a moth to flame. Even if he wasn't the brilliant boy from before, there was still the sense of a plan. Fiachna liked nothing more than to muck up a plan. All the better if it was her dear husband's.

Eventually, she followed him into a storm. Cold, biting snow and wind that made tailing him annoying. Divine she might be, but Fiachna rather liked being comfortable.

So, when he went in... she decided to go in too. Minutes later, of course.

Fiachna didn't expect him to recognize her, of course. She didn't adopt the same sweet appearance as when they met. That would be too easy. Her eyes were the same, though. They always would be. She entered draped in a thick, black furred cloak trimmed in raven feathers and dark leather. Her black hair had been braided back in a myriad of braids. They twinkled with silver, where clasps held her hair back.

Everyone was far too busy eyeing her husband at the bar to pay the slight woman too much mind, and Fiachna was perfectly fine with that. He was making a scene.

The maid shook her head a little, eyes wide. Giving away that she certainly did know who he was talking about. "H-he's not... He was taken... away..." The god's honest truth, because he terrified her. That, and she didn't want any more trouble in the place. No one did.

Fiachna slid onto a stool near him and propped her chin on a palm before she cooed, "Leave the poor woman alone." All casual grace and unconcerned about him. Overly familiar, certainly. And maybe something about her would seem that way to him, too. If the feathers and eyes sparked any recognition. To the maid, she smiled and said, "I'd like something hot to drink."

The maid didn't move, unsure who she should be listening to.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir chokes on a gasp, falling forwards as that same fire races through his veins. Always the same, yet each time more intense. The collar pulls against his throat as he bends away from the pain, choking and cutting off what little air he has. He can't scream, doesn't have the air for it, but each gasping exhale is a gravelly cry of agony. The Blessed's voice grates against his ears, distant and muted, but somehow clear. His blood runs cold even as he suffers, fighting to stay upright, to stop the thick leather digging into his skin, suffocating him, leaving the panic room to rise.

The pain leaves, fading as swiftly as it comes, and he lifts his head to meet her gaze. There's fire in his eyes, still, anger and hatred and murderous intent. She's broken him, they're both well aware of that, but there's still fire in his spirit, there always will be. Even if she breaks him down, shreds his self to fragments of another life, a different man, he will always have that; it's who he is, what he is. A defiance to the way of things, the way of the world. Chaotic and defiant and trouble down to his last breath. He breathes in deeply, feels it grate against the back of his throat and stoke the prickling embers sunk into his flesh. Something hot and angry stirs in his gut, but he ignores it, even as it spreads along his veins, a phantom of the power he used to wield so simply.

"No." Is all that leaves his mouth, lips pressed into a firm line, eyes hard. She can break him and bend him and reduce him to little more than a plaything, but he will not let her hurt Keithia, not if he can still breathe, still has blood in his veins. He made her a promise, an oath to show her freedom. He's going to keep his damn word.

---

Kyto feels his brows draw down, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. No. He refuses to believe someone else beat him to the boy. Not after all this time, all this suffering. The godforsaken being is his, his to find, his to draw vengeance from. The hand still resting on the bar curls into a fist, tight and angry.

"Taken away by whom?" He asks lowly. He has little patience for the maid's worried eyes, the way she leans back away from him, sensing, or probably seeing, his frustration. He doesn't care. He's come too far for this, been through too much trouble for this complete bullshit. He's about to tell her so, to hurry her along as her mouth opens and closes in search of words.

Someone slides onto the stool on his left, a ruffle of black fabric and feathers all that catches in his peripheral, and a voice like a song slides over his ears. His expression falls, eyes going wide for a moment as his hand falls flat on the surface of the bar, memory ringing loud and clear in his ears.

"Leave the poor woman alone." She says, and Kyto is twenty one again, leaning against a bar in a fancy Reajh pub, tankard in hand and companions all around. Her voice wraps around him like a familiar lover and he shivers bodily before the rage sets in and he slams his palm down on the counter with enough force to make the entire structure shake. He could never forget that voice, that enchanting voice, so capable of twisting lies and rumour to corrupt a mind, fool a young man with his entire life ahead of him.

He turns on her, knuckles white where his hand grips the hilt of his sword, not quite capable of drawing on her. She's different, little details off from his memory, but still just as beautiful as he remembers, hair done up in an elaborate braid, feathers draped around her shoulders. Her eyes...gods he's forgotten how terrifyingly beautiful her eyes are. They sparkle in the hazy candlelight and he's breathless for a moment, taking her in. She hasn't aged a day, skin still as flawless and perfect as the day she left him, while his has grown old and brittle and battle scared.

He grinds his teeth together, banishes the traitorous thoughts, and steps into her space. One hand grabs her shoulder and he turns her towards him with a movement rough enough to break bones on a lesser being.

"You." He growls, fury flaring in the forefront of his mind, overtaking any thoughts of love lost between them, drawing his brows down in deep furrows. He wants to say more, to curse her, to strike her down where she stands. His rage is strong enough, pulsing through his veins like a hot current, urging him to draw his sword, have it over and done with right here, right now. He never thought an opportunity like this would present itself to him so easily. But, he can't. He's speechless and angry and wishes nothing more than to see her dead and gods she's beautiful.

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina allows him that moment. Lets him feel that surge of triumph, if at all, so when the pain wells up and slams into his chest, he has further to fall. Engulfed in the fire and agony, to her words, "You say that as though you have a choice."

Her mind is made up. Defiant until the end, but not for himself. Usually then case when strong ties are there. When loyalty or something more binds one to another. She watches him a moment, flares her wings in minor irritation, before she turns on her heel to summon the girl. There's no time like the present to get started.

Her pet is left to suffer blinding agony for the minutes it takes Keithia to show up. She's hauled to the tent by Bjarth, dragging her through the snow by her antler. Crying out at the pain, her small  hands holding on to his wrist in an attempt to lessen it in any way.

His pain subsides as she's thrown in front of the rug. Tears track their way down her pale face, brought on by the pain of being brought into the tent. She cowers on her knees, and curls in on herself to be as small as possible.

Yukina dismisses Bjarth with a wave before she gestures to Keithia. "Did you know her antlers regrow?"

---

Fiachna is pleasantly surprised when the recognition burns hot in Kyto. It doesn't even take a moment. He knows her. A smile curls on her lips – a wicked, secretive thing – and she's all too pleased when he turns that fury on her. The maid might shrink from it, but Fiachna basks in his attention. No matter the sort.

The angel half expects to get stabbed. It'd hurt, certainly, but it'd take more than the steel at his hip to kill her.

Then he's invading her space. Her eyes glitter with delight and she doesn't move away. Welcoming him, as a wife would. When he turns her, her entire body shifts as though it were planned. She straightens, bringing her closer. One of her legs inadvertently slides up his outer thigh before she hooks it behind his knee. For balance, of course.

One of her hands splay on his chest. It might look like she would try to push him back, but Fiachna's just touching. No real pressure and they both know it. "Good evening, my love. It appears you've missed me." Silken words purred in a teasing, heated dare. Go ahead, do whatever you like. Her eyes search his face and her hand slowly inches down his chest. "Age becomes you."

@HeartOfFlame

He gets a moment. A split second, a single fragment in time, before the pain returns and he howls. The noise that escapes him is inhuman, grating on his own ears even as his world dims to shifting figures in a sea of fizzing grey and black. His throat burns and tears with every screaming inhale, hot tears of unbridled agony sliding down his aching face. Still, Keithia's cries reach him, slipping through the haze of pain before it slowly subsides. He's gasping for air, chest heaving as his veins continue to burn even after the Blessed's touch has subsided. He knows the feeling and somehow dreads it, even as his attention falls completely and totally to Keithia, blood suddenly like ice.

She's cowering, hiding away from them, tears marking her face, and before he can properly think about it he's on his feet, snapping just shy of strangling himself with the taught leash and collar. A savage sound breaks from him, even as that same little voice in the back of his mind tells him he's only feeding more fuel to the fire. Even more distantly is the truth that this is his fault. He brought the Blessed to this point. He should have just cooperated, should have obeyed her, let her do as she would. Keithia doesn't deserve this. She has never killed, has never butchered without reason or rhyme, has never enjoyed the thrill of watching a living being turn to ash as a result of her power.

Just as suddenly as it came, the fight is gone from him, his legs suddenly weak as he sways and takes a step back, eyes wide and desperate as he looks between her and the Blessed.

"She's done nothing to you, Blessed." He tries, feels his voice shake, the tear of it as it vibrates through his scratched and stinging throat almost as bad as the burn in his chest as he watches his Keithia wait for the next blow. "Please, she doesn't - she hasn't done anything wrong! I'll-" He swallows thickly, feels a little part of himself shrivel and die as his decision is made, "I'll do whatever you want, Blessed. Just, please...don't hurt her."

---

She has the gaul to smile at him. Her eyes spark with something he recognises, memories of her skin against his, the soft press of her lips, rising unbidden. Kyto shakes them off like a physical weight, bearing the full brunt of his rage down on her even as she hooks a slender leg behind his knee, pale hand against his chest. He lifts his bigger, calloused one to rip the contact away, crushing her seemingly delicate fingers in his grip. He should be driving his sword through her heart by now, taking vengeance for the lies she spun, the destruction she wrought on a life destined for so much more. He can't do it. After all this time, all this pain and anger and loneliness. He finally has part of what he's longed for and he can't finish it.

He growls deep in his throat, a sound that is both disgusted and vexed. She has the cheek to tease him, her voice a low purr that had once lulled him into their bed, her arms, at night. He takes a step back, removing her contact against his leg in the same movement, though his hand remains firmly around his sword. Though, really, would such a weapon even work on her? He knows now, unlike the foolish blindness of his youth, that she is less than human; more than mortal. Would simple steel have any affect at all? He can't tell where the thoughts stem from, a desire to make sure the deed is done right, when he finally does it, or some foreign notion that he doesn't need to end her, can't anyway.

"What are you doing here?" He snaps, ignoring her words and settling for gaining information, if nothing else. Not that he can trust her as far as he can throw her anyway. But, well... She might be useful to find the boy.

@SanctifiedSavage

For all his anger, all his reaction to what's going on, Yukina remains impassive and observant. Watching like he's something to be studied, not someone. Her sharp gaze flits from him to the cowering girl, with absolutely no sympathy or mercy present. The Blessed feels nothing about using the girl to further train her pet. She'd done it before, just as described, and it seems it's something she might need to do again.

The anger fades into desperation and bargaining. Things she's seen before.

Her next words are crisp and cold while she stands next to Keithia, her arms crossed. Statuesque. "I'm not going to hurt her. You are." Then, with a small gesture toward the small, cowering girl, her order follows, "Use your magic on her antlers, pet." Permission granted to use his gift, targeted, on a part of her. Whether or not he ends up destroying more of her is more up to him at this point, but it's either clip off the antlers or have his own magic tear him apart for not obeying.

Keithia shakes her head a little. Unsure what's really going on or why she's been brought into it. She doesn't understand fully why she's being used and she doesn't know what to do to make it any easier. Begging would only make it worse, so she doesn't. Instead, Keithia keeps her gaze on the floor and stifles any other sounds she might make. Her head throbs and a headache has blossomed behind her eyes. Though her eyes are watering, she stares at the ground. When the Blessed gives her order, she shivers some. Keithia wants to tell him it's ok, but she feels like that might make it worse too.

So she remains bowed, trembling, and quiet.

---

Fiachna doesn't flinch when he snatches her hand away from him and grips it, quite hard. Were she a lesser creature, the delicate bones would've broken. Even now, he'd feel them press against one another and grind unpleasantly. It hurt. Oh, it hurt. But pain had never dissuaded the angel and it wouldn't now.

When he takes a step back, her response in instant. Just like when he'd turned to her. Fiachna slides off the stool so they maintain the same distance between one another. Kyto had stepped into her personal space, now she followed to keep him in it. Standing in front of him, she was the same height. It created a sort of intimacy she quite enjoyed. Being able to look him in the eyes, to square off with him, to fix so perfectly against him.

Her dear husband.

When he asks why she's there, Fiachna laughs prettily. Chimes in the wind. "I came to say hello to you." Her tone drops back into a purr and she adds, "You're causing a scene, my love. Shall we take this somewhere private?" There is wickedness in that last word. Promise and dark things and history. But she's not wrong either. Those around them have quieted. Some, the few with weapons, are close to drawing them. Not sure what they'd do, or what they're even witnessing, and the maid has retreated to the other end of the bar.

@HeartOfFlame

His breath freezes in his throat, eyes gone wide as he stares at her like she's grown a second head. "Use your magic on her antlers." He doesn't even hear her refer to him as a pet, doesn't recognise the order as what it is until the flames begin to dance alongside the sparking pulse already pulling through his veins. He can't. His control isn't that fine, he's never...he's never been so focused. Choosing who to rend and tear is one thing, maiming a specific portion of them is entirely another. The fact that he's even thinking about it sickens him, a soft sound escaping between his lips as the weakness in his legs intensifies under the pain of his continued hesitance.

But, she's given him permission. She's allowing him to use his magic, to release the burning, destructive flames curling in his chest. He breathes out slowly, feeling suddenly numb, disbelief strong in his mind. She's giving him the perfect opportunity. He lifts a hand, staring at the shaking appendage as he comes to terms with the fact that, yes, she's given him this. She's far more foolish than he thought.

His gaze flits to Keithia, heart twisting when he sees her shiver, awaiting the pain, another blow. He won't let it come to that. He turns his hand in her direction, as though focussing himself to follow through on the Blessed's order, grinding his teeth as the pain continues to ebb and throb over his skin, merciless as it, more than her, knows his defiance. He breathes in deeply, feels the flames stir in his gut, and the snap of his fingers is like a thunderclap in the silence.

His eyes flash, the air around them growing thick and heavy as his power, pent up and enraged, finds freedom. A scream tears from his lips, vision going white as his entire body burns, and around them the world disintegrates. Veins of red and gold spread through everything; the walls of the tent, the Blessed's bed, desk and chair, the chain attached to Kanimir's collar. Everything glows, heat filling the air with sparks and crystalline fragments, before just as suddenly, they're gone. Cold air rushes in to fill their place, plunging them all into darkness, and while Kanimir writhes, thrown into a hell of his own making, Keithia and the Sentinels remains untouched.

---

She follows him up, establishing a sort of intimate closeness between them that he can't quite hate. Her lips pull into a smile, her laugh like crystal song on his ears, and he almost forgets how deeply he hates her for a split second. He knows she's lying, even as the words tumble from her lips, sweet and innocent. He snorts through his nose, turning his head away in bitter disbelief. She hasn't changed, not that he thought she would. Seeing it is somehow painful, even as he relishes the thought that she will know the pain he felt, if only a fragment of it, soon enough.

As much as it pains him to admit it, she's right. Several heads are turned towards them, wary and battle ready. He doesn't care, particularly. If they wish to fight him, they can die trying. His business is his own, but if they wish to paint the tavern with their own blood, well...He shakes his head, turning toward the maid and rifling under his jacket for a moment before slamming a small fistful of coin on the counter. The metal clatters noisily in the silence, his own breathing and that of those around them the only other sound.

"I'll take a room." He growls, not a question, not askance, just a fact. He doesn't wait for her to respond before turning towards the stairs, Fiachna's hand still gripped tightly in his own. He pulls her behind him, under no illusions that she could pull away if she so desired, no matter how tight his grip might be. The fact that she doesn't both angers him and stirs something unwanted in his chest.

True to the maid's word, most of the rooms are already taken. Two doors at the very end of the passage are still open, and he takes the first one on the left, pushing Fiachna inside and shutting the door in his wake. He pauses a moment, then, breathes through his nose, effectively squashing the thoughts and memories and emotions that do not belong here, do not belong to her. Then, he turns, face set in a scowl, hands folded over his chest. "Why are you really here, witch? What do you know?"

@SanctifiedSavage

Not once, during the rush of the moment, does Yukina think her life is in danger. Rather, she looks around at the quick destruction before she invariably looks down at the one thing he'd been given permission to destroy. Untouched.

She sighs as her pet falls to the ground, writhing in self-inflicted agony for being unable to follow the order, for destroying the chain that held back his power. Yukina feeds into it, washing him in a hell of his own making. Stubborn. He is simply stubborn.

There's a moment's reprieve for Kanimir. Long enough for him to hear the sharp snap of Keithia's antler's being broken off by Yukina herself. Then Keithia's screams join his.

The nymph doubles over, clutching her temples. Sobbing in pain while the delicate antlers that had sprout from the top of her head are tossed near Kanimir's writhing form.

Bjarth and the rest of the camp have stopped what they're doing since her tent is just 'gone', but it's only Bjarth that dares to approach the Blessed while she stands over the two, her wings fanned out in annoyance. That being the only display of her irritation. "Blessed...?"

It takes her a moment before she looks to him. Then, another sigh, before she gestures to her pet. "Leave him to suffer in the cold. Bring the girl. We'll be sleeping in your tent tonight."

Keithia doesn't struggle when Bjarth grabs ahold of her. She can't think beyond the blistering pain from having something so apart of her simply broken off.

---

Fiachna behaves while he pays for their room. Smiling around at the other patrons as though they were but a married couple having a spat. This was all fine, this was all normal, and no one was in danger of being murdered.

That was all a lie, of course, and Fiachna wouldn't have stopped him at all if he'd wanted to go on a killing spree. All the better if she'd pushed him to do it.

She shoots a wink at the poor maid before she's pulled along, near prancing in his wake. A couple of feathers remain behind.

When she's shoved into the room, Fiachna maintains her balance with all the grace of the unnatural creature she is. Her attention alights on the various objects in the room. A small dresser, a personal chest, a bed. Before she finally looks at him. Fiachna tsks a little.

She shrugs out of her thick furred cloak, letting it fall so she's in the form hugging armor. Subtly changed so it's a corset top. Leaving her pale neck and shoulders bare. Whether to provoke him to violence or something else, Fiachna doesn't much care. The angel sits on the bed, leans back on her hands, and crosses her legs. Relaxed.

"You can't believe I'm here for you, my love?" She tilts her head a little, the silver in her black hair catching the light. "And I know a great deal. You're going to have to be a little more specific – and a little more convincing."

He drowns in flames once again. The feeling of his body ripping itself apart from the inside out is revoltingly familiar, but just as excruciating as before, worse, even. He doesn't even feel the cold air against his skin, lost somewhere amidst the smother fire and venom ripping through his veins. In an instant, it fades, and he's left gasping and light-headed for all the time it takes for a sharp crack to fill his ears, followed by a sharp scream he knows is hers. He chokes on her name, eyes snapping open in the darkness as he searches for her, little more than a hunched outline in his hazy vision.

The moment doesn't last, and before he can even think of the suffering he will inflict upon the Blessed for daring to lay a hand on her, to cause her such pain, his own returns and he loses himself in the storm. He fades into a land of ice and cold so frozen it burns, a place where there is nothing but the searing pain, nothing to ground him, nothing to free him. There is only it, and him. Eventually, he falls, and the pain is all that remains.

---

She is unconcerned, either ignorant or uncaring of the dangerous aura surrounding him, and he smothers an irritated groan as she removes her cloak and falls gracefully onto the single bed. It doesn't even creak under her weight, another reminder of how inhuman she is, and he shuffles his stance to something solid, eyes firmly fixed on her face rather than the wide expanse of skin and elegant shoulders laid bare without her cloak. His gaze narrows at her words, coy and playful, provocative in every way he could never in the past. Perhaps they weren't, then, perhaps she did love him, if only for a little while. Ultimately, it doesn't matter, because this is the being before him now, a creature of chaos and mayhem and destruction. When he has what he wants, he will end her. It's that simple.

"You don't care, Fiachna." He tells her gruffly, voice still a low rumble. "You never have. Or, if you did, it was only for your own amusement." He shakes his head, feels a few strands of his hair fall from the loosening band at the back of his scalp. He has a feeling she knows exactly what he's talking about, but the effort of trying to pry it out of her isn't worth it, not when he barely wants to speak to her at all.

"I'm looking for the boy." A deep, painful breath, one that curls through his chest and flares the anger in his gut, the hatred. "Our son."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina leaves him to the cold for the night and returns, refreshed and looking as perfect as ever, in the bright light of the morning. Leather and furs cleaned as though she'd not stood in the center of a storm of destruction. Keithia's been made to follow her. Already her antlers are regrowing. Small, slender, bone-white sprouting from her head.

Her face is streaked with tears and her body involuntarily shudders with quiet fear, but the nymph is otherwise silent.

The pain lifts and Yukina wakes him with her boot to his side. Sharp and swift. "At this rate, you're only going to kill yourself," she scolds with all the feeling of the frozen air. "So now you're going to lay there while we question your friend."

The 'we' turned out to be Bjarth, who arrived moments later. The mountain of a man was dressed as he usually was, in thick leathers and furs. With him this time, though, with a slender skinning knife. Two Sentinels bring over a stump, about wait high for Keithia, then leave them alone. The nymph was pulled over to the stump, her top pulled off, then bent over it. Leaving the expanse of her back bare. "Any question the Blessed doesn't like the answer to, I take out of your back." Simple as that.

---

Of all the things he might've said, the fact he was looking for their son surprises her. It crosses her expression, though it's a pleased sort of surprise. Now, this is all interesting...

"You mistake, my love. If I didn't care I wouldn't have left our son with you. I'd have found someone far more interesting and capable to raise him." A smirk crosses her face and her head tilts the other way. "And everything I do is for my own amusement." Before he can get too mad and cut hers off, though, she coos sweetly. "I can find him, of course. But as I said, you need to be far more convincing. What do you want with our sweet boy? Looking for a loving reunion?"

@HeartOfFlame

He's drifting somewhere close to oblivion when consciousness returns. As ever, it is delivered by a boot in his ribs, a blow that steals his breath and has him gasping before he's even fully conscious. He wheezes frigid air through the ice in his lungs and proceeds to cough on it, damp warmth clouding his vision before it's really cleared. He's freezing, every bone in his body aching with the pervasive cold, skin so chilled it feels like breaking ice just to move, to uncurl ever so slightly from his hunched position atop the snow. A thin dusting of it has settled over him, a few loose clumps falling past his face as he shakes his head sluggishly in some vague notion of clearing his head. It's a moot point, and he drops his temples back to the ground only a moment later, exhausted. The fact that he can't feel himself shivering, can't consciously feel the cold, should be worrisome, but he's just too tired.

The Blessed's voice reaches him alike to sound travelling through water, beating against his head for several seconds before his mind deciphers the unintelligible sounds and something sharp and hot flares in his aching chest. He blinks his eyes open again, wondering vaguely when he closed them in the first place, and searched through hazed vision before finally finding her. Keithia. The sight of her missing horns strikes him like a physical blow, his brows furrowing as he tries to search her face, blinking rapidly in an effort to clear his vision. "K-Keith..ia." He rasps, shuddering over the words as a feeling like snapping ice shards shoots through his throat.

He can only watch as they manhandle her, blood running even colder, if that is possible, when his brain realises what his eyes are seeing. Before the big man even speaks, he has realised what is happening, and his hands curl into the snow in some vague effort to find strength, to resists them, to help her. He can't even close his numb fingers into a fist. He tries to find Keithia's gaze, to give her some small measure of comfort, to try and tell her she'll be alright, he'll get them both out of this. Somehow, someway.

---

She looks honestly surprised at that, and Kyto takes no small measure of satisfaction from that. Ha, and she thought she had him all figured out. Something like a smirk pulls at his lips, ever so briefly, before she carries right along and obliterates whatever good mood her stumble might have instigated. His hands tighten where they rest around his biceps, a low sound rumbling from the back of his throats as she pushes him, antagonises. He's know what she's doing and still, he's angry.

"I can find him." She says, and he pauses from imagining how pretty she'd look splayed on the white snow outside after he pushes her through the window to raise a sceptical eyebrow. Then she carries on and he doesn't even bother trying to stop himself rolling his eyes.

"I don't need to convince you of anything. You might be able to find him quicker, but I can still find him. That little shit can't evade me forever." And maybe he's too open with his tone, too much of the pain and vitriol carrying in his voice to be sensible when in the room with a being such as her, but gods be damned she does something to him, lowers his guard subconsciously, draws forth all the memories and feelings he's spent nearly three decades burying. He shakes his head again, eyes hardened.

"He has a debt to pay. I intend to collect."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches her pet a moment longer, arms crossed, before she turns to the formerly antlered girl. Given that she has absolutely no idea what she is, the antlers are certainly an oddity. That they grow back so fast just makes them more so. "Where are you from?" A question the girl had been asked several times over, by a handful of people.

She either didn't have an answer or didn't want to say. There could be innumerable reasons.

"I don't know." But she stuck with that. The girl had told Bjarth that she was born on an island, but she didn't know which. Or who her parents were or where they might be. Yukina shook her head once and the sharp blade made a clean cut. As one would to start skinning.

She screamed, short and loud, before the sound was lost in her quick breathing.

"What are you?"

"I... don't know."

This time Yukina glanced at her pet while she gave the brief shake of her head to indicate that wasn't an acceptable answer. Bjarth held her down by the back of her neck to make the first long cut. She screamed again.

"Are you magical?"

She hesitated, catching her breath. "N-no..."

Yukina arched a brow, indicating she did not believe the stammered response before she gestured and a pale strip of skin, about a palm's length, was cut free from her back.

Keithia's scream gave way to a whimpered cry.

---

Fiachna continues to watch Kyto, though her interest has certainly sharpened knowing he's looking for their son. The angel could guess it's not for good reason, but she's willing to hear what he has to say. Find him quicker.... Her eyes narrow playfully at that before she drops back fully on the bed with a huffed laugh.

"A debt to pay? You're being dramatic, my love. What could our son possible owe that you would need to hunt him down for?" Her tone is sweet and sing-song while she stretches her arms over her head. As content as a cat. There is, however, a bit of sharpness to what she adds. "What makes you think I'd let you?"

Fiachna twists just enough so that she can look at him from her angle, still laying on the bed. The smirk is still there, and while her good mood is still present and glittering in her dark eyes, there's a bit of chill to counter his angry, violent intent.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir sees the first blow coming before it strikes, tries to reach out to her, be it with his voice, his presence, just the knowledge that he is there. But he can't move, can't speak, and then Keithia is screaming. His heart stops its sluggish beating in his chest for a solid moment, little more than a painful lump inside his ribs. He wants to scream with her, to rise up and drive that blade through the big man's own skin, to let him know how it feels to be tortured so before pushing it through his heart. He can almost feel the warm blood spilling over his hands, physical and so much more gratifying than the way they turn to dust when he Rivens them.

The Blessed turns back towards him, shaking her head like a disappointed teacher, and Kanimir meets her gaze as best he can from his awkward position on the ground. His body is cold and screaming right down to his very blood, but it doesn't matter. They're hurting her, flaying her skin for no good reason but that she means something to him. She screams again and he stifles a sob, choked and gasping, unable to keep his eyes up and instead shifting them back to Keithia, hoping to find her in there, give her something to cling to while she suffers.

'I'm sorry,' He whispers in the privacy of his own mind, the only refuge he has left to him, 'I'm so sorry this is happening to you. I'm sorry you ever met me. I'm sorry this is what I led you to, that I couldn't keep my promise. I promised you freedom and this is what I gave you.' She screams again, short and sharp, before a sound more alike to a whimper follows, quiet and pained and enough to make his heart ache fiercer than it ever has in his life.

"I'm sorry..."

---

Kyto snorts, a dry, derisive sound. When he speaks, it is with the same anger that first greeted her, the barely contained fury flickering behind his eyes once more, flames almost visible within the green of his eyes. "What debt does he owe me? His goddamn life."

He takes a step forward, unfazed by the way her voice sharpens, the slight threat in her tone. He almost scoffs, mouth twisting up in a bitter memory of a smile. "What, do you love him, now?" One hand drops back to his sword, wary. He's not afraid of what she might do, not after everything he has seen and survived, but he's ready. He doesn't trust her, and he never will again. "Or is it just that you haven't caused trouble enough in his life yet? Haven't ruined his future, his name, his dignity? Is that it?"

Another step, a brighter flare of the decades old anger and spite, vengeance a mighty draught to chase away any fatigue that might have clung to his bones. The corners of his eyes narrow, the fire in his gaze run cold. "That is the truth, isn't it? We both know you don't have the capacity for love, Fiachna. You don't know how to care about anything but yourself, you never have and you never will."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches the pain of them before she crouches near her pet, wings flared to maintain her balance. Her tone is level, merciless. "You would have spared her this if you'd just done what I'd said. If you'd behaved. But you can't, so she suffers." Laid out. It had already been obvious that was why they were doing what they were, but Yukina wanted him to hear it. To know exactly why. No guessing, no chance to hide from it.

It was his fault.

The Blessed straightens, takes a step back so she can easily see both of them, then asks again, "Are you magical?"

Keithia doesn't answer right away and is rewarded with the start of a new cut for her trouble. Her voice cracks on the scream and she clings to the stump like it might save her, the bright red of her blood trickling down her pale skin and dotting the snow around her. "I don't know!" She screams it between gasps for breath. Unsure what to say so they'll stop, desperate enough she'll say whatever she thinks they want her to say.

Now she has Yukina's full attention. The Blessed turns more so to face the girl, to clarify. "He uses magic to destroy people. Do you have such a talent, an ability? Can you use magic in some other way?"

Keithia's sobbing quietly. She doesn't answer aloud, she just nods. Whatever they want, she'll give them, if it means they'll stop hurting her.

"Imagine that, Bjarth. We had a mage in our midst this whole time." She gestures and the older Sentinel stands, wiping his bloodied blade on his leathers. "Have them both chained up while we get camp ready. I believe the other Blessed should arrive shortly. He can have her when he does. A present, I suppose."

Yukina turns then, to sort through new effects and try to replace some of the things she'd lost in his fit of distruction.

Bjarth drags them both bodily to a thick pine tree where a chain has been hooked. It isn't needed for him – it's more that Keithia is chained to him and the tree. He leaves them there, though not long after two Sentinels grumbling about 'trash duty' show up to set up a fire close to them and toss them pelts so they don't freeze to death.

---

Fiachna takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh. "It's a sad thing, when a father lusts for his own blood's life." It might've sounded like she meant it if she wasn't still smirking. She props herself up on an elbow, watching him. "He still has a lot of growing to do, Kyto. I'm hoping I can eventually take him home and he'll survive the trip. He does take more after me than you." A jab in his direction, though playful. For her, anyway.

She doesn't mind that he's getting closer and remains relaxed on the bed. Watching him with interest. Curious what he'll do. Whether he'll try to stab her, as his hand near his sword keeps implying, or try to thrash her with his bare hands. The not knowing is what makes it fun for her, keeps her there. "I think that's something you tell yourself because the alternative is far more painful. That I do love both of you, and still left you. Because you can't comprehend anything else, so it must be selfishness." Her eyes narrow but her smirk remains. "How utterly human of you, my love."

@HeartOfFlame

The Blessed crouches in his line of sight before the next blow comes, and he welcomes it only for the fact it gives Keithia a reprieve. Her blood is a rich red against the stark white landscape around them, glistening where it falls in rivulets down her side. The sight of it makes him sick where a little blood never has before, and he snaps his eyes to the Blessed's face in a cowardly retreat, watching her lips move as she speaks, cold and unaffected by an innocent girl's pain. She condemns him, drives a slow, poison dagger through what's  left of his heart, and the coldest realisation is that she's right. He'd already known - how could he not, with the proof so obvious? - but to hear it, to have it spelled out in no uncertain terms. He pulls away from her, a soft sound sticking in the back of his throat, and when he opens his eyes again they are blurry with unshed tears, frustration and anger and guilt wrapping around him like an icy cocoon.

The Blessed moves away, her voice becoming distant for a moment as he spirals into his own mind, drowning in the blatant truth that this is his fault his fault his fault. By the time he's aware of his surroundings again, fingers numb where they're curled into the snow, Keithia is sobbing quietly. She's bent over the stained stump, her pale skin coloured red by her own blood. The Blessed looks almost pleased, a blasé wave of her hand catching his attention as the big man stands and wipes his bloodied knife, like a butcher at work. The thought makes him shudder, even as most of his body is now numb, frozen by the long night in the cold and snow.

"A present, I suppose." The disinterested words make his heart stop for what feels like the second time in so many moments. He shakes his head, even as the Blessed can't see him, wouldn't care. Keithia can't become like him, they can't break her. He refuses to let them break her as he knows they have him. Perhaps, it would be easier, she won't fight so badly, won't argue every order, doesn't have a kill count of thousands hanging above her head. But, still, they don't care. She would be little more than him to them, just a tool to be broken, a plaything to wreck and then discard. Suddenly, a hand grasps the back of his shirt and pulls him bodily from the ground, stealing his breath away and spiralling him briefly back into the void.

When he comes back to himself, ears ringing and white spots dancing behind his eyes, his back is pressed into the hard bark of a snow laden pine tree and his hand is pulled back around it. Distantly he thinks there might be a steel manacle clamped around his wrist, but his skin is still too numb to tell. A thick fur is piled in his lap and he makes slow, painful movements to drape it across himself, shivering as the warmth begins to take hold and he realises just how cold he is. Between the chattering of his own teeth, he catches quiet, pained, sniffling breaths, and realises with stabbing clarity that Keithia is behind him.

Twisting as best he can with a body that barely functions, he manages to catch sight of her shoulder, but little more. He tries to speak, to reassure her, to comfort her, but the words stick in his throat, choking and thick with guilt and regret. He sighs, an aggravated, self-inflicted sound, and thumps his head back against the solid wood of the tree.

"I'm sorry, Keithia." He murmurs, doubting she can hear him, some small part of him hoping she can't. "I never thought it would come to this. I should have. I should have protected you." He snorts wryly, shaking as his bones burn and throb with the return of warmth to his veins. "Some saviour I turned out to be, huh."

---

Kyto's brows lift, if only slightly, at that statement. It makes sense, then. He waves a hand, a gesture that is both taut with anger and almost amused. He turns away from her, striding the short distance to the window and glowering at the mis-lit reflection in the dark. "Of course." He says softly, "You want his magic. Do you know what he can do?" He turns back to face her, something like honest questioning in his face. "Have you seen the destruction, the death, he leaves in his wake? He's more of a monster than you are."

He chooses to ignore the other half of her words, the lies. She doesn't know how to love. If she thought she loved him...well, she was wrong. She mislead him for years, took him for a fool, ruined what was left after her four years of handiwork. She has no guilt, no shame. She is selfish, selfish and cruel and everything he should never have fallen in love with. He shakes his head, shakes off the thoughts, the questions, her words dare raise. There is nothing left for him here, nothing in her to draw him close anymore. She shattered whatever they had, what they had built on hundreds of lies. A castle just waiting to crash down. And come tumbling down it had.

@SanctifiedSavage

The camp never really goes to sleep, though it does die down. Quiets. There's a portion of it that remains busy while Sentinels work to set up a new tent for the Blessed, but beyond that there's flickering fire light, the chilled night air, and the quiet lull of conversation.

That, and Keithia's soft whimpers.

The chain is wrapped twice around the trunk of the tree then attached to the manacles around a wrist apiece. She could move closer to him, if she could think to move. Instead, she simply huddles in place. The pelt tossed her way remains where it had been tossed. The nymph hadn't moved since she'd been drugged bodily to the tree and left in the place she was dropped. The cold, while uncomfortable and biting, is nothing compared to the fire on her back and the pounding behind her eyes.

Her tolerance for pain is next to nothing. It'd always been something to easily make the nymph complacent and obedient. It took very little – and all of this was just too much.

---

Fiachna tracks his movement when he crosses the room. When he seems to connect the dots, she drops back and stretches. "Of course I know what he can do. I've kept tabs on our son. Death, destruction..." One of her hands lifts in an absent wave. "Nature is just as cruel. He has a gift. I intend to nurture it and see it to its conclusion."

That was the closest thing she had to a plan, anyway. Let Kanimir grow up, as he would, doing what he did. She checked in now and then, mostly so she didn't lose him, and did what she did in the mean time.

"You keep saying monster... I think you have a skewed opinion of such things. Have you not been passing your years collecting coin for blood?" At that, she twists so she can look at him again. Her voice drops to a purr and her eyes glitter playfully. "I know you've been on your own murderous hunt, my love. Kanimir isn't the only one I've been tracking, from time to time. You point a finger at your son and your wife, but the hand you point with is bloody too."

At that, she slides gracefully to her feet and crosses the distance between them in what appears to be two steps. Close and warm. "I think you're more suited to this family then you think, my love." Her fingers dance up his abs and chest. Feather light touches. "Except I still adore you, and pass no judgement..." The last was said with an affectionate sigh.

@HeartOfFlame

The silence that falls is somehow deafening. All he can hear is the sound of his own pulse, loud and struggling in his ears, and the quiet, keening sound of Keithia's breathing. He turns his head against the base of the tree to track the path of the chain attached to his wrist, blinking as he realises it loops around the wood, leaving him room to move if he so desires. He grits his teeth, ignoring the way his muscles burn and spasm as he pushes himself upwards, shoulder digging into the cold bark beneath him as he uses it for support. He's halfway up, bent at the waist and leaning almost entirely on the tree, before the chain pulls taut, and its enough for him to stagger the short distance to Keithia's side.

She's barely breathing, breath frosting in the air where it escapes her in sync with quiet whimpers. His heart breaks a little more at the sight and he doesn't even bother trying to soften his descent as he falls at her side. His hands shake when he lifts them, ever so gently, to the side of her face. Still, it feels like too much, like a simple touch could break her, take her from him, have the Blessed returning with more knives and questions. A stuttered breath escapes him and he turns away for a moment, feels his throat constrict with emotions he doesn't know how to process. He spies a fur thrown at her feet, much as his had been, and reaches for it, if only for something to distract himself.

The chain attached to his wrist rattles quietly as he spreads the fur over her bare torso, trying his damndest to keep it away from her back even as he knows the torn, raw skin needs to be covered too. If nothing else, the cold is helping clot the heavy bleeding. He chances a glance at the wounds, already sick to his stomach anyway, and stares at them in an oddly detached way, blinking slowly as he takes in the clean, efficient slices through her skin. Cut up like a piece of meat at the market. The thought stirs more nausea, and he looks away quickly, tucking the fur around her as best he can and sliding a gentle arm around the top of her shoulders, hoping to ground her, comfort her. Anything.

"I'm here." He murmurs, though what comfort that will bring her he doesn't know. This is his fault, after all. "I'm right here. You're going to be alright. I..I promise you that."

---

He watches her as she speaks, taking in the relaxed, almost pleased way she speaks. It's horrifying and another reminder of why he hates her, will snuff her before they part ways again, but he feels no urge to move immediately, to cease her babble. A gift, she calls it. The ability to wipe entire lives off the face of the planet in the blink of an eye, a snap of the fingers. A gift. He scoffs again, looking away and shaking his head in what can only be described as tired, acrid exasperation. He should know better than to think she would perceive it any other way. And then...

His eyes snap back to her in an instant when she turns the conversation on him, accusing him, convicting him. He pushes off from where he has leant his hips against the window ledge and steps forward at the same time she stands from the bed. His brows pull down once more, anger that had only so briefly faded roaring back once more. "That was different and you know it." He spits, aware he is rising to her bait but unable to care. He is nothing, like them, never has been, never could be. They, the pair of them, are monsters. Creatures of magic, lying, murderous, beasts. His hands are bloody, certainly, but not nearly as badly as theirs, not by far. He cuts down bandits and thieves. A sword for hire, indeed, but not a mindless thug unable to pick and choose between who deserved the death sentence and who did not.

She steps into his space again, her touch like spots of warm dancing across his skin beneath the heavy leather of his jacket. He suppresses a shiver, glaring into her eyes with as much heat as he can muster, simultaneously wanting nothing more than to cut her down, and unable to move. The candlelight catches on her skin, here, dancing sparks through her hair and creating fragments of crystal light in his eyes. She sighs softly, an exhale that almost sounds like affection, and he remembers lazy mornings in a bed hardly strong enough to hold their weight, sun streaming through a shutter he hasn't gotten around to fixing, bathing her in light so much like this it almost physically hurts.

He's drawn the dagger from his thigh before he even thinks about it. Steel presses against her throat, catching the light the same as the clasps in her hair, but colder. He stares into her eyes, hand mere inches away from taking what he has longed for for over thirty years. They shimmer back, iridescent and dark, like an ocean pool, just begging to be dove into, explored, promising treasures and riches that never quite come to light. He hesitates, swallows, feels his hand shake in a finite tremor.

The dagger clatters uselessly to the floor in the same breath as he moves forward. One hand slides down to the base of her neck, tangling in her delicate braids, pulling her closer against him as his lips finds hers and he realises, with a feeling like a punch to the gut - one that goes mostly unnoticed against the burning, flooding warmth in his chest - that she is right. He hates her for it, gods but he hates her, but in the same breath he remembers what the feeling drowning out his senses is, and it is not anger. Not hatred or a thirst for vengeance, not the bitter satisfaction of a step closer to seeing those who wronged him burn.

In the depth of his heart, where the memories and feelings are supposed to be buried, locked away until his mission is complete, he still loves her.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia doesn't even flinch when he moves close, seemingly unaware there is another person there. It's hard for her to focus beyond the pain, the pounding of her head and the burning of her back, senses scattered and muted. Surrounded by humanity in a land of cold and immovable life. She can't process what might happen, what's going on in the camp, or even that the chain pulls some as Kanimir shifts.

It isn't until he touches her that she twitches and glances his way. She'd not expected it to be anyone else. His touch is instantly recognizable, distinguishable from anyone else's. Keithia doesn't move to help when the fur is pulled near her but her watery eyes narrow some.

It all just hurts.

The nymph nestles herself against him – not for warmth, but because she's terrified and in pain. She hadn't heard what the Blessed had said, and wouldn't have blamed him anyway. Rather, he's the one source of comfort and care she has. Keithia had already accepted, before they'd even arrived in the camp, that mortals were akin to monsters. They were doing nothing new. She just didn't want to experience it.

It's only after she's trembling against him, but pressed securely, that Keithia invariably succumbs to a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

---

His anger is a hot, almost visceral thing that would likely one day burn her. Fiachna doesn't think she's safe from the undercurrent of violence, but rather, quite drawn to it. It's the sort of potential for action that draws the angel. The possibility for things to happen.

Her son was born into it and her husband had been shaped by it. More perfect people for her couldn't exist.

That the desire to kill her had fueled him for so long didn't surprise her. Fiachna had left him when things were sweet. When things had seemed to settle, when life had hit a routine. The angel couldn't tolerate such things and it was only in leaving that she could kick off the damned path that had, invariably, led them here.

Kyto hunting their son.

When he draws the dagger on her, Fiachna doesn't try to pull away. She's been stabbed before. Had her guts spilled, wings cut off. Throat slit. Her smirk remains, daring him to do something. But a blade isn't going to save him from her. It's going to take a lot more.

When the blade falls, Fiachna lets out a soft breath. Pleased, because the next moment, he has a hold of her. It's been far too long. The angel eagerly takes him in the kiss, pressing close. One hand tugs on the leather of his armor, wanting to touch him. Frustrated at the barrier but unwilling to surrender his mouth to say as much.

It wasn't just anyone that Fiachna bothered to bed, let alone take the time to marry and produce an offspring with. Such a thing took time, planning, and an investment she usually didn't have the patience for. But Kyto? Kanimir? They were two of her favorites to watch, now and then. An entire life nudged in the directions she wanted it – a son she hoped to guide in her own way. In a twisted fashion, Fiachna was quite proud of her family. It was no small wonder she still considered him her husband, even after so long.

Kyto still belonged to her and the angel was, still, soundly his wife. For better or worse.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir holds her close, in an effort to comfort her or himself, he's not sure. Eventually, she slips into a restless slumber, an escape from the pain, and a little of the sharp knot in his chest eases. Awkwardly, he shuffles his fur over the both of them, still shaking bodily, but unable to care if the cold slips past his exposed shoulder and down his spine. She needs it more. He should try to rest as well, but the thought of it makes him balk. What if they come for her while he rests? Drag her away and 'gift' her to the other Blessed. He shudders in a way that has nothing to do with the slowly lifting chill in his skin. He won't let that happen.

He sighs a deep, exhausted sigh, leaning his head back against the tree trunk and settling in for the long night. Patience has never been his forte, not by a long shot, and this sitting here in the cold and dark, just waiting for the next round of torment, is enough to drive a lesser man batty. For her, he'll manage.

---

For a moment, the anger falls away. The rage and regret and thirst fades into a sea of warmth, sparked by the feel of her skin beneath his hands, her lips against his. For the first time in thirty years, Kyto feels nothing but a desire to be with her.

He pulls back, breathing hard through his nose, eyes locked firmly on her face. She's all he can see, encompassing every inch of his vision, and his gaze flits over her, drinking her in. His hand slides across her skin, settling at the base of her head, thumb stroking the sharp, smooth curve of her jaw. She's pressed against her, the warmth of her body against his, even through his armour, simply more kindling to the fire. Her breath is hot against his cheeks, fiery and alive in all the ways she's ever been. He breathes out slowly.

"I could kill you right here." He murmurs, thumb slipping from the edge of her jaw to press against her throat, light but present, threatening where his voice is not. His other hand lifts to stroke across her hair, rough fingers catching against the ornate clasps and bangles holding it back. His eyes dance across her features, remembering. Remembering the darkness of her eyes, the crease between her brows that never seems to fade, the warmth in her cheeks. "I should."

@SanctifiedSavage

Kanimir and Keithia are left alone through the night and into the late morning. The camp continues around them and the fire is maintained by the occasional Sentinel stopping by, adding logs, and moving the wood around. It isn't until after everyone else has had lunch that one of the attendants stops by and leaves a tray of jerky and bread near the fire for them to eat, though they don't bother trying to rouse them.

Keithia wakes at sunrise but she doesn't move. Doesn't want to draw attention to the fact she's awake. Rather, she's quite content to remain curled up and near Kanimir for as long as that's going to be allowed. Not even the allure of food near the fire makes her move.

It's a tedious task replacing her tent and effects, but one that's been done before. It puts a hold on Yukina's attentions to her pet, but only momentarily.

---

Fiachna's fingers tap against his leather armor, quite displeased its still there. In the way. The angel leans into the touch as his large hand settles at the base of her neck. Another might've been concerned. He'd already expressed a desire to kill her, after all. It seemed almost foolish to let him so close when he'd just had a blade to her slender throat.

The words he spoke were in keeping with that.

Not that Fiachna was concerned. Either he would try or he wouldn't. She didn't particularly care to worry over it. Instead, she hums at the touch and continues to tap at his armor. In the way, in the way. She bites her lower lip and her eyes narrow with wicked delight when his fingers catch in her hair.

I should..

"You're such a tease, my love," she murmurs in a velvety purr. "Either fight me or fuck me, but make up your mind. Now that you have your hands on me, what do you want most?" The angel couldn't say what would sway him. Her dark eyes remained on Kyto, unafraid and unflinching. Willing and quite eager for whatever he'd do. This reunion had been a long time coming, she supposed, but most things were better aged. Anger happened to be one such thing.

@HeartOfFlame

Despite his best efforts, Kanimir dozes. Each time someone stops by to stoke the small fire, he stirs, but inevitably, the exhaustion drags him back down. Eventually, sunlight wakes him, and he's honestly surprised even as he blinks blearily into the bright morning shine, reflecting off the snow and making everything twice as bright as it has any right to be. It's oddly disconcerting to be woken by something other than pain, and he just sits for a few moments, takes stock of himself.

His body still aches in a way he doesn't feel will ever fade. The burning ache of thawing cold has faded to a manageable throb that, so long as he doesn't move, stays quiet, and the soft tingle of power through his veins has returned once again. He hates it. The thought flits through his mind before he can even fully process it, there and gone before he's even fully conscious of its presence. He glances down, lifts a barely trembling hand from underneath the thick fur, chain rattling as he does so, and just turns it over quietly in his sight. For a moment, he can visibly see the blood of all the lives he has taken, the reason he's here in the first place. He doesn't feel...regret, not really. It's more...an apology for being caught, not the crime itself.

He sighs softly, drops his head back against the tree as the noise of the camp around them begins to reach his ears. It's almost uncomfortable to be left alone for so long, a feeling like ants crawling under his skin spreading the longer he sits and does nothing. It should be refreshing, restful, a break in the torment, but all he feels is tense.

Eventually, someone brings food, a bare tray of jerky and bread. The smell of it hits him and something uncomfortable rolls in his gut. He hasn't eaten in, gods he doesn't even know how long, but the scent of it just stirs a burning, merciless nausea in him. He coughs softly, shifting and pulling an arm across his stomach in some vague attempt to quell the feeling. There's a hot feeling in the back of his throat, but he ignores that too, tipping his head back and forcing deep, measured breaths through his lungs. It doesn't really help, but it gives him some idea of having control of himself.

---

A low, rumbling sound leaves his throat, somewhere between a growl and a hum. He will probably never have a better opportunity than this, though he's fairly certain she's just playing him anyway. Perhaps she just doesn't care, doesn't think he can do it. And, really, is she wrong? He takes a slow breath, closes his eyes and just breathes in the scent of her. That, like so much about her, hasn't changed, even while everything has.

His hand around her throat tightens, just for a moment, before he's pulling her close again, his breath hot against her skin as he drags a kiss along her jaw. He can feel her tugging at his armour, irritated, and a ghost of a smile spreads across his lips. How very fair. His other hand slides from her hair to the side of her face, pulling her into another kiss, short and teasing. "Maybe I do still love you." He says, voice low and breathy against her ear, "But that doesn't make me hate you any less."

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia looks up at Kanimir when he stirs, seemingly awake. Or more fully awake than the in and out. It takes her a moment, heart hammering in her chest, to gather enough courage to move. To sit up a little so she can actually look at him. Her small hand lightly wraps around the wrist not shackled. "You should eat something..." Her words are soft and raspy, her throat dry and raw from screaming the night before. The nymph can go quite a long time without food or water, and doesn't feel any sort of hunger pains. While she doesn't know how often others should eat, she only knows she's seen others in similar situations starve. When food and water are presented, it is best to take what you can.

It was a rule she'd learned in the pens.

Wincing some at the movement, Keithia grabs the tray and scoots it closer. "Even if it is only a couple of bites."

---

There might've been a time that Fiachna would've considered her affection and interest in her family a weakness. Investments she didn't usually make and cultivated connections that were not usually maintained. It wasn't like Fiachna had many angels like her to talk about, whether it was right or wrong. Smart or whimsical.

Ultimately, though, Fiachna's entire life was based around whim. What was fun, what felt right, what kept life her long life interesting. Kanimir and his gift was one such thing.

Kyto and his conflicted hate for her was another. It was exciting for her, not knowing just how close to killing her he was at any given moment. To hear him confirm such a thing aloud, that he might love her and hate her so, didn't dilute her interest in him in the slightest. If anything, the man was only enticing the angel to involve herself further in his life. Fiachna didn't want a moony eyed suitor, she didn't want a doting husband.

The angel of chaos, however, was quite taken with the man brimming with violent intent that held her, kissed her, and whispered sweet veiled threats into her ear. It made her shiver.

"You're over dressed, my love," she purred in turn, breath hot against his mouth. Not quite kissing him as she started to walk back toward the bed. Pulling him with her. "Though if you'd prefer to keep your armor on..." Her hands dropped lower, to the front of his pants, and her smirk turned to a full wicked smile. "I won't object."

@HeartOfFlame

He doesn't even realise Keithia is awake until she speaks. A slight jolt races up his spine, a sharp pain through his chest its effect, and he grits his teeth against it as he rolls his head towards her. She's in the process of grabbing the tray of food, leaning forward and exposing the deep, dark cuts down her back. He winces in sympathy for her, shifting a little to turn towards her even as he eyes the tray with distaste. A slight shake of his head, almost too much as it causes the world to blur around him slightly.

"I, uh," He swallows the acidic burn in the back of his throat, one hand lifting towards his mouth and suddenly, chillingly aware of the cold sweat dampening his brow, "I don't think that's a g-good idea."

And by that he means it sounds like a terrible idea, like a recipe for making him miserable, like a fruitless effort that will result in absolutely nothing gained because food has little affect on starvation when its only action is to make him sicker. Another short shake of his head, a short breath that scrapes the back of his throat on the way out. He can't identify a reason for this sudden peakiness and it's enough to make him frustrated and afraid, both, beneath the repeating mantra in his head. Control control control control.

---

Kyto lets her lead him, as much as he had all those years ago. Her smile is wicked and provocative and everything he could never see back then, but somehow it only makes the spell that much stronger. Something like a grin, sharp and cold as the steel at his waist, pulls his lips, and one hand drops from her hair to find the buckles of his coat. Care and maintenance have made them pliable, and they come off almost as easily as his scabbard, leaving a trail across the room before he hooks an arm around her waist and lifts her, like she's nothing, to sprawl across the bed. He falls atop her, little between them but the fabric of their shirts.

He's hers and she is his, as much as they ever were. He's spent decades imagining the taste of vengeance when he found her, the satisfaction of a wrong righted. This is nothing like he pictured, too emotional, too personal. Her hold on him is as strong as ever, and as much as it infuriates him, he doesn't want to break away. Love is a twisted word for them, not quite right, not perfect, but neither are they. This thing between them is some mangled amalgamation between hatred and lust, love gone and bloodshed desired. He can't kill her, can't bring himself to cross that line - not yet -, but he won't be controlled by her anymore either. He is no longer her flute, a game to be played. He is aware of what she is, and yet still, he wants her.

@SanctifiedSavage

The nymph frowns at Kanimir when he shakes his head, insistent that he doesn't want anything. It hurts her to see him such a shadow of himself, but she doesn't press the issue. Rather, her hands fall woodenly onto her lap and she simply nods. Frayed hair falls into her dirty face and she doesn't bother to move it.

It'll be ok. Just need to survive this.

It was another thing she'd been told. Endure whatever it was, because she could outlive just about any of her captors. The time of it all was long and the nymph only had a sense of the present, but I was an idea she could hold on to when nothing else made sense. When nothing else was there. So long as she did whatever she could to not die, Keithia could outlive the mortals in the camp.

That was something, she supposed.

Yukina made her way to them shortly after lunch. She looked over the pair of them before the attendant flanking her moved forward to unchain Kanimir. "We're going to go for a walk and meet with some traders, to gather some supplies. You're going to tag along with me." Simple as that. She didn't need him getting too complacent.

Without waiting, she turned to collect her horse. He'd be walking.

---

Fiachna could change her clothes with a thought, but there was something supremely pleasing having some pulled off and strewn about the room. Her leather top was the only thing that remained as she relaxed on the bed, propped up against the headboard. Calm, for the moment. Or as calm as the angel ever was.

She didn't need to sleep but there was still a certain physical satiation that kept her from bouncing out of the bed and from the room to disappear into night.

Plus, there was still the matter of their son. Kyto might've decided not to kill her today, but she didn't think Kanimir was going to be nearly as charming as she was. That wasn't where his talents blossomed. Neither was she stupid enough to think that he'd just stop hunting Kanimir just because they'd had a bit of a reunion. So, voice sweet as honey, she asked, "What do I need to do to convince you to leave your son alive?" She'd not specified unharmed, of course. Just alive.

@HeartOfFlame

He sits in his misery for a time, breathing shallowly, eyes closed against the light. It doesn't get worse, or better; just, is. What feels like only a moment later, he hears footsteps, snow crunching beneath boots, and peels his eyes open once more to see the Blessed approaching. Ah. About time.

She doesn't waste a moment, delivering her words flat and sharp as always. His gaze flits to the attendant briefly, considering how easy it would be to drive a hand through the bottom of his jaw, wrap the chain around his throat and squeeze. He doesn't. His attention, as ever, falls back to the Blessed, a slight twist pulling at his brow as he realises Keithia will not be coming. He'll have to leave her, for how long, he doesn't know. He glances at her, lower lip caught between his teeth, worry reflected cleanly in his eyes.

Resisting will only make it worse. The thought comes suddenly, unbidden, and he can't even bring himself to deny it. That point has been well and truly driven home, as the wounds on Keithia's back will forever attest. The Blessed turns to leave in his peripheral and he drags a steadying breath through his lungs, placing a hand on the tree trunk for support and slowly levering himself upright. His vision sways traitorously, swinging in vibrant colours, mixing the shades of snow and tents and fire all together in a violent clash of misshapen art. A feeling like ice spreads over his skin, followed only a second after by fire, and he stumbles on his first step in the Blessed's wake, a choking sound escaping pale, parched lips before his legs give out and he crashes back down to his knees.

He gasps, choking on the acidic burn through his mouth as his stomach revolts and his focus pours directly back into that same point as the last time she took him on an excursion. 'Don't throw up, don't throw up, do not throw up.'

---

Kyto hums, leaning against the wall beside the bed and clad in little but his tunic. They're close, within breathing's distance, but distant enough to he cannot feel the press of her skin. It's fitting, a representation of what they are, where they should be. For now, the desire to see her blood is quelled, just a quiet voice in the back of his mind, a soft but steady flame. Still, a frown pulls at his brow after her words, hands curling into loose fists where they rest over his stomach.

"You can't." He says simply, trailing his gaze around the room before settling back on her face. It's well into the night, probably closer to morning, and the single candlestick on the nightstand is dwindling down to its last inches. He sighs, pushing himself to the edge of the bed and moving to stand, pausing when his feet hit the ground and turning back to her again. "Because I never wanted to kill him in the first place."

He knows it's not what she's expecting, and he takes a little smug satisfaction from that. He stands, pulling his boots on against the chill seeping through the bare wooden floorboards before crossing the room to fish another candle out of the drawer on the nightstand. He has a feeling he won't be sleeping for some time, yet. The new flame flickers and sputters in the silence, weak and frail, before finally taking heart and flaring in a soft draft through the old windows."You? Yes. You broke my heart and lied to me for years before. The boy is just being what he is. I hate him for it, yes, but I've never wanted to kill him." Not really. He knows, now, that he doesn't really want to kill her either, but the thought is tempting, oh so very tempting. He knows, even after sharing such intimacy with her, that he is far from the first, or last, that she has twisted so. A small part of him wonders, ever so briefly, if he is the first she's loved.

@SanctifiedSavage

Keithia visibly cowers when the Blessed approaches and makes not a sound. She's terrified of the angel, knowing that it'd take but a word from Yukina and the pain would return.

Yukina stops when she hears Kanimir fall and lets out another sigh. Her wings flare in irritation and she twists on her heel. Walking back to him. Her boot pushes him on his back before she crouches next to him. Her wings spread some to help her balance while she looks down at him. Face as statuesque and merciless as ever, she asks, "I can leave you here, and you can freeze and starve. All this because you were stubbornly disobedient. Or you can plead for you life, and I can heal you. Make your choice now, pet, I have a busy day ahead of me and I won't waste any more time on you."

---

Her eyes narrow while she watches him but Fiachna remains relaxed on the bed. Watching her husband for all the world like this is normal. Certainly not like it's the first in however long. When Kyto clarifies he doesn't want to kill Kanimir though, she is more confused then surprised.

"Then why hunt him? What is your goal?" She glosses over the bit about him wanting to kill her. She knows that, and there may come a day when he's pushed to the point of trying. None of that bothers her, just endears him to her. It doesn't even really register the why of it. Of course she broke his heart and lied. Fiachna couldn't stand the routine their life was slowly turning into. While she would point out she'd made him a far better man than he ever would be, Fiachna didn't think now was the time.

Idly, Fiachna toys with one of her braids while she watches him. "If you don't want to kill him, what is this then? A desire to reunite? Bring the family together?" She's teasing him, of course, but also probing for the answer. She'd been under the impression that Kyto had wanted them both dead.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir groans as her boot meets his side, the feeling almost familiar now, as rote as the bruises on his torso surely suggest. The sudden movement is enough to make his head spin, a little of his tenuous control slipping like water through his fingers, and his chest hitches briefly. The light above is far too bright for his eyes, burning and stabbing as he squints into it with hazy clarity, and he lets his eyes fall closed as the Blessed crouches next to him, her wings offering a little shade from the light all the same.

He swallows convulsively, half listening, half trying not to choke on the bile burning in the back of his throat. Her voice grates, flat and cold as ever, but far too loud in his ears. What little control he has left slides out from underneath him like unstable footing, and it's all he can do to roll over and push a hand underneath himself before he heaves into the snow. It burns, acid biting through the tender flesh of his throat, hoarse from screaming and cold. It's all over in a moment, little in his stomach but water and dry bread anyway, but leaves him coughing and spitting into the snow while his stomach rolls painfully.

Tears sting the back of his eyes, hot and embarrassed in a way he didn't think he knew how to be, and he swipes a hand across his mouth, wavering on hands and knees, and blinks at it blearily. There's something dark crimson smeared across the pale, earthy skin of his knuckles, and he stares at it stupidly for a moment before suddenly realising that it's blood. That's...probably not good.

"Oh." He breathes, the Blessed completely forgotten for a moment, a mistake he will no doubt come to regret.

---

Kyto snorts drily, turning an expression that is somewhere between exasperation and vague amusement on her. He folds his arms over his chest, moving back to sit on the edge of the bed. Should he even be telling her this much? Her all-but self stated goal is to ruin plans, destroy years of work. Why would she do any different here? Just because it is Kanimir? Her son? Somehow he doubts that. If anything, she will take his motives as all the more reason to talk him out of it. He takes some small measure of comfort, twisted as it may be, in knowing that his actions, should - when - he succeeds, will directly effect her plans, her hope for Kanimir's future.

"I want to stop him." He says simply, leaning back and looking into her face, gauging her reaction. "A monster he may be, but he is a monster of your making. There are ways to fix that, to take away his power." He lifts one shoulder in a disaffected shrug, "I intend to do just that. Much as I may despise what he has become, what I don't doubt you made him, he is still my son."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina detachedly watches him twist and heave in the snow. That, then, is seemingly her answer. The Blessed stands, brushes imaginary dirt off of her immaculate leathers, and takes a step back. "So be it." All the mages break and die eventually. Their lives forfeit from the moment she catches them. Their longevity entirely dependent upon their willingness to be obedient and their will to live.

Since he can't use his magic, he's effectively harmless so she turns to walk away.

---

Fiachna considers what he says, watching him with lazy curiosity. Stop him. It's an entertaining notion, certainly. To hear him call his son a monster, though... Kanimir was certainly a product of both his parents. Not just her.

She doesn't say as much though and simply crosses her legs at the ankle. Instead, she tsks a little. "You give me too much credit. He was born what he is. I just watched. I didn't interfere too much. You did most of the raising." It wasn't accusatory, just a statement. If anything, Fiachna is quite pleased with how her son has turned out.

However... She mulls over whether or not she should interfere in that particular hunt. She doesn't want her son to die, but whether or not he survives must largely be on his own merit. Though there's a maternal tug to nudge things in the right direction now and then.

"I think that puts us at something of an impasse, my love," she eventually sighs. Still relaxed, not particularly in a rush to be off. Not yet. "I can't have you clipping his wings before he has a chance to get them."

He stares at his hand for a moment longer, numb and mildly terrified. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, what this is, why, how much worse it's going to get. He thinks of Keithia, alone and helpless. No one would even know that she was gone, no one would know if he died and left her here. Hell, know one would even notice they were missing. Tyka wouldn't know, he's disappeared for years before returning to the Chateau, she's come to accept it as normal and simply live life as if he isn't coming back. No one else would care.

He can't afford to die.

He sits back on his heels, ignores the way his head spins and the light plays havoc in his vision. His gaze hones in one the Blessed's back, just turning away from him and beginning to walk. He coughs, spits the blood and mucus coating his tongue. He has a purpose, here. He has to stay alive, for Keithia, for himself. Giving up has never been an option, and if he has to grovel and beg to stay alive...It will burn him, infuriate him, twist him in all kinds of ways he can't even begin to imagine, but its what he has to do.

"Blessed." He calls, voice rasping and hoarse, but somehow still strong enough to carry. He's not sure where the strength comes from. His head drops, spine bending into a something that is almost a bow. "Please. Help me."

---

Kyto's eyes narrow at that, an almost spiteful glare coming to his face. Indeed, he did most of the raising. In her absence, in the wake of her betrayal. Perhaps he could have done better by the boy, could have found other means of suppressing his taint, could have tried to find a way to erase his magic back then, before he came into it. But, he did the best he could with a creature he didn't know how to handle. He blows a breath through his nose, leans one shoulder back against the foot of the bed, stares at her a moment. It's a considering gaze, calculating.

"Wings like yours?" He asks, not even bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice, "So he may fly about and cause even more chaos and destruction? As you do?" He scoffs, shaking his head. An unlikely outcome. One way or another, he won't let her have her way. Kanimir is enough trouble already, he does not need any assistance from his mother to become more so. "I will have his magic taken, and then he can atone for the things he's done."

@SanctifiedSavage

She's already thinking about what she needs to do, the plans for the day, and how she intends to do them. Her pet writ off as dead a mere 3 steps away.  She does pause, however, when he calls for her. It's not her title that makes her stop, though it's her title that prevents the pain from taking his breath away.

She glances over her shoulder, studying him and his posture. Considering, for a breath, if she should bother.

It is only three steps, though.

Yukina returns, and crouches. Her cool hand touches the back of his head. "You would be wise to remember how bad it can get, and that I could have left you to die in the snow."

What made Yukina particularly talented in training was her gift of healing. Of being able to extend, magically, lessons where another might not. She didn't have to wait for a body to naturally knit itself together, though she generally did. It was better for the lesson. Now though, she used the gift she had to heal him. It was a warm, rejuvenating feeling that spread from her hand on his head and down through his body. It wouldn't fix everything – Yukina didn't have the inclination to do so – but it'd lend him strength, repair what needed to be, and bring him to a state of functional.

It didn't take long. Yukina stood, flared her wings, then sighed. "That is the only time I will do that for you. Try to behave."

---

His glare makes Fiachna smile, just a little. Not mocking, but affectionately. The heat of his spite warming her. "It's his birthright, to try and claim them," she chides playfully. "To be brought before my creator and see if he passes." Her voice chimes with amusement. "If he doesn't, you won't have to worry about taking his gift away. Shogai will kill him."

Fiachna laughs softly and slides to her knees, crossing the space between them. Her delicate fingers trace his jaw. "Atone? How would you make him do that?" The idea of it amuses her. The thought that he could take away something about her son that is what he is and somehow make him atone... "I admire your dedication, my love, but I believe it is woefully misguided."

@HeartOfFlame

The relief is instant, not quite soothing, if only because it comes from her, but alike to broken pieces being put back where they belong. He sags into it, warmth that has nothing to do with pain or his own magic flooding through his veins, and the soft sound that leaves him is almost like gratitude. Small pains still remain; the tears in the skin of his fingers, the bruises across his side where her boots had left impressions, but the fact that he can feel those pains, that they are not drowned out by the greater suffering that he hadn't even realised was hounding him for so long, is like a breath of fresh air.

He glances up, suddenly able to actually stand the light without feeling like a knife has been taken to his eye sockets. He nods slowly, unable to feel anything but overwhelming relief that the wrongness in his gut, in his blood, is gone. He stands a moment later, taking a second to verify that his legs feel strong enough to hold him. They tremble in the way that overworked muscles do, but the pain is superficial, something he can block out. He bows his head, aware of the collar digging into his skin briefly, almost surprised to find it still there. He'd almost gotten used to it, a chilling thought, but factual all the same.

"I understand, Blessed...th-thank you."

---

That takes him off guard. He hadn't expected that from her, not with the way she speaks of him and the future she has planned for him. To hear that her creator would kill the boy is...well, surprising. Then again, he should expect little more from her. He snorts, shaking his head and lifting a hand to remove her touch from his face, though he makes no move to push her away beyond that. "So you wish for me to spare his life only to have your creator take it in my stead?"

Really, he shouldn't have been taken off guard by such an admission. Such is her way, after all. He wonders, vaguely, how much longer she would have left the boy to his wandering, his wanton bloodshed, if they had not had this meeting, this encounter. It matters little, for they are here now, but still he can't help but think of it all the same. "This from one who claims to want to give her son 'his wings', but at the potential cost of his life?" He asks drily, one brow lifting, "Perhaps we are both misguided, then."

@SanctifiedSavage

Yukina watches her pet a moment longer before she resumes her original plan – go to her horse. She's to meet with a trader in a small town, collect some goods. There wouldn't be a horse for him, so he'd have to keep pace. Granted the boon he just was, it would be difficult but not impossible.

The Blessed doesn't make the horse move at anything but a leisurely pace through a game trail. It's a long walk, and he'll have to maintain a brisk pace, but any drifts they go through the horse cuts him a path. The sun is out, so it warms the air, though it's cold enough the snow isn't melting. The 'town' they're on the way to is little more than a couple of farms, a stable, and a warehouse. A trade-waystation.

---

"That was my intent all along," she clarifies, sighing a little wistfully when he pushes her hand away. It's not frequent that the angel spends any time touching anyone, let alone wanting to.

Instead, she kneels near him and lets a hand rest on his thigh. Just to touch him while she watches him. "I earned my wings much the same way, though I can't for the life of me remember anything from before that time. I think that has more to do with my age than anything else, though." She muses a moment, smiling at his quip. "I won't say that I know the mortal norms of being a parent. That's what I had you for. But I think we can both agree that now that he's older, I'm better equipped to handle him." She leans a little forward and her hand slides a little higher, her voice dropping to a purr. "We could always try again. Have another. You're older and wiser now, my love. What would you do differently this time, I wonder." It would sound like just a tease, but it's always difficult to tell with her. Her eyes narrow and catch the light as a small smile crosses her lips.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir follows, quiet for once in his life, and focuses simply on keeping pace. As horrendous as it sounds, his best course of action now, now that they know Keithia is not as unassuming as she seems, know that she is invaluable to him, is to...behave. Her word, stuck in his head, the only way he can think of it now. It revolts him at the same time as he realises it's the only way either of them get out of this alive. Do as the Blessed says, let her break him, tear him apart to a mere flicker of himself. Survive.

It becomes more difficult to keep up the further they go. His stamina has always been impeccable, has had to be. For twenty years, he's wandered the world, blowing where the wind takes him, moving on foot for the majority of that time. But, he's generally not starving and still feeling the ever so faint phantom pains of a torment more than physical, but invisible all the same. He's hungry, now, a burning, insistent pain in his gut that is almost as bad as the sickness was. He's gone longer without food, he reminds himself, sticks it out, holding his light, even pace at the horse's flank. His lungs burn, but he's managed to edge himself into a headspace where he doesn't care. That, at least, is familiar. If he can distance himself, forget that this is a part of him, that this is so, so wrong and something that breaks his heart the longer it goes on, maybe he can find a way out, find some sort of salvation from this hell.

It's one of few options he has left.

---

For a moment, he almost feels sorry for her. The way her face twists, if only briefly, when he pushes her away is almost human, almost an honest to gods emotion. It fades as swiftly as it comes, though in its place follows a story of a life forgotten. He wonders what that woman might have been like. A woman untouched by a being that clearly has little regard for life or the world. That woman, he might have loved too, truly. Might have been able to take as a wife and live a proper, rightful life with, rather than the fragmented, tormented one he's endured.

It rankles something in him when she claims to know the boy better than him, how to help him. Though, her thought process is not to help, not really. She wants to make him like her, another being of chaos in the world, ruining yet more lives. He pictures the boy for a moment, can imagine the sly, provocative expressions he knows from Fiachna on his ever youthful face. He would probably enjoy it, when all was said and done. Her hand slides further up his thigh and he refocuses abruptly, shifting his gaze to her face as she purrs in that sickly sweet tone, twisting words into her own tools of bedlam.

He simply watches her for a moment, the silence hanging heavy between them, full of unspoken words and the implications of hers. Then, he laughs. It's a harsh, cold sound, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest and never making it to his eyes. As swiftly as it comes, it's gone, and he lifts a hand to the side of her face as he leans forward into her space, aware she doesn't care but unbothered by it in turn. His voice is low and flat when he speaks, now. "Do you really take me as that foolish?  I would never inflict another of your kind upon the world. What might I do different, you ask? I would have the magic ripped from his veins the moment he entered the world, so that he might never become what he is now. That, my love, is my greatest regret; that I didn't act sooner, that I made the foolish mistake of believing I could correct the inherent evil that flows in his veins."

@SanctifiedSavage

What had started out as lazy aftermath becomes heated tension the more they speak of their son. It should make her anxious to be around him, should concern her. Even provoking him in such a way... Rather, it thrills her to no end to see his animated and vitriolic reactions to her. From going to the calm, collection man to the near murderous monster she knows him to be.

Her heart beat kicks up and she shivers when he laughs. Not afraid, but oh so interested. Fiachna tilts her face ever so slightly into his touch, unconcerned when he leans into her space. Fully welcoming it, even. When he mentions being foolish, though, a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. That sort of secretive grin. I know something you don't.

Her hand slides over his. Seemingly delicate fingers mirroring his own. "You call him evil, but he just is," she coos sweetly before she tilts her head to kiss his palm. "And you might want to rethink calling yourself foolish, my love. Did we not just lay together? How many times do you think you have to fuck me for me to bear a child for you?"

The thought chills him more than it has any right to. He shakes it off, almost physically, but does his utmost not to let how deeply it disturbs him show in his face. He shifts his hand back to her throat, away from her teasing, gentle kiss, a mirror of how he had placed it earlier, only with none of the undeniable warmth. His thumb presses against her throat, feels the thrum of her pulse in the vein there.

"I would end you before you bore such a curse into the world." He says, voice like ice, gaze unwavering. He will not see another abomination such as his son given life in the world, not after witnessing what the boy is capable of. He doesn't know how many more of his kind Fiachna has already bred, doesn't care to know, but another of his blood, he will not allow. He doesn't think of it as the murder of a child, can't. It would be a cleansing, an act of preservation for a world already suffering the torment of too many beings of magic, of mayhem.

"And if not you, if the foul magic that gives you life prevented me from doing so, I would remove it from the child. By a cleansing, or by death. Whichever prevails."

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna doesn't try to pull away. Doesn't tense. The angel even tilts her head when his hand moves to her throat. Welcoming his touch, no matter where it might be. He can feel how quick her heart is beating, though he'd be mistaken if he thought it was from fear.

Her breathing is shallow and her eyes narrow a little. One of her hands lightly touches his wrist, but she doesn't try to get him to release her. Seeing him so intent, though... "You're so quick to talk about the death of an unborn," she whispers in a sigh. "Not even willing to see who or what it might grow to be." She's seemingly helpless against his physical strength and making no effort to stop whatever he wants to do.

"Do you hate the idea of a family so much?" Though she might be teasing him, her words are softly spoken. Picking away at the open wound. Curious if he would be able to fell someone so young, as easily as he says.

@HeartOfFlame

The feeling of her heartbeat beneath his hand is tempting, oh so tempting, made that much moreso by what he knows are her attempts to rile him. That fact gives him room to wonder, once more, how hard it would really be to kill her. How much power does she have? How far from mortal does her curse really take her? His eyes never drift from her face, though, taking in the darkness in her eyes, hauntingly beautiful, yet so deep, so bottomless. No trace of a soul exists within them, only a quiet promise of danger, of trouble, desolation.

"With you?"He can feel her voice vibrate beneath his hand, soft and sharp at once, as she prods a deep scar. He thought he had, once, had thought he wanted nothing more than to raise a family with her. Kanimir, perhaps another, a girl. It seems a thousand years ago that that dream had existed in his mind, since burned and scattered as surely as the ashes of his son's victims. "Never."

@SanctifiedSavage

His words might've had more impact if they weren't in a room together. Partially dressed. With the smell of sex lingering in the air. It makes everything he says feel like a cruel joke. The corner of her mouth quirks in a smile while she watches him, calling him a liar without saying it aloud. It's in her look, her relaxed body language, and her feather light touch on his wrist.

"Tell me, my love, who else will you ever find that is going to ever be able to compare to me?" She's not boasting, not out right, but drawing attention to the fact he's been alone save for her. And will likely continue to be so. For as much as he might want to murder her, he does love her and she Is wildly attached and attracted to him despite the fact he's partially choking her. "Maybe what you need is another distraction."

@HeartOfFlame

He sighs. A deep, exhausted sound that seems to rattle his whole frame. She's tiring, that, he remembers. Back then, he had found it alluring, the way she never seems to grow dim, her constant, eager attention. Now, it simply wearies him. He rolls his eyes to the side, glaring into the flickering candlelight as though willing it to snuff her, burn her for him.

"I dearly hope no one ever shall." He mutters, fingers tightening around her throat for a brief moment, feeling how easy it would be to crush her, snap her neck between his hands like a dead tree branch. His hold loosens, pale marks in the shape of his fingers left in its place, and drops instead to her bare shoulders, running over the elegant protrusion of her collarbone.

"You told me you can find the boy." He says, the soft, bitter, almost wistful - though he will never admit it - tone of only a moment before lost in a the cold edge of a man with a mission. "How?"

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna chews on her lower lip, briefly, and makes a sound in the back of her throat at the squeeze. Not to complain, though it's not entirely pleasure either. He's still fully capable of hurting her, as the lingering prints of his fingers attest, she just doesn't object when he does. Unafraid and far more excited at his anger than she should be. The combination of love and hate making him utterly irresistible.

As his hand moves to her shoulder, she shifts to his lap. Straddling him and invading his space more so. Not trying to start anything more, in that moment, but seeking to stake a claim of sorts. Their reunion had sparked something and Fiachna was most interested in maintaining that closeness, for now. For as long as it thrilled her to do so.

Her dark eyes search his face while her slender fingers trace his jaw, along his rough beard. Debating if she should help him. Wondering if it will benefit her to do so. "Like calls to like, in a sense. I usually know roughly where he is. I can sense him," she eventually answers. Her head tilts just a little. "Would you like me to find our son?"

@HeartOfFlame

A soft grunt escapes him as she shifts, invading his space, touching him again. He almost doesn't mind, but some petty, bitter part of him does, the part that proceeds the anger and bitter hatred of thirty years, the part that is quietly revolted at his weakness in letting her back in so easily. It's a near thing, stopping himself from leaning into her touch, almost a caress along the side of his face with lithe, slender fingers that he wants to take in his own rough, calloused ones and pull her close to him, bask in the feeling of her skin against his. He's enraptured in her eyes again, just for a moment, pulled in by how truly bottomless they are.

He never will find another to compare to her, another to love, for she has and always will have stolen his heart as surely as she broke it.

"Find him." He says, a slight incline of his head, hand brushing against the curve of her waist, settling above her hips. For a moment, he can remember the dream, the fantasy that never came to be, the life that was shattered as surely as his perception of her, of how deeply she had affected his life. Would such a thing truly be so unlikely? It's been thirty years, is she truly so incapable of change? He shuts those thoughts down as swiftly as he realises they are even there, distantly horrified that his mind would even stray to such length, forget the truth he has long known and earned only through pain. This isn't love between them, not by a long shot, and it certainly would not be enough to tie her to him, not properly, not enough for him to be happy, not even in some distant reality where she is not the taint he knows her to be, the curse.

They will never have that life, forever a dream, only to live in his nightmares and memories.

"We can fight over him after I can physically lay a hand on the brat."

@SanctifiedSavage

The angel considers when he tells her to find him. Her initial response is to tell him no. That she shouldn't bring him around her son at all, that it is likely a detriment to the plans she has for Kanimir.

Then his hand settles on her waist.

Offer up her son to continue this torrid affair with her husband? Fiachna considers as she teases her fingers along  his neck. Soft, exploratory touches. Re-familiarizing herself with the feel of him. As rough as he is changed. Almost an entirely different person. It's oddly fascinating to her. Though she can change her appearance at will, she quite enjoys how he's changed over time. No the soft, sweet man whose life she turned upside down but someone far sharper and angrier.

"That's not a fight you will win," she murmurs sweetly, her gaze returning to his. Matter-of-factly. But she smiles and leans a little closer, fingers skittering up his neck and into his hair. Lightly gripping at the nape of his neck. "I'll find him for you. For us. But there is some time before the sun rises proper... and I'm already on your lap."

@HeartOfFlame

Her touch is like fire against his skin, burning and inciting that same mindless intimacy that drove them here in the first place. He leans into her, hand rising to rest over hers, catching in his tangled hair, while the other lifts to her back, tracing the skin of her bare shoulders. His eyes flutter shut, taking in her touch, the feel of her, the way her hand slides across his rough, scarred skin and her weight settles against him like it's meant to fit. Shifting forwards, he chases a hot breath across her cheek with a kiss that drags at her jawline. Her hair is soft against his temples as he leans into her and whispers, voice barely above a whisper. "No."

She's taken too much of him already, curled him around her finger like a pretty play thing. As much as he relishes her touch, as much as he wants her, wants to feel the heat of her against him, the way her body fits against his like a glove, he has a mission here. It's a relatively simply thing to shift out from underneath her, shifting his hips to the side and pulling her hand from his hair with his own over the top of her knuckles. In a brief moment, the overwhelming feel of her touch is gone, leaving only phantoms of it on his skin as he stands and reaches for his discarded attire. He has little doubt she will be petty about rejection, but he doesn't care, tells himself he doesn't need her anymore than to find their son. The reassuring weight of his scabbard back at his hip helps solidify that thought.

@SanctifiedSavage 

Fiachna's laugh is like velvet when he frees himself from her. All soft sin and wicked delight. The denial burns, but it a way that leaves the angel watching him in a way he likely does not want her to. She remains on the bed long enough to watch him dress, breathy and amused, before she slides off and stands gracefully.

In the transition from the bed to standing, her clothes change. The leather top gives way a black gown and sleeves cover her pale skin. The clothes that had been left on the floor are nothing but glistening raven black feathers. Dressed like some well to do noble in sleek black fur and silk, trimmed in black feathers, she crosses her arms and coos, "Who knew you could be so much fun, my love?" Gone are the braids and silver clasps. Her hair falls straight to her waist in the same raven colors as her feathers. Purple-blue shine on ink black. "I suppose I can still help you... Or should we play 'who ever finds him first, keeps him'?"

Fiachna makes her way to the door and tugs it open, casting a glance in his direction. "It has been too long since we've done anything together. This should be fun."

@HeartOfFlame

Having that layer of cloth and leather between them again is somehow comforting. A barrier between his traitorous lust and her...her. He collects his dagger from where it rests amongst a sea of feather near the window, sliding it home with perhaps more force than strictly necessary as she taunts him, still. He reminds himself he needs her, fingers caressing the tempting hilt of the dagger, still, and follows a pace behind as she lets herself out, all fluid movements and weightless steps. If he didn't know better, he would almost think her a creature of grace; her subtle beauty, her burden-less existence, the temptation of her flawless perfection.

She couldn't be much further from perfect, graceful, if she tried. He sighs, a sound that conveys how ready he is for this to be over, for her to be gone, be it to the afterlife, or simply away from him. "I would recommend not getting used to it." He tells her blandly, footsteps solid and even behind her as they traverse the short hall, uncaring of the closed doors and snuffed lights around them. "I assure you it won't happen again."

@SanctifiedSavage   

Fiachna's passage is utterly quiet compared to his. Footfalls unnoticeable, her dress whisper quiet. She glances over her shoulder in his direction when he seems exasperated by the idea, which only amuses her. Poor man. If he hadn't wanted anything to do with her, he should've affected complete disinterest. But she knows better and it delights her that the words taste a lie even as he speaks them.

"Whatever you say, my love," she taunts playfully as they enter the inn proper. It's cleared out, leaving only the poor maid he'd scared before. The woman reflexively takes a step back while Fiachna waves, as though they'd not met on terrifying terms for the woman. "You should smile more," Fiachna absently remarks, steering Kyto toward the door by hooking her arm through his. "Scare people less."

The storm has passed and left them under freshly fallen snow and a steadily brightening sky. Still some hours from true morning. Fiachna sighs a little, wistful, before she steps out into the cold. Might as well go hunting for their son.

---

The small trade-waystation is settled in a protected valley of sorts, with tall hills surrounding and protecting the settlement from the worst of the winds that might otherwise blow through the open fields. There's the hint of a road through the snow that runs perpendicular to the game trail they walk out from, but it's hard to find in the snow. Despite how small the place is, there's a surprising amount of people bustling about a small open stall market and around the large warehouse.

People reflexively move out of Yukina's way as she guides her horse to the large, sliding doors of the warehouse. They're open now. One of the workers there recognizes her and rushes to greet her, ignoring Kanimir. Yukina slides off her horse and someone else takes it to the stable. She's offered some tea a place to sit to 'relax after her travel'.

Yukina accepts, then requests water for Kanimir.

The warehouse is a large stone, mortar, and clay tiled building. Much of the interior is rough cut wood with dirt floors. Meant to withstand rough weather but not be particularly elaborate or ornate. The room they're led to is just inside. A small sitting area with straw-stuffed furniture. Yukina doesn't sit, but she gestured that Kanimir can.

@HeartOfFlame

Kyto just sighs again, lets her lead him on. The sooner this is over, the better. He's almost surprised the maid is still here, working away behind her counter until she notices their entry and scurries back away. He doesn't care, let's Fiachna know as much with a short, irritated sound, before they step out into the early dawn and the scent of clean, fresh snow hits him.

He frowns a little, then, mulling over what he knows, little as that is, before speaking. "That maid said the boy was taken." He recalls, slipping his arm from hers in favour of pulling his heavy coat on, recollected from the side of the bat on their way out. "I don't suppose you know whom by."

It's an irritating thought, that someone else got to the boy before him. He hasn't the faintest idea who it might be, not because he doesn't know Kanimir's enemies, but because the boy has so goddamn many of them. He's collected quite a following of angry, slighted, grieving foes over the years, and the idea that one of them might have caught up to him makes Kyto's blood boil only for the fact that they are ruining his hunt. The boy is his, and his word still stands true. His death is not what Kyto desires, but a cleansing.

Gods help any fool who stands in his way.

---

Kanimir doesn't really notice they've arrived until the Blessed's horse stops moving. He back-pedals a step, blinking blearily as he drops out of the mindless haze of movement he'd fallen into for his own self preservation. Their surrounds are new, though the people seem as uncaring as most others at the Blessed's camp, and he takes a moment to look around, curious. Calculating. He's tired, more than he would like to admit, but the prospect of a chance to gain freedom is enough to add a little vigour to his veins as he trails the Blessed's inside the warehouse. It doesn't last long, the fact that he wouldn't be able to leave her side without being crippled coming second to the truth that he cannot abandon Keithia. Even were he to find freedom here, he would have to go back for her, an act that would most likely see him walking straight back into the Blessed's hold.

His chances are better if he waits it out, returns to Keithia, and tries to get them both free.

They enter a small room, walls barer than the interior of the Blessed's tent - before he destroyed it. The thought brings him a little smug satisfaction - and he eyes the sparse furniture warily, unsure if it could even hold his meagre weight. The urge to sit down hasn't swept over him yet, his body only aching in a way of overworked muscles, not the crippling pain and sensation of burning that has been his constant for the last few days. For now, he chooses to stand, arms folded over his chest and stance shuffled wide to hold his balance steady. He can't look the Blessed in the eye, head remaining bowed even as he falls into a position that is almost familiar to the way he used to be, and he quietly hopes that is enough for her to continue to ignore him.

@SanctifiedSavage 

Fiachna smiles a little when he extracts himself from her. It was the little things.

The angel steps aside and shrugs her shoulders, creating the thick, black furred cloak she'd had the night before. Appearances, she supposed, and comfort. Even if she looked like nobility being attended by a trapper.

Her dark blue eyes sweep horizon, the dotting of trees, before she starts walking. It's faint, perhaps more than it would be usually, but Fiachna isn't overly concerned. "No. I've been tailing you for awhile, not Kanimir." One of her hands idly runs through her long hair. "If you had wings we could get there faster." Not to say she walks slow, even in the ankle deep drifts. She doesn't leave much by the way of foot prints. Rather, it's rare when she does. "Whomever has him though, I'm sure will be happy to hand him over when we ask oh so nicely." Fiachna laughs softly at the sheer idea anyone would keep their son from them.

Rather, it's more what happens after that that'll be the interesting part.

"I could always go on ahead..." she offers then, shooting him a small, sweet smile.

---

Drinks are brought and neither Kanimir nor Yukina bother with the seats. The dirty, scruffy man is nearly tripping over himself to keep her from being upset. Whatever that might mean. The people in the trade-waystation might not know exactly who or what she is, but she's dressed wealthily, looks impressive, and doesn't stand for any foolishness.

That and she has what appears to be a roughed up servant following her.

Yukina takes the cup of tea then glances over her shoulder, to Kanimir. "Stay put. Behave." At that, she leaves him in the barren room to inspect the goods she's come to collect.

Of course she has no idea, because that would be helpful. Kyto sighs, combing a hand through his hair and frowning when the band holding it back almost comes out in his hold. He reaffixes it as they walk, tightening dark strands back out of his face. A soft humming sound, somewhere between dry amusement and a promise of violence, slips from his lips at her further words. Asking nicely hasn't been his way for quite some time. Whomever has Kanimir, they will hand over his son, or he will slay them where they stand. Fiachna's laughter is almost simultaneous with the thought.

He sends her a sideways look at her suggestion they split up, one brow lifting slightly in dry questioning. She knows he will refuse, as well as he knows she is simply egging him on. After everything they have discussed, he is hardly going to let her have her way with the boy that easily. For the moment, he needs her to help him find their son, but his conviction to keep her away from him, at least until his magic has been taken, is as strong as ever.

"We go together." He says firmly, shrugging his coat higher around his shoulders as a chilly breeze whistles softly over them, ruffling the fur of his collar. He picks up the pace, then, long legs taking longer strides, and forges an easy path through the loose, fresh snow. "How far?"

---

Kanimir blinks, surprised she would leave him so simply, but realises the effect of her words a moment later. Stay put, an order. One that will undoubtedly cause him pain should he try to disobey it. He sighs softly, moving forward to take the water that had been brought and drinking slowly. There's a small window in the side of the room, and he crosses over to it, looking out over the small settlement in a way that is almost wistful. The people are going about their lives, wary of the apparently wealthy stranger in their midst, but normal all the same. They look peaceful, happy, even. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much to see that, but it does. Something in his chest twists and burns with the knowledge of their freedom, seemingly so simple and inherent to them, but so far from what he has.

He sets the water down, ignores the way it had shimmered as his hand shook and trembled where he held it. He turns, back pressed into the wall, and slowly slides down to sit on the cold floor, legs drawn up to his chest. He feels helpless. It's crushing and foreign and something that hasn't even occurred to him since, since his childhood, since he escaped. A choked sound escapes him and he clamps his mouth shut with a snap, fingers twisting in his short, ragged hair as he drops his head into his hands. He's little more than a helpless, scared child, powerless and unable to even stand up for the one person he cares about in this whole sordid mess. The weight of the collar around his throat is crushing, pressing against his skin as he hunches over, and on impulse he reaches for it, fingers fighting against the stiff leather and the tremor in them.

It slides free after a long, suffocating moment, and he throws it across the room with as much strength as he can muster. It hits the opposing wall and plops onto the floor, out of sight. The feeling of air on his skin is like a godsend, fingers brushing over the rough, reddened skin where it sat and rubbed for days on end. He settles like that, curled into himself, one hand resting over the back of his neck, the other fisted in his hair. He doesn't know when the Blessed will return, but he will take the moment of solitude for what it is.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna doesn't have to go with him. She could easily take to the sky and leave him behind, but she's in a good mood and decides to humor his desire that they travel together. She's especially amicable to his company anyway.

Her smile is sweet when he says as much.

Given how quick the pair of them can cover distance, she muses a moment before shrugging. "I don't believe he's far. But it is hard to pinpoint." She takes a moment to look around, orientating herself since she's on the ground. "He's likely in one of the small towns or camps in this direction, unless the people holding him are hiding out. Or who would be able to do such a thing."

True to her word, though, she leads him through small clusters of trees and into a large snowy plain. They're able to see the trade-waystation long before they arrive. Her pace slows and she hooks her arm through his once more. Her voice drops to something more casual and conversational. "He's somewhere here."

---

Yukina is deep in the ware house, arranging transport for the camp's supplies. It's a large wagon of goods – food, leather, and necessities – that will make the trek back with her. Having to go through the steps to arrange it all is tedious, but part of the process. No one talks to her more than necessary.

@HeartOfFlame

Kyto immediately takes to scanning the area around the waystation, looking for likely positions for potential enemies to have holed themselves up inside. They won't be expecting him - them - at least, though it wouldn't have been a problem if they were, not for Kyto, anyway. There's a fair deal of movement around the small collection of houses and barns, particularly the large, stone and mortar warehouse that covers enough ground to fit most of the rest of the settlement inside it. His gaze narrows in on that, briefly, before flitting to the smaller buildings outside.

It's difficult to say where would be the more likely place for Kanimir to be being held, made more so by the fact they still don't know who - or what - took him. It doesn't matter to Kyto in how the outcome will eventuate, but the information would be helpful to make this whole thing that much easier, quicker.

He glances at Fiachna when she slides back into his space, not moving to brush her off immediately. The sword at his hip and the way he carries himself are fairly decent indications of his profession and skill, but, to a lesser man, a pretty woman hanging off his arm can be distracting, draw attention away from just how lethal he really is. He allows it, for the moment, and rests his free hand on the hilt of his sword, fingers drumming a slow pattern as they approach the outskirts of the settlement and the locals begin to pick up on their presence. They seem wary, exchanging uncertain looks the moment they catch sight of the pair entering their domain, and Koto's gaze narrows.

There's something off in the air, a faint taste of something crisp and clean in the air that has nothing to do with the fresh snow. A feeling of static hanging in the breeze. Magic.

One of the locals breaks away from the small group that has turned to watch their approach, sprinting for the large doors into the warehouse, and Kyto tracks his path until he disappears behind the solid walls. Ah, that would be the place.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna appears, for all the world, unconcerned. Like they're out for an afternoon stroll. Looking around at all the sights and people. She looks wildly out of place, if only because she looks overdressed for the small trade-waystation. Anyone's gaze she catches, she smiles. Not offputting, but politely.

Invariably, she ends up leading them to the warehouse too. Since that's the direction she seems to think Kanimir is in. At the large entrance, one of the workers approaches. It's easy to tell he's anxious, with dirt smeared on his right cheek. "C-can... can I help you?"

Fiachna smiles prettily. "I believe something of mine was dropped off here. I just need to take a look around." She nudges Kyto a little before she peels herself away from him. "Tip the boy for being so pleasant, my love, and let's see if our shipment was dropped off."

The worker blushes at being called a boy – given that he's likely in his upper twenties – but doesn't protest when she walks past him. Instead, the remark about being tipped seems to have snagged his attention and he looks at Kyto.

Fiachna is unhurried as she enters the shadowed warehouse, pausing to glance around. There's a lot of commotion inside, people flitting from various shipment stalls, market tables set up with merchants haggling prices, smaller donkeys pulling heavy boxes into place, and a couple of covered wagons being loaded toward the back. She doesn't pay any of it too much attention as she ends up walking toward the barren sitting room. No door. Plain furniture. And a very familiar figure sitting against one wall.

She crosses her arms and smiles a little. "Good afternoon."

@HeartOfFlame

Kyto glares in her wake, caught, now, by the younger man's expectant gaze. He smothers a growl, digging in his coin pouch for a moment, a pouch that is even barer than usual, thanks to Fiachna and the commotion she caused at the tavern. He hadn't been intending to stay there at all. Dropping what little he has in the boy's hand, he sidesteps around him easily and moves in the same direction Fiachna had taken, darting between the movement of carts and supplies. He can't tell which way the. woman moved from here, and he turns about once before his eyes catch on something decidedly out of place.

His brows furrow, hand moving once again to his sword hilt as he takes a slow, measured step towards the figure at the other side of the warehouse. He can't see much of them, beyond the fact they're shadowed by a pair of large, glistening white wings. That, alone, is enough to make him wary, but that static feeling has only grown since he first noticed it, and something in his gut tells him this being is important.

---

Kanimir sits alone and silent, for how long he doesn't know. His mind is blank, eyes half lidded as he curls into himself and just, sits. He's expecting no one but the Blessed to walk back through that door and expect anything of him, and the footsteps that signify another are most assuredly not hers. Too light, too jovial. Once, his ability to read a person by the sound of their walk, the placement of weight and emotion behind each step, was a tool for his trade. Now, it's pointless for much but telling him he doesn't need to move yet.

Then she speaks to him.

His head lifts slowly, eyes darting about the small room to clarify that she is, in fact, addressing him. There's no one else within sight or earshot, and he focuses on her warily, hand in his hair dropping to his side and flattening against the floor uneasily. He's defenceless here, magic locked away behind the Blessed's control, not a weapon in sight, and where once he might have provoked a fight anyway, his first instinct is fear. He shudders slightly, drawing his legs closer to himself, unsure what to say.

She looks like a noble woman, the kind he's killed dozens of times, and the fact that she's even talking to him would be strange at his best, tidy in a rough kind of way, let alone when he's filthy and ragged and still bearing the stains of Keithia's blood on his skin. He swallows, eyes darting past her to the hall beyond. The Blessed had ordered him to stay put; even if he tries to run, he won't get far. His only option is to play this out and hope he still knows how to act tough, then.

He pulls himself to his feet slowly, back pressed into the wall and one hand still flat against it, ready to move, to run. His voice is raspy, still, weak and grating as it pulls out of him, "Hello."

@SanctifiedSavage

It's all about waiting now. The wagons are being loaded, slowly, by the worker that also live in the waystation. Yukina makes no effort to help but she's no overly rushed either. The way-station has been quiet all the other times they've visited and, while they are leery of Yukina, her wings are not entirely uncommon. They just earn her a wide berth.

Her arms are crossed but her stance is casual.

---

Fiachna makes a show of looking around the room, as if there was anything to look at. "Such a mess you seem to have gotten yourself in," she mutters, tone carrying the weight of familiarity and a dash of affection. After a moment, she shrugs out of her fine cloak and tosses it toward the doorway she walks from. It 'sticks' to the opening, granting them some privacy. It also adopts the appearance of plain brown cloth.

She takes a seat on one of the straw stuffed chairs and crosses her legs, leaning back and looking for all the world like it's the most comfortable place for her to be. "Now, we don't have a lot of time to ourselves. I need you to tell me as much of your situation as I can, quickly, so we can leave." Her dark blue eyes continue to look over him, taking stock of her son, but there doesn't seem to be a sense of urgency about her.

@HeartOfFlame

Kyto approaches cautiously, quietly, paces light. He has nothing to go on but the feeling in the air, but there is something definitely amiss here. The workers skirt around the winged being with a sort of respect, treating them as a figure of authority. He stops a short distance away, watching silently, wondering where Fiachna has gotten to; if she has found the boy. He half turns, looking back the way he had come. There is still little clue as to where the woman has gotten off to, and he huffs a breath quietly.

God, that woman is vexing.

---

He flinches when she tosses her cloak towards the door, watching it transform into something entirely different from the fine, decorative fabric. His eyes track back to her slowly, apprehensively. It takes a moment for her words to sink in. She's offering him help. Maybe. His eyes narrow, flitting over her again. For all he knows, this is a ploy on the Blessed's part. It seems...different, from her usual tactics, but he has no concept of normal anymore, not when he's been reduced to a pet, when pain is a constant and the only way to avoid is to beg and grovel. Still...he's desperate.

Time for a leap of faith, then.

"Th-there's a woman," He stammers, fighting the urge to just shut up and do as he was told. Stay put, behave. He shakes his head, shakes the vestige of her voice off, trying to rid himself of it like a physical presence, "they call her B-B-Blessed. She can trap my magic, rebound it." His hand clenches into a fist at his side, body hunching, expecting the pain to return at any moment, to be thrown back into a mindless void of agony and fire.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna watches him passively, giving him the time to explain. Someone who has trapped his magic? She's heard of various people who can, of course. The angel gets around. It takes her a moment to consider before she sighs a little and stands. "Now, that is quite a mess you've gotten into." She doesn't sound upset, but rather, faintly amused. "I suppose the only way we're going to be able break such a thing is to take your magic from this plane... For just a moment."

She slides to her feet in a smooth, graceful motion, and partially crosses the space between them. Her hand extends to him with a faint smile. "Come along, love. We'll need to do this quick. I suspect she'll know when it happens." Fiachna didn't bother to mention it would likely pain them both quite a bit. Unimportant details.

@HeartOfFlame

There is no immediate rebound, and he has the sense of self to tilt his head in an almost quizzical expression when the strange woman barrels right on ahead. She seems entirely disaffected by by his state, just taking his words at face value and moving on. The thought that this is just another twisted test flits through his mind, but he's committed now. If she can help him, if she can free him from the Blessed...he's never accepted help in his life, not since he earned his freedom the first time, but now, he's desperate for it.

She rises to her feet and moves towards him, hand outstretched. He balks from it despite himself, trying to take a step back when his spine is already against a wall. He swallows, voice somehow, shockingly, steady as he speaks. "What does that mean?" He asks, fighting the urge to just take her hand and damn the consequences. What could be worse than this? Death? A sweet relief. "Wen what happens?"

@SanctifiedSavage

A playful smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Now, now. You're a smart boy." Her hand remains extended, palm up. It's a small, pale thing that clashes heavily with the dark clothes she's wearing. "As I said, we don't have a lot of time so we best do this quick though." Fiachna was betting the place was going to get quite... noisy... when she was done. "I promise to answer whatever questions you might have once we're out of this tiny town."

@HeartOfFlame

He shouldn't trust her, should be afraid of her in that small part of his mind that boasts few self preservation. But he does, and he's not. There's something almost familiar about her, a feeling that he's seen those dark, shimmering eyes before. He swallows, steadied himself with a breath. One way or another, this ends now. He nods, a small, nearly imperceptible thing, and lefts his hand to rest in hers.

"Okay."

@SanctifiedSavage

"Good boy." A smile spreads across her face before she pulls him close, against her. Into a hug. Her wings fan out before they, too, fold around him and they fall back. Rather than hitting the ground, though, Fiachna takes him home. To a plane of dark red skies and silent lighting and black clouds. He can't see the landscape beneath him, but the air burns acrid. The sensation of his magic being ripped from Yukina is like all his bones break and his lungs are squeezed, stealing his breath. Muscles spasm with the rough reintroduction of his gift in this new world.

They leave the plane in a breath. Hitting the floor hard, in a plume of black smoke and glittering embers in the air above them. Fiachna bears the brunt of the impact with Kanimir cradled against her, on top of her. Her wings having sheltered him from the harsh skies of her home. She's coughing some at the quick transition and everything about her has returned to normal. Her black hair, her leather gown trimmed in raven feathers.

She doesn't try to get up, just laying in place while orientating herself after the very quick planar shift.

---

One moment, Yukina is standing, watching supplies being loaded up. Stance alert but bored. Her attention wandering between the wagons and the workers. The next, she drops to her knees and a scream rips from her throat. The Blessed clutches her head and draw in her wings as Kanimir's magic is just gone. Like she's being gutted. Having something forcefully removed and she doesn't know how to stop the bleeding. Unprepared for it.

Those immediately around her shout in surprise and move away. Some draw old knives, looking around for trouble. The animals spook, causing handlers to fight to keep them from breaking free.

@HeartOfFlame

She pulls him into her arms, an embrace of sorts, and he isn't prepared for how comforting it feels. He melts into it, eyes falling shut as his body shudders, the feel of contact, touch with another living being, almost overwhelming. The next moment, they are falling. His eyes snap open as the anticipation of a collision with the ground makes him tense, and then there is fire.

He can't breathe. There's fire and pain and when he thought there could be nothing worse than the Blessed wrath he was wrong. Where that had been his bones slowly breaking one by one this is instant. Every vein, muscle and bone in his body feels like it's disintegrating in one single moment, a moment that draws on and on and he can't breathe. He's aware of screaming like one is aware of the sun rising and setting; a fact that he cannot change. He doesn't even feel the tearing of his throat, the warmth of tears on his cheeks as it burns and burns and burns. He doesn't feel the impact of hitting the floor, lost in that constant, raging inferno that is somehow even worse than the white, mindless pain of the Blessed. He's sobbing and shaking, too breathless to even cry out anymore, and the touch of arms around him, a body beneath him, is barely even felt.

A little of the pain fades, enough for him to regain a small portion of thought and coherency, enough for him to shatter one last time. He coughs on the taste of blood in his mouth, gasping and heaving for breath he can't seem to keep. He's apologising before he can even think about it, begging, pleading cries that escape in mere whispers, all he can manage, and intermingled with the title of Blessed.

---

In an instant, chaos explodes through the warehouse. The winged one screams, high pitched and agonised, and Kyto draws his sword in the same moment he realises it's a woman. He's not the only one to go for his blade, though he is the quickest to get it free, and they all exchange a variety of gazes, wary and guarded, both. These are a people accustomed to being swindled and attacked, and the fact their first instinct is to go for their weapons is a testament to that. Kyto does his best not to aggravate them, though he will not hesitate to cut them down should they decide he is the enemy, and turns to approach the winged woman instead.

He has little idea what caused her sudden collapse, but he has a funny feeling Fiachna is involved.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna's embrace tightens when she feels her son shaking and sobbing. Holding him close while she awkwardly manuvers herself to stand. His weight isn't the issue so much as their positioning. She doesn't let him go, just holds him. "Alright, alright. Now... to get out." That was likely going to be the difficult part.

When he coughs and starts apologizing, begging... So much, Fiachna lets out a soft sigh. Such a mess. The angel doesn't bother adjusting her appearance. The cloak she'd previously put on the door to grant them privacy had disintegrated into feathers when she'd planar shifted with him. Fiachna knew there was commotion out in the warehouse – not just because she could hear it, but she knew because the one connected to him was probably having a rough time too.

When she walks out of the small sitting room, Fiachna immediately draws attention. It's hard not to with her large black wings. More weapons are drawn and, while there might've been confusion regarding what to do about the Blessed, there isn't concerning her. Fiachna's immediately identified as an enemy and her way out is blocked. "Kyto!" The angel can do a lot of things, but fighting...? A bit out of her wheelhouse. Her voice carries easily, though.

---

The pain is momentarily blinding. She can't think, can't process, beyond how searing it is. Like a fire that spreads through her mind and down her spine. It's debilitating, making it difficult to breathe, to process anything.

The men around her know Yukina isn't a danger, an enemy. They've worked with the Blessed, they've traded before, and she's the one on the ground in pain. Kyto, however, is a stranger and he's drawn his weapon too. So it is him that most turn their attention to and one man asks, "Who are you? What are you doing here?" while another shouts, "Drop your sword!"

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir lets her lead him, aware of her arms still around him, of his legs moving to stumble alongside her, but still in too much pain to do much to resist. Not that he would anyway, not now. His rambling apologies fade out, his chest hitching with the need for air, the fact that he's upright suddenly crashing down on his body and stealing his equilibrium away. He nearly crumples, the woman's arms still firmly around him the only thing keeping him upright, and the shouting, angry words of the men and women around them come to him faded, like whispers.

He hears the woman speak, a vibration through her chest more than the actual words themselves, and almost in the same moment, a soft, tingling warmth spreads through his veins. It's familiar and welcoming and covers him like a blanket. The pain is still there, throbbing and burning and ripping his flesh apart, but there is comfort. He knows this feeling, knows his power, and it's a sudden, subconscious realisation this this is his again. He gets his feet under him, opens his eyes to a close up of raven feathers and skin, and slowly turns. Steel catches in his still hazy vision, a dozen weapons drawn and ready for blood. He doesn't know why, doesn't care to know, all he's aware of is that they are in his way, blocking the path to freedom, and threatening the woman who cut his chains. There is power in his veins once again.

Sparks dance around his fingertips, hot and iridescent, fragmenting and splitting into crystalline shards that never seem to still.

---

Kyto takes a step back, lifting one hand in a placating gesture. He has no qualms about them attacking him, but he's not exactly dying for a pointless fight either. He breathes out slowly, a soft sound that is almost a sigh. "You don't want to fight me." He says simply, voice low and calm, blade still gripped firmly in hand. They take no heed, edging closer, almost moving around the winged woman, as if to protect her from him. It's almost amusing that they think they can even try.

There's a sudden commotion behind him, the shrill sound of more blades being drawn, shouting and confusion. He knows it's Fiachna before he even turns around. Her voice is still clear as a bell, even through the ruckus, and he rolls his eyes in a way that is both weary and resigned before moving off. A few try to get in his way, keep him from coming to her aid. He cuts them down like the fools they are, and before the first body hits the floor, absolute chaos unfolds. Where before there had been doubt,t confusion, now there is only a certainty. He is their enemy, however they want to perceive the reasonings, and he has just started a war.

He spins his sword in a flourish, catching sight of Fiachna up ahead, blanching slightly when he sees the wings attached to her back. Were it not for the obvious differences, the pitch black, ashen colour of hers, the ragged look to them, he might almost have mistaken her for the same breed as the woman still kneeling in pain at the other end of the warehouse. This...this is her true self, then. He shakes his head, focusing himself as a hopeful fool swings at him from the left. Kyto ducks under it and opens his chest with a single strike.

At the very least, their attention is on him now.

@SanctifiedSavage

There are a couple of test lunges her way, that she side steps and buffets away with a wing. One sword actually pierces through the black feathers, coming away red, but she doesn't pay it too much mind. She's been stabbed before. Besides, they suddenly have someone who is quite armed heading straight for them, and certainly knows how to fight.

When Kanimir seems to be coming to, she murmurs softly, "No magic now, love. It'd be a shame for you to be taken prisoner again." Fiachna doesn't know the specifications of how he was caught, only that the one who had caught him is still there. Somewhere.

Best to just get away.

Getting past those in the warehouse wasn't too difficult, now that they had Kyto to fight. Fiachna clearly wasn't presenting as a danger, so much as a stranger. So the one who was left to 'guard her' and keep her in place was really confused when he was certain he'd heard someone else call for him. Fiachna throwing sound to distract him enough to disarm and impale him with his own blade.

Without dropping Kanimir. My but he was heavier now than when he was a babe.

Before she leaves the wide opening of the warehouse, her form shifts. Her clothes change to that of those who live in the town – brown leather and faded cloth, her hair looks a bit shaggier, and her wings are gone. When she walks out with an arm under Kanimir, it looks like she's helping someone injured leave. With people rushing toward the commotion, they don't pay her too much mind.

All the better.

She's able to start off, away from the trade-waystation, and idly hopes that Kyto doesn't have to kill all of them to get out.

---

Awareness hits her hard. The knowledge of what's happened... While the rest of the world sounds muffled and far away, her heartbeat hammers in her ears. He's gone. Dead? She doesn't know. It's the only thing that makes sense. How else...

Yukina stands, a little unsteady on her feet, using her wings for balance, and tries to make sense of what she's seeing. A fight? Was the warehouse being attacked? She runs a gloved hand over her face, trying to shake off the disorientation, while reaching for one of her swords.

@HeartOfFlame

He realises the folly of his actions a moment before his magic rents the air, the woman's voice following a second after that, and the realisation of what he had almost done, how swiftly he had almost thrown himself back into the Blessed's control, is enough to steal the the strength from him once again. He sags into his rescuer, too tired and in too much pain to even try and fight her as she turns and moves him in a direction his vision is too unreliable to properly identify. His power is still there, throbbing and thrumming beneath the surface, soothing away a little of the burning pain in his veins with it's own pleasant warmth. It's steady and grounding and undeniably his.

He's aware of the moment they step outside, boots sinking into the trampled snow, bodies rushing past them on both sides as the people of the way station rush to the commotion Kanimir is too hazy to have caught more than a glimpse of. His main focus now is just getting away, getting away from the Blessed and the torment she represents. It all feels surreal, like he will wake up any moment back in that cold, careless camp, collared and leashed and unable to defend himself from even a verbal beating. He clings tighter to the woman helping him, aware he should be wary of her, of why she is saving him at all, but at the same time too grateful to care.

He's free, his magic is his own again, and each shaking step puts more and more distance between him and the Blessed. For now, that is enough.

---

Unlike some, Kyto is aware of every moment of battle. He doesn't lose himself to the adrenaline of the fight, the rush of blood in his ears as he ducks and weaves sloppy strikes and halfhearted feints. This isn't a thrill for him, a test of warrior on warrior. These people hardly even qualify as thugs in his mind, and he cuts them down with cold, ruthless efficiency. There's no joy in it, no satisfaction, just a bothersome errand that must be completed for his own convenience.

Fiachna slips out sometime during the fight, and it's a stretch to even call it that, really. He huffs a growl at the realisation, spinning to parry an awkward attack by a man with no more than thirty winters under his belt and driving a boot through his knee. He crumples, like all those before him, and his scream is long and haunting. Kyto sniffs, turning to face those who are left. The mad rush has faded, the rush of blood in them draining away as they realise they are outclassed by far. He swings his sword once, red glistening on it's chipped surface, and raises his head back.

"You do not want to fight me." He repeats, calm, unruffled by the dozen or more men and women he just put to the ground. Most of them will survive, if they don't bleed out before a doctor can get to them. He saw no point in taking their lives, though the idea had seemed vaguely tempting when they refused to see that they held no chance and might as well back off for their own sakes. The remaining few hesitate, eyes wide and fearful, as they should be. Kyto takes a solid step forward and they flinch, backtracking away from them. He just nods, turns towards the open doors at the end of the warehouse. He needs to find Fiachna, see if she found the boy and, if so, prevent her from just absconding with him before he has a chance to stop her.

Something white and shimmering catches in the corner of his eye, and he turns his head towards the winged woman, now back on her feet. He doesn't slow his pace towards the exit, just watches her carefully from the edge of his vision. She is an unknown, here, but if she intends to pick a fight with him, he would much prefer to take the battleground outside, away from these other idiots who may try to assist her; get in his way.

@SanctifiedSavage 

Fiachna doesn't believe she's going to actually slip away from Kyto for long. He'll likely track them down, but she makes some progress away from the trade-waystation and the mess. Cutting through a cluster of trees. Carrying Kanimir where needed. She decides to stop only after the sporadic trees around them are quiet save for the chittering of birds. By now, the sun has started to dip into evening.

She finds a fallen log for him to sit on and produces a thick cloak to wrap around his shoulders. It's the dark furred and feathered one from before. "Let's see about getting you a fire, hm?" she says, mostly to herself. While looking through the snowy underbrush, she sheds the form and resumes her base. Barefoot, leather dress, and black wings. The occasional droplets of blood tail her wake where her wing had been stabbed, but she mostly ignores it. Having her wings out will allow it to heal.

It doesn't take Fiachna long to make a small fire near Kanimir, where she crouches on the other side of it and warms her hands. Partially shielding its light with her wings and giving him some space. "If you need to sleep, it is safe to do so. I'll keep watch," she says, softly, while watching him.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir fades in and out of consciousness like a leaf on the breeze. He's aware of strong arms around him every time he stumbles back towards lucidity, the crunching sound of snow beneath his boots, the quiet chatter of birds and other woodland creatures. His head lolls against the shoulder of whoever it is helping him, all but carrying him. The woman. He can't remember if she ever told him her name, just knows that she helped him, is helping him. He's so tired...

In what seems like the very next moment, he's being lowered down to a log, something warm and fluffy draped over him. He clutches it instinctively, realising that he's shivering somewhat belatedly. The pain has faded to a quiet afterthought, leaving him with only the aches and pains of the torment from the last few days. It seems like longer than that, like this hell has been going on for an eternity, like he's aged at least a decade, but he knows, rationally, that it can't have been more than a week since that night at the tavern. Everything's changed.

Warmth flickers at the edge of his senses and he blinks his vision back into focus, turning his head to see a small fire crackling merrily, the woman crouched beside it. It takes a moment, but his eyes focus enough for him to catch sight of her wings, large and prominent and he swallows, uncertain. Nervous. He shuffles back a little, barely resisting the urge to curl his knees into his chest, make himself as small as possible. He coughs slightly, tastes the iron-y taint of blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his cheek some time earlier.

"Who are you?" He asks softly, wrapping his arms around his chest and hunching down into the cloak she had provided. "Why...why help me?"

@SanctifiedSavage

She continues to flick her attention between the fire and her son, occasionally adding more sticks and twigs she had gathered. It isn't a large fire, but serviceable. Especially since she doesn't want to draw unwanted attention.

Kyto finding them is inevitable. She can do something about other people.

When he does come to, and remain aware, Fiachna doesn't move. She keeps her place across the fire from him. His question tugs a smile at the corner of her mouth. "I suppose you would be too young to remember how I look, let alone how I sound. I had thought the black feathers would jog your memory, if nothing else." She stretches her injured wing, frowning at the stiffness, but continues, "I have tried not to involve myself too much in your life, but you seemed to need a hand." Not exactly answering his question.

@HeartOfFlame

He frowns at that, shifting a little to examine the cloak draped over him, becoming aware of the scent that clings to it. She does seem familiar, something I the back of his mind sparking brighter every time she speaks, every time his vision cooperates enough for him to look at her properly. It's why he chose to trust her in the first place, back in that warehouse, despite everything in him screaming 'trap trap trap'. Something flickers in his memory as he looks down at the dark feathers, a brief flash and then it's gone, and he shakes his head, lifting his gaze back to her.

She doesn't look that much older than him, though he's well aware appearances can be more than deceiving, and the wings on her back are as sure a sign as any that she isn't human. His frown deepens a little, lips pressing together as he gives in to the urge and pulls his feet up onto the log, hugging his knees to his chest.

"What does that mean?" He presses, voice hitching a notch. It feels like she's leading him on, evading the question, just like it feels as though he should know her, like his memory is filled with puzzle pieces he just needs to spot together. But, his brain is like soup, thoughts slow and muggy in his state of exhaustion, and the way that makes the pieces slip through his fingers is...irritating. "Who are you?"

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna watches him struggle to remember, and it is bittersweet. She smiles more so and tends the fire, letting his questions linger in the air between them. Accompanied only by the popping of firewood. When she seems satisfied with the fire, she brushes her hands off on her gown. "You should rest, love. I suspect you won't have much of an opportunity to do so later." It is spoken with insistent affection, but not a command. Rather, she then turns and gives a soft wing beat to claim a seat in a lower branch. Still quite visible, but giving her a view of their immediate area too. When he shows up she doesn't want to be surprised. Fiachna leaves her injured wing flared so it will continue to heal.

@HeartOfFlame

She doesn't give him an answer, and he's too exhausted to push. He sighs softly, leaning his head on his knees and just basking in the warmth of the fire for a moment, taking comfort from the steady feeling of power curling through his core and the faint sense of homeliness that seems to come from the cloak draped over his shoulders. He knows the position he's taken will most probably be regretted in the morning, when his spine is aching and spiteful, but for now he's comfortable and warm and...well, he doesn't feel safe. He hasn't, and probably won't, for a while. But it's...something almost the same. He knows there's someone keeping an eye out for him. It's enough for him to begin to drift.

Time plods on. The sun settles below the horizon, taking the last of the day's warmth and light with it, and soon enough to crackling fire is the only illumination in their little campsite. The forest is silent, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or other nocturnal creature, and that silence makes the sudden presence of noise that much louder.

Kanimir isn't sure what wakes him, specifically, only that it does so suddenly. He comes back to himself with a bodily, jerking, motion, almost falling from his precarious perch on the log as his head snaps up and vision struggles to focus. The forest is completely dark around them, the light of the fire casting odd shadows amidst the trees, and his pulse thunders in his ears, aware something woke him, but with no actual idea what.

A crunching sound, sharp and out of place in the silence. He turns towards it, sparks flickering between his fingers before he even thinks about it, eyes blown wide, afraid and acting almost entirely on animalistic sort of instinct. A light bobs between the trees, a sight that makes some small part of his brain realise that this threat is most likely human, though that knowledge is hardly comforting. In some ways, a monster of the forest would be better. His breath is tight and rapid as he waits, eyes flitting from tree to tree, trying to find that source of light amidst the darkness again, tense muscles spasming every time a slow, crunching footstep meets his ears.

He shouldn't be afraid, should be facing this with confidence and power at his fingertips ready to destroy whatever walks through that tree line, but the sparks at his hand are fleeting and weak, barely casting light, and the only thing he feels is cold, suffocating fear.

@SanctifiedSavage

Sleep isn't necessary for the angel. She reclines on the tree branch, back to the trunk, and enjoys the sights of the wintry forest. One leg dangles, the other is drawn up. The ache in her wing eventually subsides.

It takes him longer than she thought it would. Traveling by ground was always tiresome. The angel tracks the steadily approaching glow, unconcerned, until a sound from below catches her attention. Kanimir is awake, having heard, and apparently hadn't received the information well. Fiachna rolls to the side, dropping down, and losing her wings as she does so.

No reason to stand out so much amongst those that don't have them.

When she lands, she's wearing the same black dress they'd initially met in. Nice, dark fabric that catches the firelight like an oil slick. Dark, straight black hair falls to her waist. She makes a placating gesture to Kanimir with both hands, now gloved to the elbow in soft fabric. "Calm down, love. There's no reason to panic. I won't let anything bad happen to you tonight." It's the most the angel can promise.

She takes a couple of steps in his direction, but turns to face the approaching light. Putting herself between Kanimir and Kyto. Fiachna crosses her arms and smiles just a little. "Took you long enough."

@HeartOfFlame

The woman lands behind him with an almost inaudible crunch of snow, and he flinches, head turning to look at her and finding her appearance changed once again, though her face remains the same. She makes a calming gesture with her hands, but her voice is the thing that soothes his frazzled nerves more. It's strange, to have someone offering to protect him. He should snort and brush off the attempt, but it's far more comforting than it has any right to be, and a little of his panic ebbs as she places herself in front of him, a bodily shield.

The weak sparks die down, though his hands remain clenched, nails digging into his palms. The woman calls out, as if she knows who is approaching, and he has just enough time to shoot a confused look in her direction before a voice, a voice that is far too familiar and carries too many memories with it, rumbles back and a sharp, burning gasp escapes him.

"No."

---

"Am I to believe you were actually worried, Fiachna?" Kyto's voice is weary as he responds, as much so as the muscles in his lower legs. Snow and forest, a terrible combination, really. Following Fiachna's tracks would have been easy, she's never been the most stealthy of creatures, had he had another hour of daylight and a better torch. Nevertheless, he has found her now, and he steps into the light of her small fire with a tired sigh. She looks the same as ever, and he denies the quiet worry that dies when he sees she is unharmed. A soft sound behind her catches his attention before she can make whatever sly quip he's sure is brewing on her tongue, and his gaze shifts to the side only for a feeling like rocks on his chest to settle over him.

It's been two decades, but he still recognises his son in an instant. He shouldn't, not with how he has changed. His hair has been cropped short, ragged and uneven, shorter than it ever was even as a child. He looks gaunt, all bones and thin, pale skin, dark bruising ringing both eyes, eyes which are blown wide and...terrified. Kyto swallows the uncomfortable feeling in his throat, suddenly frozen on the spot. Kanimir's eyes are locked on him, one hand raised defensively before his chest, the other seeking a point of contact on his mother's arm. Kyto should be irritated by that, annoyed that Fiachna has gotten under his skin already, but the being before him is not a monster, not a killer, but a frightened, hurting child. His child, and all he can feel is a deep, painful wound in his chest that he had thought long healed.

"Kanimir." He murmurs, unable to formulate more than that around the lump in his throat and the overwhelming feeling of guilt that washes over him as the boy flinches, ducking his head to the side as if to hide behind a curtain of hair, only to realise that refuge is gone. Kyto remembers that movement, remembers a younger boy, half the height and twice as freighted, hunching himself into a corner and tilting his head to use his hair as a shield against a father too slighted and bitter to realise that boy was his son, his flesh and blood. Kyto doesn't care that Fiachna is watching, suddenly, doesn't care what she thinks or says in response to his actions.

He crouches slowly, lowers his torch to the ground, before reaching for his belt and unbuckling his scabbard, laying that down in the snow as well. He can feel Kanimir's eyes on him, even as the boy does a fairly good job of placing Fiachna between them, his sharp, rapid breaths the only sound in the sudden heavy silence that surrounds them. Kyto raises his hands in a gesture of peace, to show he holds no weapons. It's a small gesture, one he knows may be ineffectual. He knows the depth of the scars he caused, even as a smaller voice in his head argues that they were justified.

"I'm not going to hurt you, son."

@SanctifiedSavage

It hadn't occurred to her she should be worried, and it amuses her he says as much. Though he does look tired. Wings. The man needed to learn how to fly.

The sound that escapes her son, though, catches her by surprise. She glances over her shoulder, watching him a moment, before turning her attention back to Kyto. Her dark blue eyes track his movements, watch him disarm himself, and lower the sword to the snow. "He might not remember me, but it seems the memories he has of you are not fond ones." Her voice is soft and there's an odd sadness to it.

One of her arms gingerly wraps around Kanimir's shoulders and holds him close, guiding him out from behind her and into the shelter of her embrace. Fiachna lightly kisses the top of his head while watching Kyto. "I already told you I'd keep you safe tonight. You'll be ok..." she murmurs against his skin before idly messing with his ragged hair with her free hand. Fretting over him absently.

"It's been a long day. We should all relax, hm? My love, you mind fetching some more wood for the fire? Now that you're here, there's no reason to keep it so small." Her voice is light and sweet in the tense silence. Give him some space, was what she was really saying, though a larger fire would be welcomed.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir feels like his lungs might burst. He can barely see, blinded by the hot, blurry tears stinging his eyes, the way that that blurred vision sways as the lack of air gets to him. The woman - Fiachna, his fa-Kyto had called her - wraps an arm around him, pulling him into her arms. He's shaking again, finite tremors that race through him and make him feel like that helpless, defenceless child again. Kyto can't be here, he can't. He's dead, Kanimir saw him die, saw enough of his blood painting that dirty village street to know that he is dead and gone, two decades past. Yet, he can't deny what he sees, what he's hearing.

He wants this all to be a dream, a twisted, garish nightmare that he will awaken from any moment, gasping and cold but himself. His head hurts and there is a horrible warmth behind his eyes and he just wants it all to stop. He turns his face into Fiachna's shoulder, focuses on his breathing, on something he can at least try and control. Each breath he takes is sharp and ragged, whistling through him fruitlessly, and he grinds his teeth together, nostrils flaring as he tries to wrestle back some semblance of power over himself, something he can lay claim to and identify as his. Fiachna's voice washes over him, sweet and crystalline, but the words unintelligible, and he settles in the knowledge that she is still there, still defending him.

He still can't say why, say what possible reason he has for trusting her the way he does, but her presence is comforting and enough to make him feel safe in a way he never has. He can ignore Kyto, pretend he isn't there, pretend he isn't standing a mere ten feet away when he's supposed to be six feet under twenty years gone, and just focus on the feeling of a hand ruffling through his hair and the effort of controlling his uneven, rasping breaths.

---

Kyto watches his son melt into Fiachna's side and can't deny the cold feeling of shame that curls through his gut. There's anger there, too, even though the tone of her voice had almost resembled an emotion alike to sadness, there is accusation there too, slight and fleeting, but ever present. His eyes narrow, taking in the way she holds the boy against her, murmuring quiet reassurances into his hair. Making him hers. How swiftly he seems to have come to trust her hurts, in a way, but in another, he's well aware that the distrust, the fear in his boy's eyes, is not without cause. Far from it. He can blame Fiachna, can pour his bitter anger and hatred on her for leaving, for ruining him, but the guilt and pain and the gaping canyon of regret in his heart for what he did is ultimately his own to carry.

She broke his heart, but he was the one who laid that pain on his son rather than carrying it on his own shoulders.

He sighs softly, glancing towards the dwindling flames at her back and nodding in a resigned sort of way. He isn't going to achieve anything but upsetting the boy more if he stays, so he reaches for his scabbard and straps it back on before collecting his dying torch and moving back. He hesitates, glancing between Fiachna and the boy, taking in how frail he seems. He's shaking. The idea of finding some distance, some space to reassess his entire purpose for being here, sounds impossibly inviting and he turns away almost silently. Fiachna had waited for him, for whatever reason, he has to just assume she will stay there again.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna smiles at Kyto when he looks their way. It's a self-satisfied smile. She'd always be Kanimir's mother, after all, and even if he didn't really remember her, he seemed to remember something about her. Only once Kyto vanishes off into the darkness, to collect firewood, does she gently guide Kanimir into sitting. Still holding him and lightly combing through his ragged hair. Fiachna makes soft, cooing sounds in an attempt to get him to calm. "You're safe, it's fine." Her voice is soft and soothing.

Obviously something had happened to him. She doesn't know, because she has no idea the sort of person who had taken his magic, but it still... bothers her... to see something of hers so shattered. "Ah, love..." she murmurs. As much as Fiachna hadn't wanted to get too involved, she can feel that isn't going to be the case this time. Not with Kyto here. Not with her son broken.

What a family reunion indeed. The mess of it all does entertain her in a broad sense. Only her family could come together in such a catastrophic way. What Kyto is going to do, now, she's unsure but her only out was used saving Kanimir. So unless she'd wanted to fly off with her son, and have Kyto hunting them, it was best to just... deal with it.

Besides, she didn't want to let her husband go so soon.

@HeartOfFlame

Her voice is grounding, the hand in his hair, the touch of another being against him, moreso. He manages to slow his rapid breaths t something more manageable, enough for the air to actually stay in his lungs long enough to be worthwhile. He's clinging, one hand fisted into the fur and feathers around her shoulders, and as much as he knows he should be better, the comfort of having someone who at least seems to care is strange and new and almost as overwhelming as everything else. He leans into her, feels his horns pressing into her shoulder, solid and firm. He realises, belatedly, that they're sitting in the snow, cold and damp leeching through the fabric of his pants.

He swallows, runs his tongue over the back of his teeth, tries to figure out how to speak around the panic still clawing at his chest, angry and afraid. It takes a concentrated effort, but he manages to form words. "I'm s-sorry..." He murmurs first, that instinct ground in deep,"H-how...Kyto, he s-sh-should be dead. I watched-I saw him for."

He leans back, face an open book, as it has ever been, while damp eyes search her face, looking for answers, knowledge, anything that might resemble a rope for this precarious cliff he finds himself on. He's shivering again, cold seeping into him from the snow and the wind over the damp, cold sweat on his skin, both, but he doesn't care. He needs to know, needs to know he's not hallucinating, delirious, dreaming. That this, all of this, is real and present and something he wants nothing of but at least it's a reality where the Blessed's hold over him is gone.

The Blessed. Keithia.

He forgets how to breathe for a solid moment, face falling expressionless, before horror fills his eyes. He feels sick, a deep, churning hand of ice and daggers settling through his chest and squeezing. He struggles upwards, breaks from Fiachna's hold and stumbles a few steps towards the fire. His hands twist in his hair, one wrapping around a dirtied horn for nothing but the physical sensation of vague pain the tugging motion provides.

"Keithia." He whispers, pacing back and forth, breaths sharp, making a soft, distressed sound with every exhale. He has no idea where they are, how long it's been since the Blessed took him away from her. He doesn't even know what happened to the woman after their connection was broken, hopes sincerely she is dead. Gods, how could he forget about Keithia? He'd promised her, given his word he'd get them both out.

"I n-need to go back." He rushes, pausing in his tracks, gaze flitting up haltingly. "I need to go back. I need to go b-back for her."

@SanctifiedSavage

The cold and the snow, while uncomfortable, doesn't bother Fiachna beyond that. She'd wanted someplace nice to stay for the night, but until they could travel a bit farther, that wasn't going to happen either. Her ability to change things was likewise severely limited.

When he mentions that Kyto should be dead, though, she looks at him. Curious. He looks so young to her. Grown, certainly, but there's something broken and desperate about him now.

The horror that flits across his face makes her tense and look around, thinking there might be danger. Then he struggles away from her. What he then says doesn't make any sense to her.

"Go back?" She doesn't even hide how incredulous that sounds. "Love, I was only able to save you... this once. I will not be able to do so again. Going back is a terrible idea, no matter the reason." Fiachna stands, frowning more so. "I know the sight of your father must be... scary... but we'll figure something out. Leaving now isn't the answer."

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir shakes his head, even as she speaks, arms wrapping around his torso as his gaze continues to rake over the dark, shapeless forest around them, searching for anything that might give him a clue as to direction, how far they've come.

"You d-dont, I can't. I can't leave her there, no m-matter the danger to me." He shakes his head, vehemently, this time, and tries not to feel lightheaded by it. "I promised her." He doesn't expect her to understand, how can she when he doesn't even know her - though the knowledge that she might know him is mutedly present in the back of his mind. He doesn't know what the Blessed, the other one, the one he hadn't seen, might do to Keithia, but he knows that none of it will be anything she deserves.

"I don't c-care about Kyto." He says, and for the moment, that is true. He's too focused to care about his father, though the panic and fear and memories are still ever present in the back of his mind, stirred to life by the sight of a man who should be dead and rotting. He turns and reaches with shaking fingers for the cloak Fiachna had given him earlier, thrown off in his rapid movement to standing, and pulls it back around his shoulders, shivering. He knows, rationally, that there is probably nothing he can do to help her, that walking back into that camp is alike to signing his own death warrant, or worse. But, he can't think about that now, he made a promise, and he's godsdamned going to keep it.

"I need to save Keithia, before they break her too."

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna watches Kanimir in his... panic. That's really all she can say to describe it. A frown touches her expression and she stands when he grabs at the cloak she'd given him. Fiachna could, beyond a doubt, stop him from going. More than that, though, the angel is curious who this person is that her son is attached to.

He'd been alone last she'd checked in on him. Or as alone as he was in that house of his.

Seeing him stand there, shivering, though prompts her to stand and gingerly pull him into another loose embrace. Trying to help him warm up. "Ok, ok. I'll talk to your father when he gets back and we'll... see about getting this person back." If it comes to any sort of fight, she'd need him. "Tell me about this... Keithia? Who is she? What does she look like? Why is she important?" They were questions out of curiosity, not asking him to justify why she might need saved.

@HeartOfFlame

That makes him scoff, even as he leans into her and tries to remember what it actually feels like to be warm. He hasn't been in so long, not since...not since they left Uthlyn, really. It seems like an eternity since they entered this cold, frigid land, and he has done nothing but suffer and shatter in that time. He shakes his head again, arms loose at his side but the feeling of hers around him impossibly comforting.

"You really think he'll c-care?" He asks into the fabric of her top, face hidden from the light, from the pain he knows would be reflected in his eyes. "He doesn't care. He never h-has."

A small part of him wonders if Kyto could have changed, if twenty years could have somehow made him into a better person, a better father, but the more rational side of him shuts that down as quickly as it can arise. Kyto is incapable of change, more than Kanimir has ever been. Even the good memories he has, fleeting as they may be, are tainted by the knowledge that they never lasted. Good times, short and clipped, always came crashing down with a flare of anger, a bitter spiel of curses and hatred and bias. Kanimir didn't choose the be born with magic, to be born at all, but he took the gift he was given and learned to master it, to take what he is and make it better, and Kyto convicted him for it.

He'd thought he was beyond this, now, that time and life had given him the healing he needed to forget his memories. He'd grown into himself, learned how to be free of all expectations and laws, made of himself who he wanted to be. And then, the Blessed had stripped him of everything that made him even feel like more than a slave. An irony he would have appreciated in any other circumstances. Now, he just feels fragile, broken, like there are pieces of himself that had been chipped away and will never fit back together properly, will never make him whole in the same way again. He's still determined, still sure that, even if it kills him, he will see Keithia free again. He's set her free from hell once already, he won't let her return any further into it.

He breathes out slowly, feels suddenly more in control of himself than he has in days. The fear is still there, bubbling beneath the surface, ready and waiting for a crack in his calm, but he's managed to find some solid ground, flotsam in the wreckage of his sense of self. He draws back slowly, drags a hand down his face with another soft, weary breath.

"Keithia..." He begins, frowning a little as he tries to find words to describe her, to describe what she is to him. He doesn't even really know the answer to that himself. Perhaps, he should be more careful with his words, his willingness to speak, but Fiachna has done nothing but help him and stand before him, a shield, in the presence of Kyto. He doesn't know who she is, not really, but his every instinct screams to trust her, to let her...protect him, and he has ever been a man of instinct. "She's...she's my friend. A nymph. She was kidnapped from her glenn and sold around as a...a trophy. I freed her and promised to show her the rest of the world, help her find somewhere she'd be safe again."

A soft laugh, bitter, airy. "Turns out I'm not great at keeping my promises."

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna chuckles, quietly, to herself when he asks if Kyto will care. Care? Likely not. She doesn't need him to care to do something, though. "I'll take care of Kyto," she murmurs, lightly combing through his ragged hair. Fixing him as much as she might given their circumstances.

She watches him when he speaks of the... nymph? It isn't until he mentions the promise that she lets out a small breath, akin to a sigh, before she nods a little. "Promises are a damning thing," she says, a little teasing, though she wipes at his face. He looks so haggard, so worn. "And it's only considered broken if you die without fulfilling it."

Fiachna watches him a moment before gesturing to the log. "Sit, love. Since you cannot carry out your promise, I suppose I shall for you." It's hard to not help him when he's there, in front of her. One of the reasons she'd stayed away. Fiachna didn't want to be a crutch. Wanted him to grow on his own. One of her fingers trace one of his small horns, smiling a little. "Then we'll find somewhere to stay, where you can clean up. Really rest." Kyto could come along if he was going to behave. She found she wanted him around too, if only because he'd keep things entertaining.

@HeartOfFlame

He wants to ask her how she intends to do that, how she even knows Kyto in the first place, but he remembers how easily she had gotten him to leave before, with just a few simple words. He still wants to know, wants to know who she is to him, why she cares, but the feeling of her fingers running through his hair, light and warm, is soothing and calming, drawing him closer to sleep by the moment. And he does need sleep, he's tired, exhausted, in a way he never really knew he could be, not only in his body but in his mind, each and every thought taking a concentrated effort to formulate properly. The sound of somewhere to clean up, get some real rest, is like music to his ears and he smiles a little, leans into the touch of her fingers against his horns. She's promising to help him save Keithia, and for now, he'll take her word.

Something snaps in the forest behind them, a sound not unlike a bowstring snapping back into place. Adrenaline jolts through him and he spins on the spot, eyes going wide. It takes a moment, but he focuses in on the slight shape of a woman against the trees, firelight flickering on the clasps of her cloak. Distantly, he recognises her as one of the locals from the trade way station, but that's not what grabs his attention most. A bow is held loose in her left hand, and she's drawing an arrow onto the string, sights set on Fiachna behind him, eyes reflecting nothing but the faint flames of their fire.

He doesn't even think about it, doesn't move his hand more than an inch in her direction, and flames flash through his eyes. The rush of it is overpowering, his balance wavering as the energy flows out of him like water from a dam. Not just the woman, but the entire area of forest around her is covered in rapidly spreading veins of gold and red, before they simply burst, throwing ash into the air and filling it with the smell of acrid death. Kanimir coughs softly, blood still hot with the burst of adrenaline and power through his veins. The sight of it is both exhilarating and sickening, the knowledge that his power has truly returned coupled with the fact that arrow would have found a home in the only person who seems to give a damn had he been a split second later.

He turns back towards Fiachna, to ensure she's truly unharmed, and something warm and wet bursts down his back, pooling at the top of his pants. He glances down, confused, and presses a hand to it, staring in confusion when his palm comes away red and sticky. Oh. He swallows, blinking blearily at the thick, wooden shaft imbedded in his flesh, inches up from his hip, before turning his gaze back to Fiachna, eyes wide and glazed. The pain hits, then, sharp and stabbing and driving deeper through him with every breath, and a mewling sound escapes him as he slowly sinks to his knees and tries not to pass out then and there.

@SanctifiedSavage

The sound was unexpected. Surprising. Fiachna had been paying so much attention to her son... She cursed as she turned and the arrow struck before she could put herself between him and the archer. Then, everything exploded in ash. The smell was nothing. Fiachna had been surrounded by death before.

Cursing again, she looked down at Kanimir and helped him, lowering him carefully to the ground with her cloak beneath him. Now... Healing was not her strong suit. Fiachna was great at breaking things, ruining lives, and even killing in her own way... But this? "You should have let it hit me," she hisses, over and over, unaware she's even saying it. Half mad at herself for not being aware and mad at Kyto for... not being there. This certainly kicked up her schedule of moving. She pulls a glove off and wads the fabric, pressing it against where he's bleeding.

Her wings unfurled and she shot up in the air, looking around. Making certain they were actually alone. She didn't want to be caught again. Then she dropped right back where she'd left him, her wings gone as quickly as she'd needed them. "We might be going to town sooner than later." Because she has no idea what to do for him.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir chokes on air, breaths twisting from his lungs quick and shallow as his fingers curl into the earth beneath him. His flesh feels like it's burning, the aches and throbbing in his bones drowned out by the sharp, scalding point of pain in his side, and he just wants it to stop. He's tired of the pain, tired of hurting and breaking and his own weakness. He's aware of a tormented sound breaking from his lips but makes little effort to stop it. Shaking fingers find the shaft of the arrow, seeking only to make the pain that worsens with every trembling breath cease, but he doesn't have to strength to do much more, skin slick with his own blood.

His gaze turns to Fiachna, hazy and growing dimmer by the moment, seeking what, he doesn't know. An end to his suffering? Something to anchor himself with amidst the agony that never seems to end?  Comfort? His free hand finds the edge of her dress, clings to it like a babe to its mother's skirt, and through the fog of pain, something in the back of his mind clicks. Staring up at her, vision clouded by the impending failure of a body already pushed beyond breaking, with the gentle light of the fire casting shadows on her face and the weight of her dark eyes seeking to help him, the years fall away like leaves in an autumn breeze.

He remembers a child, bold and reckless, and unafraid of the world. Remembers a soft touch and a gentle word to mend scraped knees and bloodied knuckles, a hand ruffling through short, dirtied hair and admonishing the state of him in a tone that never carried any real scolding. His breath stutters in his lungs, suddenly choking around the lump in his throat beyond the pain seizing his lungs. His vision blurs ever further as tears, both pain and an emotion he's too shattered to name, sting his eyes and roll down the already stained skin of his cheeks.

"M-mom?"

---

Kyto finds few answers amidst the dark figures of the forest. He's collected a small armload of wood, tucked between his side and arm while his torch flickers in the chill, shuddering wind, but his actions are mostly subconscious. His attention is far from focusing on his task.

It's been so long, he's spent so much time angry, convicted to this path - he still is, still wants to fix what's broken - but the sight of his son, his child, so frightened, broken, will not leave him be. The fear in the boy's eyes haunts him, belittles him with the guilt of what he had done to spark such a reaction in his own flesh and blood.  He doesn't feel...wrong, for his actions, even now, not in the part of his mind that isn't swimming in emotions he thought he'd gained a hold of long ago.

Stomping through the undergrowth in turmoil is getting him nowhere, he decides firmly - after his boots catch on a low root hidden in the snow for the sixth time - and turns back in the direction of Fiachna's camp with a forceful huff. That woman has turned him inside out and she knows it; ripped apart his convictions and goals with her intoxicating presence and intimacy he can't stop himself drowning in.

He should have cast her out that window back in the tavern.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna's options in that moment are quite limited. Given that she isn't exactly an angel of healing, she is tense and fretting in place. Looking around the shadowed forest for signs of Kyto. Angry that he hadn't been there to prevent this in the first place, angry she'd not taken the arrow instead...

Her thoughts raced with all of the possibilities. If it had been anyone other than her son, she'd have laughed. The odds. Who else, though, would have taken an arrow for her? Who else would have tried to save her? Fiachna had tricked people into throwing their lives away by the droves, but she'd done nothing of the sort for the boy and he'd done so anyway.

If he died now, she'd be really disappointed.

Fiachna's so caught up in her internal ranting and looking around she nearly misses how he grabs ahold of her dress, but she glances down just long enough to watch him ask his question. Mom? She lets out a deep breath, smiles just a little, before she kneels next to him. "We have a lot to talk about, you and I. But for now, I just need you to hang on..." Her hand returns to the wound, pressing the blood-soaked glove to it to stem the bleeding. Exasperated, she then shouts, "Kyto!" Were she a normal creature, her voice might not have made it far in the forest. For Fiachna, though, the call for him carried. At this rate, she didn't care if she called anyone else. Right now, she needed someone who knew anything about healing mortal bodies.

@HeartOfFlame

Kanimir chokes on a sob, the burning behind his eyes erasing what little vision he still had a hold on. He curls into himself, clutching at her like a lifeline amid the agony gripping him, twisting through his chest and burning in a way that is far more than physical. He should be angry, really, should hate her for leaving him, abandoning him to Kyto and all that became of his childhood, but he can't. He's too broken, too desperate for an end to the horror his life has become, and amongst it all she's the only one to offer him comfort.

He's so cold, shaking and trembling with every breath, the blood pooling down his side chilling before its even soaked through his clothes. The rational part of him recognises the freezing sensation, the cold sweat upon his brow, as shock, his body giving in to the abuse it has suffered, the blood draining away into snow below him, but he's too far lost to the emotions wreaking havoc in his head and all he wants, as independent as he has ever been, is for someone to put the shattered pieces of his self back together again, make him whole. He's losing himself to the pain, and there's a fear in the back of his mind that he might never make it back.

Just survive, he remembers thinking to himself what feels like years ago, when he had made the decision to do whatever it took to see Keithia free. That outcome is looking ever less likely, even if Fiachna manages to keep him alive, and his hold on her dress tightens, his fingers weak and failing further by the moment.

"Keithia," He gasps, voice rasping and a shadow of itself, taut with pain and the emotions suffocating him, "Please. You h-have to save her. You have to g-give her back her f-freedom. Please."

---

Kyto can smell death in the air before he even hears Fiachna's call. The stench of it hits him as he catches sight of the dancing red and gold sparks in the air, familiar in ways he never hoped to see again. Fiachna's voice is almost desperate, concerned, and despite himself fear washes over him. For her, or for another, he can't tell, he barely recognises the emotion as what it is, a foreign concept to him by now, buried by years of anger and bitterness.

He abandons the armload of wood and his torch, both, with barely a second thought. Launching forwards, he moves through the trees into a clearing that is almost twice the size it was when he left it, ash and sparks floating on a static breeze and filling the air with the smell of burning and ash. Fiachna kneels close to the fire, shaking sobs filling the air alongside the near silent crackle of fading magic. Kyto freezes, unable to process for a split second, his hand automatically on his sword hilt, searching for the danger, the enemy.

Horror at what he knows his son has done follows soon after, and it is enough to jolt him from his shock. He moves forwards quickly, coming to face where Fiachna kneels and taking in the sight before him. Ice slides down his spine once again, anger slipping away as something he can't even name falls into its place. Kanimir is clutching at Fiachna's dress, wailing like a frightened child. His entire frame shakes with the force of his anguish, and something in Kyto's chest aches to see it. The feeling is, once again, foreign and forgotten and he doesn't know what to do with it.

He glances down at Fiachna's hands and sees red, in a way far different to how he usually perceives it. The thin shaft of an arrow protrudes from his son's tattered clothes, crimson too dark to be human slipping away down his side, coating Fiachna's hands and the glove she is using to stem the bleeding. His breath catches in his throat and he doesn't know what to do with the emotions suddenly clouding his mind, alike to the thoughtless intimacy Fiachna spurs him into but so much colder. He can't process the situation at hand and the feelings he thought long dead, so he locks them away, tucks them down under the anger and resentment he has grown so used to.

He still feels cold with the shock of the moment, but that he can handle.

"What happened?" He demands, taut and harsh as he reaches for Kanimir's throat and presses his fingers to the boy's jugular with an almost gentle touch. His pulse is racing, trembling with an erratic beat, and he doesn't even flinch away from Kyto's icy fingers, still sobbing harshly into his mother's side. It's surprisingly strong, though, given how much crimson red Kyto can see pooling in the snow beneath them, and he supposes he has Fiachna to thank for that.

He reaches for the pack at his waist, just a small pouch of bare necessities to dealing with minor injuries on his own. He travels light, deals with anything major if or when he can find civilization, or else makes do. Right now, he almost regrets that choice, but there's little he can do about it. The boy's shirt will have to do for bandages.

@SanctifiedSavage

Fiachna continues to kneel next to her son, near hovering over him to ensure that if there is to be anything else lethal flung their direction, it will hit her. Pain is but a minimal distraction to the immortal angel. Watching him suffer so close at hand, and both not being the cause and not being able to stop it, is difficult for her. Making her feel oddly desperate and hopeless. Restless and a touch angry. Not with Kanimir, mind, though she finds her thoughts stuck on why wouldn't he just let the damn arrow hit her?

His pleading, though, for another is something she can easily shrug off. Fiachna's heart, as small and tucked away as it is, has been reserved only for her family. She can appreciate that her son had made a promise, but that could be fulfilled at any time. As she'd said, and in that moment she didn't particularly care about anyone else.

When Kyto finally appears, the relief she feels is physical. A weight off her shoulders and a pressure off her chest. Fiachna is a creature of chaos and destruction – she doesn't know the first thing about fixing her son. Surely, though...

His question sounds hollow, though. Silly in the moment. She looks from Kyto's face, down to their bleeding son, then back. "An arrow, obviously." The what of it doesn't seem nearly as important as the how to make it better. "What do you need?" The creation of things is easy enough, if they're small. Anything that's taken from her physically is like pulling feathers. A stinging pain, but bearable given the alternative. Whatever he might have need of, she'd try to provide. It was, quite literally, all she could do to help.

@HeartOfFlame