Onyx hues finally lifted up as a few ideas finally came to mind on a couple of moves. He’d have some information to gather first, but he had a basic foundation to build off of. His quest for his memories would have to wait. First, he needed to recover his stamina. Prolonged battles were not ideal for him as it seemed his body, at times, could not keep up with him. It almost felt like a body battle worn with no chance to rest. May it be a great battle that severely injured him or maybe even an illness that crippled his stamina. Each passing day, he could feel some strength returning. Even so, the curse of these lands and that fight to protect the cleric had strained him to the point he had to revert his usual three tomoe red hues back to the regular onyx to recover. The less strain on him, the better.

For now, all that was left to do was call this an evening. There was no point in heading out after that fight, and they would be better off to stick around in case something else happened. Not to mention he was certain they earned their place here to rest. Best for him as he doubted he could do much out there in the cursed lands, anyway. Reaching out, he would get a drink from his canteen before setting it down and looking around the room. They all needed help. Simply leaving them all like this brought an anxiety to him, a feeling that he wouldn’t just let others suffer like this. They all needed to be free. A Shinobi with only a foreign name attached to him. He had the power. He just needed the way. And alongside …. He had only realized something rather important. His company on this journey did not seem to be nearby.

A sigh left him.

“I was so lost in thoughts, I allowed her to roam free. So long as she behaves herself..”

In all her years giving herself to men, Astaria learned a private truth: she was never more exposed than when her clothes were gone, and never more in control either. Nudity was a language she spoke fluently. A dialect of conquest, where her body did the talking and she only reaped its benefits.

A little bit of her, for a little bit of them.

Finding herself at the pointy end of someone else’s spear wasn’t exactly a novelty, but it was fun nonetheless. It made her lift both hands, not in surrender so much as performance, and help herself to a deep intake of breath.

So this is how he wanted things to play out, huh?

“Persuasive.” She said, feeling the cold kiss of his spear dig into her skin, enough to sting… not enough to puncture. There was this soft, singsong hum of appreciation at the distinction.

Still, Astaria didn’t rush the process. There was no joy to be found in haste, no theatrics either.

And the pale elf was nothing if not theatrical.

The stockings came first, not because they had to, but because anticipation was its own form of cruelty. She propped one foot on the low stool and peeled the fabric down inch by inch, unveiling a thigh pale as carved stone, more marble than flesh. A beauty preserved by bastardising death the only way someone like her knew how.

After the first flimsy layer landed on the floor, the second one followed after and Astaria’s smile widened to a fault, tongue pressed to the back of her teeth—mischief made woman with the way she looked at him… Studied him, ravenous in her stare and never quite breaking eye contact.

“You look hungry.” She said.

So did she.

The lace of her chemise came next, loosening with each pull of a string until the fabric gave and slid off from her shoulders, pooling around her ankles. Her body was designed in aphrodisiac excess, as if carved by a god during a fever dream. Breasts too perfect, wide hips thinning into a waist so slender that it simply begged to be seized. She looked beautiful, stunning really.

But in nature, beauty of this kind was often tied to unimaginable horrors.

Before the stranger’s stare could harden into action, before he could claim her, Astaria caught his spear at the base where blade met shaft, and stilled it—or tried to—canting her head to the side so she could let her tongue lightly trace the spear’s cutting edge. Pain bloomed briefly, bright and metallic when the blade cut a shallow slit on her tongue.

When she withdrew, the pale elf let out a finger and beckoned him near in the low, honeyed cadence of a naughty little purr. Blood lined her smile.

“Come, boy...” Scarlet welled and trailed from her mouth, running down her chin and over her collarbone, tracing vivid rivulets over the swell of her breasts. “Don't big bad hounds like yourself enjoy chasing pussy?” The ambiguity was intentional.

And she savoured every moment of it.

He watched her eyes.

They were the colour of an open vein. A deep, arterial red that flowed only in the hollow of a pulse - like the darkened night beneath a blood moon, starless in its ancient anger, a chasm that stilled in its wait.

"Naturally," a line of ivory flashed through his lips. "A primal instinct." He elucidated, courteously, voice but a lilt of coy and dance as to complement her cadence. He was trained for restraint, but only to such an extent.

Hunger was often too frail of a word describe the barbed thorn that twisted into his gut. Every instinct had been amplified by the shadow of his past chains. The echo of shackles were never too far. Even now, years on from his release, every tug of breath, a light turn of his head, he would feel the wisp of a phantom grasp, bound intimately to the line of scars that mutilated his throat where the spiked collar had once held.

The mark of a former slave did not ever, truly fade. She could test his patience as they had done - a mistake, perhaps, if pressed too far.

Fortunately, he had learned to contain this wrath, for it had aged far beyond its primitive hold.

And so she obliged - unravelling before him like petals from an autumn flower. The molten eyes that had fixed on her neck travelled down; a flow of marble that flawlessly imitated the sluice of life, the fluidity of movement as she flexed and slipped from silk and garter.

The steel glinted once more as it followed the shape of her diamond-cut jaw, pausing only as she had dared to take claim on the weapon; tongue, like liquid-fire, gliding up the edge of the blade as if it were a lover.

Her beckoning roused a lurid smile.

"You tempt me. As I'm sure you had with many others," he wavered in his gaze, "But do you deem me as prey, I wonder?"

The creak of the bed answered to her last words as he slowly shifted his weight to his feet, letting the spear anchor his focal point as he held it true to the tip of her chin.

The tiefling stood as a titan in the room; the discrepancy of their height drew to sharper contrast he closed the gap with a solid step, allowing the spear to tilt her head back, locking her under his infernal watch.

It still surprised him how she sought out his company unbidden. Though unbalanced in who graced whom with their company, she never seemed particularly pleased to see him approach in the twilit hours when the others rested for their next foray into the next bout of unknown dangers they would no doubt face when the sun kissed the horizon once more. Thus, when she carried her padded stool over and seated herself upon it in front of his tent, he could not help the rise of a scarred eyebrow, the pause in his whittling.

Her initial silence, though, did unsettle him to a degree, moss-and-soil hazel eyes shifting from the half-formed wolf in his hands to the vampiress perched on the stool not a meter from him. When she did at last speak, he took a moment to ponder the question, carving out the dignified shape of the howling canid's head.

" I suppose I haven't, " he replied at last, blowing away a bit of wood dust before setting his project aside entirely. " Accolades, stories, or songs about me...I cannot say the idea of it has ever appealed to me. In fact, I think I would rather not inspire such things. If I am remembered, so be it. If not...well, I am simply more concerned with enjoying this life for as long as I can. If that results in bards singing my praises, I will not stop them. "

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃💭 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 | 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆

Astaria was really..laying on thick with him. As if he was the new flavor of the day as they hung out at one of Japan’s biggest amusement park. Or..mostly likely he’s the one who clung to her like a shadow at the feet of a person. He still hasn’t cracked the case on what she is..but he’s still expecting her to be a human-eating yokai. 

Though even now as Yusuke remained deep in thought, she continues to sing his praises, saying probably what she thinks he wants to hear. Compliments about his strength in one game, then compliments regarding his accuracy..even making one risque remark here and there. “Look at ya..had no idea ya could be this friendly.” He said aloud with a smile on his face. ‘Ha, yeah right, I know yer gonna screw me over..the only question is..when?’

I’ve entombed it

I lobbed it into the ocean

I shattered it beneath a crushing weight

I’ve bludgeoned it until I’m sore

It remains, it remains despite my efforts

This fleeting sense of humanity

These loathsome feelings

This beating heart

This avarice for life

But my humanity is embittered

This adoration becomes obsession

Obsession turns to rage

Rage burns until I’m left with ashes

They smolder within me

These ashes

And when they’re brushed away

I’m left vacant

I’m left bereft

Naming it brings relief

Until it rises again

He leans in, chin brushing the edge of her fingers. Mm, she had an alluring scent. “I did” he breathes “A beard. Even the goatee, yes. Thought it might lend me. . . gravity.” A beat, then a hint of annoyance catches brown eyes as he dismisses her soft hand with a tilt. “Didn’t suit me, dear. Looked less devil, more disgraced troubadour. Some canvases are best left unadorned, hmm?”

. . .It had made him look far too much like his daddy.

Realization should strike when her breath brushes his cheek—copper-sweet, heady with the unmistakable scent of blood. Not fresh enough to be dangerous, but enough to explain the odd sway in her step, the giddy tilt of her smile.

Blood-drunk.

It suits her well—beautiful, off-balance, and just a little bit feral.

Oh dear heavens, what was going on now? Just the way she called his name was one thing, but the idea settled of what was going on by her motions and her suggestions. That and the bit of the smell on the breath. Someone had hit her stash pretty well, and she was really feeling it tonight in more ways than one. Now the question to ask was how much of this was really the right thing to do? There was a morale issue with the state of mind she was in, but it was also something she'd probably do sober if given the chance.