.and the night yawns | @fcrgiven
Talon silently accepts the blade and does not comment on the Ionian's tongue stumbling on his native Va-Nox (he would fare no better, he knows). He does not comment upon the creature, either, though the corner of his lip quirks the tiniest bit.
He accepts the blade, not because he does not have his own (of course he has his own; and sharpened as Yasuo's knife may be, it could never compare), but because its form befits its purpose.
Just as he, too, befits his purpose.
And he would rather not be distracted with the sharpening and the polishing. Not at the edge of the forest (and perhaps he should have insisted they continued; though he wonders if the swordsman would have yielded). Though he does observe, and he does notice - though not ideal, Yasuo has chosen a place secluded... Enough.
There are trees tall enough to climb, at the very least. Tall enough that he can hide away upon a branch, though not tall enough. For a night, it will do, if it is the best they can find.
His hand is quick; practiced; as flesh pulls from bone and the skin is set aside, though the pelts have little use (not here; not yet). His hands are barely bloodied by the time he has finished btuchering the animals and he instead eyes Yasuo's cooking - observing the containers he reveals; their contents, some of which seem familiar, and most of which do not.
He thinks to the kitchen in the mansion. To its warm fire; the crackling of fat, dripping into the tray below and the soft rhythm of chopping. He thinks to the first time he ate before the General - the burn of what the chef's daughter called 'chilli' and Katarina's light laughter. To the burst of sweetness upon his tongue when, rain-soaked and bone-chilled, he sipped tea.
He remembers, and the memories are warm as they are fleeting. Sunset upon a windowsill.
"What is this?" Talon's voice is low and soft as he points at the seasoning in Yasuo's hand.
Yasuo is unlike the chef and his daughter, he observes. Little cups inscribed with lines replaced altogether with his senses.
Perhaps this is another of Ionians' quirks. the way their roofs slope and their trees are all the wrong colour.
(Perhaps he simply has never measured the perfect amount of poison. Perhaps he has never learnt that some can become too bitter; that others must be mixed.
Perhaps he has never learnt that guards falter during a meal; that sometimes, when laughter and chatter are loud and the music is pleasant, does a blade reveal itself).
For a while, he sits before the swordsman, knees drawn up to his chest as beneath the shadow of his cowl, he watches. There is practice in his hands; in the grace of his arms. And there is unfamiliarity on Talon's part - to the things he adds; to the care he takes.
Talon would set a hare upon the fire and let it cook.
But though the smell is pleasant - grows more so - the night is dark and their flame will no doubt reveal themselves to any overly-curious bandit, thief, or worse. And though the site Yasuo has chosen is better, unease is an insistent thing, scratching its way under his skin.
So with fire dancing in the reflection of his eyes, Talon stands, wordless, and scales the tallest of the trees. It is not as tall as Noxian rooftops, and he yearns for the vantage of them; the sprawling city below in its bustling, busy glory.
The air is cooler up here; and the world below is a comfort. The sliver-moon greets him as she always does; her waning light enough to keep watch.
Talon takes a breath of cool Ionian air; watches as the purple and red and green and blue of its foreign landscape become dark and grey; and watches, too, as the fire crackles below.
(And his gaze returns to the camp again, and the swordsman below, cooking as though he were a chef).
His stomach protests his caution.
