#lacrymoth

a curious look in her violet eyes as she turns to face the other. "and why should i bother threatening you? you've yet to threaten- or gods forbid anger me thus far."

"......................? Sir, it is rather impolite to bear one's fangs at a stranger.”

AAH!

 Drifting digits traced the curvature of cracks in graying stone work that made up what remained of the elven structure holding back the ever encroaching earth that sought to reclaim the small cave that bestowed the pair a means of shelter from prying eyes. Or to what nest Dettlaff had used as a means to refuge the the mere puddle of a man that now formed, with tireless effort, the vampire that resided with in the liquid. Wearied, withered, writhing of a lithe body steamed, fusing solid to the corporeal shell brought upon by a cast spell -- finally coming to rest. What followed had been panic in eyes as wide as saucers, seeking ghost of others from a time far prior to the present. Though to whom this vampire searched he could not help much but manage a simple blanket to offer what scant comfort could be found in this new reality. No doubt a shock.

  “You are... not complete.”, he spoke again once the initial agitation in the room went, leaving beads of sweat on a furrowed brow. Blue orbs studying the sheer sickly nature of the others skin, knowing that there was still more that required his attention, more blood to be split in his aid.  

 “Your friends can wait.”

         Sentience had remained, in some fashion or another; the mind’s eye whispered of the passage of time. Of the cease to all-consuming flame. Yet, each nerve howled upon its awakening, spurring each and every muscle fibre forward in the exhaustion of energy the vampire simply did not have any longer. It mattered naught. They were in danger still, and thus miles to go before he could sleep. And still, the claws dug into loose earth brought him no closer to his goals, nor did the picture slowly coming into clarity serve to assuage much of the quick-budding adrenaline in collapsed veins. Neither Geralt nor Yennefer nor dreaded Vilgefortz stood in line of sight, and soon, the screams of his body were no longer a drive towards peril, but for a dire need to cease.

     Air escaped lung in a slow, unsteady march ushering in the collapse of any instance of resistance left within him. This was.... This was not the mage’s tower. Certainly not. Ages had passed since the mourning had delivered him here. Trembling talons pulled close woven comfort, serving as its only hook to keep it a form better than the drape over long forgotten furniture.