⚔ 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔤𝔬𝔡 ⚔

When he was ten, he heard that the people of Annecy had drowned a devil in the seeds of an apple core. There was a girl, too, in Paris, who lived in the mud of the parade grounds that had lanced the king years before. She had a wtich’s digit, stunted and stiffly jointed, at the base of her small finger. Everyone knew what such things meant, and only the women trafficked her alms and begged for love spells and fortunes. But Laurent had never touched power as he feels it now. To reach for the boy’s mind is to touch a static cloud. He pulls back at the spark.

The mounted television jabbers lowly with the dull muttering invocations of forecasts like cloud-watchers and the mumbled nonsense of soothsayers. Every age thinks it is the modern one, but Laurent has never found a storm that permits itself to be known. 

Laurent is left to look down viciously into the emptied cup; the coins stare balefully with the furnace fire glint of Virgil’s Charon. He thinks he has seen the same in the eyes of the witch, which seemed to him a snarl of toxic green. He stands and moves as scenes within a dream must move; somewhere else one moment to the next. He does not pretend anymore, between him and the witch. He speaks only for the boy to hear; the pour of poison in the ear is an intimate death. “It is wrong to end this night bloodless.” The storm must break. Laurent would see it.

A shudder rippled through the woods somewhere beyond the tavern windows. The panes mirrored the room from within, reflecting the light without granting a single glimpse of what great whispering darkness stirred out of doors. They would let nothing slip, not even a sliver; and yet the wizard heard this rustle above all else.

He waded through this space of chattering locals, of cheap foods and crackling old televisions with a sort of slowness, the way a hunter might follow along the trail of newly parted grass where the morning dew had shaken loose, stalking the tracks of a deer’s flight. Not one of the many strangers around seemed to care; not one of them glanced twice at the vampire, either, shifting, it would seem, like stop motion, here one moment and a touch too far ahead the next. Horia would hear him murmur low enough that no one else could hope to hear, and for once the savage smirk did not tug at his lips at all. He tasted the sharp name of a northern wind at the back of his throat already, and did not think of the boy on his tail who was not a boy at all, no; this old horror could wait for the time being.

The other one was much too close.

An unnatural quiet had claimed the woods. Soft golden light pooled onto the dirt path leading away from the little tavern, a simple, narrow strip of road sided by mountain grass where crickets chirped all summer long and all through the mellow nights. Tonight, however, there was only silence; the massive guard dog that would bark at anyone who strode past stared from behind the chain link fence of the tavern’s garden without so much as a sound, both his pointed ears darting upwards, then immediately pulling back. All remained entirely too still as Horia slowly paced along the path, pale greens scouring a ridge of treetops before they lowered to where the firs began. He strayed from the road like a compass needle zeroing in on its personal magnetic pole, stepping sideways into grass as the lengths of white fabric unfurled from around the hidden weapon, released from his hold. A glare of silver flashed under the moon then as he draped the cape over his shoulder, slowing once more and knowing, knowing that it was out there, that the quiet had confused it; that it struggled to pick up on his scent and was so close he could almost feel its rot scaring the roots and critters underground, the way its undead weight made hollow, misplaced sounds against the earth with each step that it took.

—-There.

Nowhere in sight was the little tavern with its golden pools of light when he stopped, though he hadn’t walked for more than a few minutes at most. On all sides there stretched only the slopes of grass and their midnight black borders of forest, fragrant as pine and stirring now, barely; a distant call had picked up somewhere farther than the eye could see. Where the wizard stood, he seemed fixed into place; startling eyes turned to one spot in particular, settling onto something that seemed to move as his gaze followed it too keenly, too precisely through the kind of dark that should have been impenetrable to the human eye. He would have seen them with his eyes closed, both of them prickling at the edges of his perception like minuscule scratches stinging under disinfectant, flaring under the burn of a cheap alcohol rub.

Come, he urged then, wordlessly. His gaze alone would have scorched the pinprick point at the very edge of woods, the still edge of the lance-like firs where the vagrant thing had all but frozen into place like an animal, seeing itself being seen. What had been a distant breeze before rose then to a steady whisper, a rustle, a low whistling wail of winds until it was a roar among all foliage; until the wizard took a step forward, his red coppery hair blown back as the gale shifted to force the beast towards him.

He seemed to mouth something to himself only, advancing as a crackle crept at once through the air like a web of hair-raising static. This wind carried storm; blacker clouds began to swarm the sky when his stare drifted upwards, the gleaming silver falx held fast in his right hand as the pagan prayed for something in a timeless murmur, an ancient tongue of shaping—a tongue in which truth alone could be spoken and nothing, nothing at all could be corrupted, not the way the blood shackled those earthbound things, those cursed things.

The far flash of lightning was first, split-second of scalding white. The clap of thunder was second; an earth-cracking, louder-than-life scare rumbling through the very earth beneath their soles. It sent the vagrant beast darting across the dark, like he thought it would; it sent the ravens cawing out of their nests in a flapping frenzy as his grin grew wide and hungry, slowly—-

Laurent says nothing as something heavy and metalline rasps against the table, choked by layers of white fabric as only a vampire might have heard. He regards it a moment longer with a cold look, heedless of the cup taken from his side. What shape is the death that resolves from this bundle, and how quickly can it be turned against him? Laurent withdraws his hand from the book he was not reading, and laces his fingers under his chin. His gaze salts the ground between them, and he allows a little unpleasant smile to curl his mouth into a wide-eyed moue.

“Is it…?” Laurent asks langorously, glancing disinterestedly up at him through the veil of his silverine lashes. It seems immaterial to him, these paltry props of food and drink, so much like worthless vanities to accessorize, to invent other selves from the fracture of his core. It takes so little effort to create the mise en scène, to spin the filaments of the web. Has he trapped the boy yet, he wonders, or must he test the give of the silk? 

“But we have only just met,” Laurent laughs breathily, tossing his curls out of his eye as he fixes the witch between the killing points of his smile. “You must take me up to my room and win me over, first.” He drops his eyes to the cup on its saucer, and traces the shape of the rim upon the table with his finger, an empty imitation, well practiced. He touches his tongue to the back of his teeth, his voice low. His head dips, tilted lazily to the side, and the smile sweetens, indulging in their privations. His voice barely carries above a creamy murmur. “Or let me watch you kill it.”

Though the wizard’s attention never once falters, whatever insinuation he was perhaps meant to detect appears to have missed its mark. There is only a faint tilt of his head to mirror the stranger’s posture, his gaze a hard and steely thing of the wild whilst on the other side of their table, the boy’s expression drips with honeyed deceit. Were he someone different entirely, the satin-like tone of his voice very well may have enchanted; the glance of grey eyes shadowed by those snowy lashes would have worked its wicked magic, and every splendid little artifice or empty, lecherous allusion would pave the merry way to death. They make it look so easy, this game of playing coy, so enticingly as to bewitch—and yet the sorcerer raises a brow at him with only the faintest air of impatience.

He can tell the boy hasn’t yet finished. Something unsaid lingers still in the air and his gaze does not shift from the vampire, not by an inch. He waits, watchful and severe until the words, at last, are spoken.

It is there, the first inkling of instinct stirring under the surface of his mind. It is not so much a thought as it is something primal—a dim flare in the marrow of his bones, the tug of an ancient root grown far too deep into the earth for anyone to keep track of the crown of wild branches it nurtures. What escapes then through the thin cracks of his silence is the colour of night, the colour of blood; the colour of steel dripping with rot and the white flash of fangs, lightning.

They have never looked less human than when it calls to them. He turns his head, unhurriedly, and watches the front door with purpose—as though a change of pitch in the wind’s howl through the chimneys demands his undivided attention, a loud snap of the burning wood startling the person closest to the fireplace hard enough that they drop their fork with a clang against their plate. It takes everything in him to contain a terrible chuckle, but he takes the coffee cup once more and sips at what is left of it, keeping himself tame.

“—You’re pretty funny,” he remarks softly, tilting his head the opposite way to allow his joints a satisfying pop. A charming grin unfurls across his freckled countenance, and the two of them lock eyes anew. “It almost makes me want to spare you.”

it feels like burning.

everything about you is captivating. you’re very intense, and passionate, and some people can’t handle that. but no one loves as powerfully as you do, and some people will love that about you. you’re easily excited, and tend to feel things very deeply. your emotions are unpredictable. but you are so so beautiful. more so than you know

Laurent senses the boy move before it happens, how the meaty tissue of ligament and muscle pull along the bone, all just so much animated animal flesh, only a matter of time before it spoils and grows tough and rots. He keeps his eyes upon his book until it is reasonable to expect a mortal might notice the presence at his table, and Laurent pretends at surprise. The book flattens against the plane of it, his thumb against its spine as he considers the young man, and makes note of the chill shivering through him as he does. He hides his sneer in a smile, and reflects how much he dislikes the look in the other boy’s eye.

“Really? Out of all this excitement?” He laughs and drums his fingers against the glossy cover of the book, and remembers to blink often, and to make little useless movements as the living do.

He skims his fingers against the surface of the youth’s thoughts, and his blood curdles at its opaque reflection. He had never touched a mind and seen only himself, looking back. His smile pulls tighter, and his eyes flash with reduced fury.

“Is your desperation for entertainment that dire?”

He itches with this farce, and comforts himself with the thought of the boy strung upon a pyre, his skin blackening and peeling away from the muscle, crisping the wet organs when there is no flesh left but charcoal painted upon the place he had once stood, a greasy smear. Witches are a persistent breed, and it seems a shame that this one was not dicking himself in the ass with a broom. 

He knows the quick eyes of their wretched kind—the way it takes as little as a silent mind to stir them to attention, how it aggravates them without fail to feel that their disguise has failed. And yet it’s quite a spectacle to see, indeed, how they go otherwise unnoticed, streaking along the crowds without a soul knowing the better, or rather the astounding ease with which they tempt their prey so that they fall, poor ingenues, willingly in the arms of death. This particular vampire offers a faultless performance; he moves the way you would expect him to, he shifts and taps his fingers in what another might mistake for no more than a fit of restlessness—typical, really, for a boy only halfway through his teenage years. Early in his apprenticeship, the wizard figures it might have fooled him, too.

But his gaze drifts with little to no expression beyond a vague touch of intrigue for this little game of pretend. He reads the title strung along the novel’s spine, sitting down in his chair, making himself comfortable and quite deliberately ignoring the sheer tension crackling between the two of them like static. He places the great curved falx on the side of their shared table, wrapped as it is in layers of white cloak, and cares little for the amount of space that it occupies.

Only then does the green of his stare meet grey once more. The wizard himself appears harmless enough—an ungainly youth, windswept and rained on, leaning back in his seat like a peasant and freckled like one, too. There lingers however a wildness in his stare that can only mean delight; he answers the boy’s feigned smile with a genuine one of amusement, uncanny, a flash of teeth as though he might well bite right back.

“Clearly,” he responds, reaching for the cup of coffee and pulling it towards himself. He lightly swirls the dark liquid around, chatter buzzing from all sides, and goes to take a long, appreciative sip. The rain outside roars on.

“You see—your cousin out there is a tad too chicken to be much entertainment.”

The coffee has long gone cold. It leaves a bitter aftertaste, strong and fairly pleasant, though perhaps a little strange for his palate—none of the teas he brews have this sort of fragrance. It piques at his curiosity to the point that he draws a noticeable pause, and stares into the black murk of his cup before having another, more careful try of the beverage.

“...Hm. It’s a pity, really, that you can’t try this stuff,” he thinks aloud, head tilted as he places the cup back down on its saucer and looks the vampire square in the eye.

The air changes. 

Its name bent under the weight of human arts; it had been miasma, once, then aether. They call it atmosphere now, and particles, but it had always felt the same, and it flattens now like the dead wind before a storm.

Outside the sky seethes, black with pregnant, dense clouds, weighted with threat. He knows from the way the skin prickles on the mortals around him. He knows from the small, darting things that have tucked into their burrows, from the landsman’s dog that lifts its great heavy head to nose the air. Without thought, without reason, the living know what the storm ushers. They know, but they do not realize.

The door opens, howling with rain, and a young man drips slick upon the threshold like a candle too close to the fire. Laurent observes him for a moment as a spider does: indirectly - through a half dozen borrowed eyes, perceiving the angles of him, the stinking condensation. He smells mephitic; like thinned ozone and a pervasive, fertile wet. But he feels, somehow, like lightning.

The scratchy, chattering noise of the television forecasts what the mountain folk already know. That their rivers are swollen with rain; that both flood the earth like a bane, bloating the soil with moisture. If it was an act of God, then He had transmogrified marl to mud.

Laurent nurses the coffee that he does not drink, already cold, and reflects on when he should pretend to retire to bed. He has a paperback in his other hand, one in the language of this place, if not the dialect of its people, and Laurent has already read through it twice.

But something, out there in the dark, stirs. 

He knows its wrongness like a tug at the back of his neck, a scratching finger of suspicion, a certainty of something that does not belong. A dream, bleeding into the drowning of the world. His eyes shift like a hunting cat, scenting soured meat. And that is what it seems to him - distant, dampened by rain, his senses dulled by it, working sluggishly to overcome the deadning downpour to pluck at this thing that strokes at the edges of his thought in a way he does not trust. He cants his head, seeking it eyelessly, and though he masks the gesture like a teenage fit of idleness, his face is drawn. Grasping at this thing that touches his mind like rot.

He is a hound on the hunt, silent and attentive even as the rain drips miserably from his peasant clothing, dampening fiery hair to a dulled and darkened copper. Idle prattle buzzes at his back as he saunters to the far end of the room unheeded, close to the crackling hearth next to which the cramped and dusty little bar waits for its usual customers. Half-emptied bottles of liquor well past their expiration dates sit mostly for show on the shelves above the old taverner’s head, slender cobwebs strung from one rum to a vodka, from the vodka to murky absinthe. It comes as no surprise, really—the people here have long been making their own spirits, harvesting the fruit from every orchard sprawled over the hillside; and one such drink is what the youth is served.

“You’ll catch your death in these clothes, my boy,” remarks the man behind the counter as he tinkers with pots and glasses, fetching a small towel and placing it next to a steaming shot of clear pălincă. Its prickly scent rises to both their noses just as the man pockets the payment and turns his attention back to his dishes, a taste of honey and just a sprinkling of black pepper—naturally, the one remedy to every aliment under the sun.

So he drinks the shot. He reaches for the towel and pats the moisture off his fringe, soaked to the bone with rain that cannot chill him. Behind him, dim firelight glow catches in strands of his hair and flares a subtle red in the room’s drowsy penumbra.

There is no mistake. He feels it looming here—a shadow, a presence frazzling the edges of normality as though it never had reason to hide and has yet to make an effort to, knowing well that the common folk surrounding it would still be none the wiser. What comes out of these woods, however, is hardly ever so oblivious.

A stir of restlessness sits in the pit of his stomach and he prudently follows its lead, feels it creeping to the nape of his neck as he zeroes in on the intruder without a face to link it to. He stills where he stands to the point it seems he might be hearing something in the snap and crackle of the burning wood beside him, in the howl of winds gone wild above the chimneys; a slow and gradual furrow of the wizard’s brow shadows the smoulder of his gaze. Pale greens shift to scour the crowd, resolving to go by process of elimination yet finding that something is drawing his eye, past the men playing backgammon and past the dawdling barmaid, beyond bundles of herbs hung by the wooden ceiling—

—To here. 

To grey.

But just as soon does he lay eyes on the stranger that the killing darkness of his countenance begins to clear, shedding layers of its fierceness in favour of a mild, deliberately clear disappointment. This is not the creature he’s been seeking—but it is his land to patrol, and he means for the intruder to feel seen.

It takes no time at all for the thought to cross his mind. The fang necklace beneath his shirt pricks at his skin as if on purpose; he holds the other’s gaze, impossibly fair—creature of the night merely posing as human, loose curls framing so delicate a countenance as he has never seen upon the sorry beasts haunting his forests, the mindless dead preying on anything they caught. Here, where the storm wizards of old still ruled over the mountains, the likes of such a vampire were little more than rumour.

But he seizes the chance. Infallibly, he parts from the counter at his side and comes sauntering closer, undaunted, the crowds that he passes a faraway blur. A fox circles the rabbit’s burrow—and yet tonight, two predators parade as sheep.

“—You don’t look like you’re from around here.” 

The Charismatic.

You're beyond seductive, you're downright magnetic! You live life and approach seduction on a grand scale. You have an inner self confidence and energy that most people lack. It's these talents that make you seem extraordinary - and you truly are!

Reasoning was long gone, replaced by a deep-rooted anger, something that glinted with ire into those emerald eyes. Had hatred been the reason for their encounter, perhaps a sarcastic laughter would have followed, words filled with naught but venom. Witnessing that calamity, listening to the roaring of the wind, the crash of the thunder made her recall an ugly, deformed memory; the reason why trust was not to be placed once again upon anyone. He too was a proof of that belief, strengthening it by a violent reaction, by that flaring temper.  How that dark desire was starting to bloom, something which she carefully locked away was now resurfacing; if everything was truly destroyed, if all came to nothingness, perhaps that way her wish would too be fulfilled. How truly amusing would that be if the world became shrouded in darkness. Even so, his threat fell upon deaf ears, intimidation being something she long forgot, something she vaguely recalled.

❝ Then why don’t you?  ❞ The calmness of her tone was eerie, her golden hues locked upon that maddened expression. Fear was a concept she barely got acquainted with; years and years of confinement, of isolation wiped any form of warm emotion, of trust and of fear. Would this be her last day, the only lingering regret would be to not see that capricious woman once more. Her anger, her temper was truly to be feared. Even now she recalled that violent whirlpool of emotion, that desire to cry out in fear, in pain, to reach out for help once that goddess had shared her feelings with her. Even recalling made her feel a cold shiver run down her spine, as if death was now locking its arms around her shoulders. 

All seemed a poor played repeat, enough to make even the latest ounce of sympathy, of wishing to apologize genuinely shatter.  ❝ It would make you feel better, right? There would be no one to contradict you or point out your flawed beliefs, so go ahead. ❞ For a brief moment she could almost feel the iciness enveloping her body, a gulp almost following shortly after. Of course she knew. It would be foolish to believe Izanami’s influence did not reach that far, not when she too took matters into her own hand, but with a purpose different than Yuna’s. Their warped relation was tough to decipher, difficult to untangle from how complicated it became. That story started as a result of one’s flawed justice and cowardice, of Yuna’s wrong leadership. But her    Veronika, molded herself the more she spent time with Izanami. As human and frail she could be, she learnt that cruelty and dark rooted amusement from the goddess as well.

But no longer would she allow anyone talk to her like that, regardless of their origin, of whatever connection they had. That cold gaze averted for a moment, before falling once again to lock with Horia’s own emerald hues. ❝ Careful with your threats. You are not the only one to have gained the gods’ favor, but unlike you, I don’t rely on that alone. ❞ A subtle warning, disguised beneath that abnormal chilling voice; almost matching the gradually dropping temperature. The ground was starting to be covered into a thin foil of ice, molding itself after the creases of the earth. Yet, her interest swayed until it died out, a sigh sealing out that mournful silence.  ❝ I wanted to give you something I believed you’d like, aside some pieces of information, but you have no need for those since I’m such a hindrance. ❞ ‘Twas a small gift she picked for him upon having stumbled on something she reminded her of Horia. Held into the palm of her hand, that bluish glow it broke into tiny particles to be swept by the wind. If he wished her gone, then she had no moral duty to share anything of interest with him.  

“You’d be dead where you stand if you were one of them.”

But he was not going to. He’d thought about it—the mighty lightning close within his reach, how he might prove with it that he had meant them as he always did and without exception, every single one of his threats. It killed the weak before they even knew it; the strong staggered and suffered his falx blade, his demon cleaver sizzling fiercely through every inch of their cursed flesh. He could not fathom the nerve, the audacity required to waltz into his woods and steal his kill, to lecture him, act as if anyone’s jurisdiction mattered here save for his own. What did she know of their beliefs, their secrets? What did she know of the masters of storms? Her level tone seemed only to provoke him, for they were wild things, these ancient wizards—fabled as the tales of old, many with frightening tempers. One got nowhere by pursuing debate.

“You speak to me of the gods’ favours!” something like a callous mockery of surprise with both of his brows rising, “Well, aren’t you damn lucky! My gods are merciful to your wretched kind.” He’d said it all with the venom of deliberate offence, scoffing now the farther he veered into unabashed, needless cruelty. “Quit pretending that you understand us.” For the world beyond was a world that did not concern him, and his only rule for this mortal realm was you either belong or you leave, wilfully or by the wizard’s blade. Guardians of the mountains, their title of millennia forged from their very loyalty and understanding of the singing verdant woods; anything beyond his wilderness held no real significance, and anything within was well-observed and known.

“Get it through your head that you are in my domain,” he warned finally, obstinate but quieter. He all but disregarded the ice, the words, details his offended ego had deemed utterly trivial, a darker than night shadow stifling the skies above. “—Or argue with someone who cares.”

And at once he turned to pursue his path towards the forest edge, back turned as if to prove he didn’t care for anybody’s menace.

❝ What was that? ❞ Fun had nothing to do with ending someone’s life, with chasing them like wild animals for entertainment. Unless there was a valid reason behind it, unless that individual was a real threat, she frowned against such actions. After all, it wasn’t for nothing that she did warned her own people that if anyone crossed the line she would kill them herself. That poor creature seemed terrified, it was like it begged death to be fast and merciful. The most she could offer as she wasn’t always kind. Stepping into other people’s affairs was something Veronika avoided, it was too much of a hassle to deal with afterwards, but this time, she did not regret. It was not because she was acquainted with the wizard, far from it. If she let that person go past her, the ending would have been the same and from the look of it, from Horia’s words, it wouldn’t have been fast, nor merciful, but a long, painful death.

❝ And that is based on what? Your own twisted perception, hatred or whatever it is called? Fear is no law.  ❞ Not when you chased like a madman someone in the forest. That was just senseless killing. It held no purpose behind it. There was no emotional connection between them and yet, she couldn’t help but feel how this whole.. act or whatever it was that Horia pulled was not exactly going along well.  ❝  I believe you frightened enough people and terrorized them for a life time. There will be plenty who can say that there’s a certain out-of-his-mind wizard in the forest and that they should avoid it. ❞

He could have an attitude that made her slightly irritated at times. Although Veronika was in no place to judge him or his decisions, there had to be a better approach for this entire ordeal that he was going about.  ❝ You don’t need to act like a psychopath if you want to kill someone and especially if you have no good reason. Did you now? ❞

Now that seemed to incite him beyond any conceivable expectations, so much so that his entire countenance hardened with the cold humourless glint of the killer’s gaze, the near unspeakable delight of a bloodied, freckled face so human yet at once so horrid—the eyes showed it, the sheer ferocity of them just barely contained as if he’d all but charge and ravage, call upon the lightning sizzling in the wizard’s veins. Audible within his chest was a laughter of disbelief now, sudden and so out of place and not at all unlike a threat, oh; he looked as if he’d bite, the fresh blood dark and damp upon his garments and the gleaming falx blade in his hold.

“Do I know? You come here asking me if I know?”

He could have summoned them all in a moment, he could have—he could have called upon the winds and thunder, set the whole forest ablaze for all the wretched demons prowling only to prove his point. Something boiled within him and he dropped abruptly all pretences, his grin and all amusement gone completely in a flash. Dead serious he was this once, offended—a menace in the air vicious as the wizard’s presence, unpredictable as the very weather held fast in his own control.

“What do you know of my duty?” low at first before his voice rose steadily up to a snarl, “What do you know of my ways?” And he came pacing towards the lifeless body, gaze fixated upon her own like an unwavering provocation as if he were saying,

                   ‘ Try me.                                              I’d love to see you dare. ’

But the offence had already been taken and it was heating up to frightening levels, a far wind picking up in rage and whistling through the bending treetops, rising from a distance until its full force blew past in a glacial whirl, the thunder—the thunder roaring now across the skies above them, such wrath that it rattled the ground below when all it was, in fact, was intimidation.

“Why don’t I give you a taste for good measure! Then you’ll know what the laws are here!”

Heated yell to ring above the quaking heavens, though just as soon as it had all started, the winds and thunder settled and began to wane. It seemed the echo of it still rang through the valleys and forests beyond, but he simmered down; lowered his shoulders, broke eye-contact to tie the weapon back to his leather belt as if he had every intention to leave.

Her heart has been still for centuries,  a clock ticking out her life stopped far too early, so her pulse can’t quicken as she’s lifted up, but her breath can catch in her throat, and the faintest tinge of pink can begin creeping up her neck. “I mean it,” She says, one hand gripping on to his clothes, “Drop me and…And I might have to bite you.”

She’s still thirsty, the need for blood making her throat itch but still, she doesn’t move to claim what she needs. A hint of wariness, the memory of that grisly necklace, or perhaps just some softer emotion keeping the thirst at bay. 

“You haven’t told me your name either,” She’ll point out, before confiding. “I’m Clarisse. I didn’t have any trees to ask about your name, so you’ll just have to tell me yourself.”

Could the very thought of it reach to the high heavens? Perhaps it had to be more scandalous for the gods to be listening in. The wizard figured, had another one of her kind told him the same instead, he might have veritably laughed; sneered perhaps like a feral thing, steely amusement in the face of what he surely would have understood as threat, and he would have said—so bite me, with callous and provoking jest, mockery of coyness complete with the raised brow. I’d like to see you muster up the nerve to try.

But not tonight, no. Not tonight. He had heard in fact the faint hitch in her breath just as he’d picked her up, glanced down to the dainty hand grasping the front of his shirt as if she’d all but slip out of his hold, curiously human, though he could take a guess or two at what was making her feel so on edge.

“—It’s Horia,” he said finally, oddly so, distracted rather like someone trying to sort an issue in their own mind. It was several long moments before he spoke again, eyes trained onto the undergrowth and glancing once or twice behind, absurd smile tugging just at the corner of his lips like a remembered joke. “Honestly, of all people...” but just as soon he trailed off to a chillingly humourless disposition, quiet; capable of seeing now between thickets and trees a glimmer of the village lights below, way down in the open valley.