#writeroo

midnight is smth i wrote a little while ago that i figured i would never publish bc i think it's Bad but oh well (does it fit the prompt perfectly? nah not really but night is an element)

The weather had been miserable all week, perhaps longer - felt like the days melded together when on the road, and you could barely distinguish night from day for how thick the cloud cover was and how heavily laid the foggy dew on the forest floor. He hadn’t avoided rain, either, and discomfort was now a constant rather than an unwelcome visitor, weighing him down further on top of the mournful sky and his own heavy thoughts.

He had hoped to have seen him, come across him by some accident or miracle, deliberately choosing his route to pass through his usual haunts and places he knew he’d like. To no avail. Wherever Goose had gone, Elk didn’t know, and finding him when he didn’t wish to be found seemed like an impossible task under the weary conditions. He was stubborn, Elk knew that, but how stubborn could he be? To what point? It was no time of year to live under the elements, Goose would know that, but how far would he push himself to prove a point he likely didn’t know himself? It was unusual, and it was worrying, as the man Elk had grown to know and love was nothing apart from an easygoing, loving fool - as crude as it sometimes felt to say, a fool was an apt descriptor, something Goose himself had accepted graciously many years past. Yet now it had taken on a more negative flavor.

It had begun in his typical manner, grabby hands digging through sand and cliffside nooks for interesting things, something to keep him busy and engaged while Elk was on his long assignments through the woodland and unable to keep him company. The things he found were harmless - mostly, as there had been a time Elk had returned home to a man picking sea urchin spines off his hand - and mere trinkets in nature. Seashells, dried starfish, shiny rocks that lost their luster when they dried and were demoted to decoration in the small garden he tried cultivating. No wonder a large, intricate, beautiful conch had seized his attention so. Seized all of it, to the point he had picked it over his husband.

And now he was somewhere out there, no doubt still digging through sand and every nook and cranny he could find along the coast, conch on his hip in its pouch, alone. Was he cold? He was probably hungry. Even that thought felt like a piece stuck in Elk’s throat, and he couldn’t even entertain the darker ones of a miserable fate lurking at the edge of his consciousness.

He hadn’t seen Goose in over a week.

He had no idea where he was - and even the last sighting of the man was far away, a glimpse before he had disappeared into the coastline caverns. Elk tended to the hearthfire, kept the house warm and food on the table in anticipation that he’d return before nightfall, but by the third day the anticipation had turned to bitter worry in his mouth and even with the fireplace roaring, he had felt cold. He couldn’t stay in the house, waiting for days on end, he had duties to attend to. It was with a heavy heart he had left, the house remaining still and dark, awaiting his return. Goose had a key, it was his home after all, and all Elk could hope for was that he hadn’t simply moved further and further along the coast, never to return.

But he was returning now, hours after sundown, emerging from the mist of the silent forest to the coast. The gentle lapping of the waves against the rocks felt welcoming, almost, the faint smell of salt refreshing, but into the slight sting of salt another scent scattered into, turning Elk’s attention to the small, yet cozy hut near the edge of the forest. He’d built it with his own hands years ago, made it into a home for himself and his beloved. And now, as quiet and still it sat, a thin strip of smoke rose from the chimney and drifted in the night wind.

Quietly, hopefully, he rose the short stairs to the porch, cracking open the unlocked door, pushing it open as it gave way with only a slight whinge. He was greeted with a silent warmth, only lit by the dying embers in the fireplace. It took a moment to get his eyes used to the darkness.

Crumbs on the table, empty bowl near the washbasin, water ladle left on the barrel’s crooked lid, a cabinet door left ever so slightly open and a stool pushed in front of the counter for a shorter individual to reach for the dried bread. Yet an empty bed, save for a single, worn, once hand-stitched shoulder bag tossed in the middle. Elk stared at it - and felt a cold sting of something nefarious stare back. The man who snuck in as the sun set and ate his first proper meal in over a week surrendered his own bed to a lousy, spiny, sharp seashell, its aura malignant and dominating, making the hairs at Elk’s neck stick up in offense. But the shell wasn’t his priority now.

On the bear fur laid in front of the ever-dimming fireplace was the small form of a man, loosely curled up on his side, salt-crusted and damp cloak wrapped over him, facing the warmth and sound asleep. Carefully, aware of the noise his armor could make, Elk stepped forward and knelt besides Goose. For a moment it didn’t even seem like the man was breathing, so shallow were his breaths and so little was his side rising with every intake, but there he was, alive. Elk removed one vambrace, heavy glove as well, brushing his fingers ever so gently across Goose’s cheekbone. Sharp, sharper than before, and the shadows under his eyes were never so deep even if Goose had always carried with him an aura of perpetual wear, giving him a wily, sinister look.

He reacted to the touch, drawing in a slightly deeper breath, but moved no further, even as Elk took his hand to his hair. Unwashed, unbrushed, knotted at the neck. The salt had clung to Goose deeper than just on the edges of his cloak and his boots, now the wear of the road had brought up wide swaths of silver on his temples which made him look even more worn and aged. Grey was nothing new to Elk, either - they had joked about it in the earlier years, how the constant worry had brought on the salt in his hair - but it was new on Goose, and the sheer speed at which it had gathered worried Elk even more.

He got on his feet, carefully, moving to the opposite side of the hut to remove his armor to avoid waking Goose - knowing him, a good night’s sleep had been scarce recently, and he didn’t want him to awake for no reason. With his armor removed, he slipped into clean, comfortable home clothes, placed a few more logs into the fireplace to keep it going through the night and turned to the ominous baggage on the bed.

“Listen here”, he almost hissed through clenched teeth. “I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. But you’re in my house, and will abide by my rules.”

It felt stupid to talk so to an inanimate object, but he had long known there was something more to the seashell, something alive and sinister. No more words spared, he grabbed the bag’s handle, slowly lifting the shell off the bedding and moving it across the room to the dinner table, placing it so it was deliberately as much covered as possible. The conch didn’t like him touching it, much less handling it so, but Elk wished he had avoided whatever wrath it could incur by not technically directly touching it. At least for tonight.

And then he carefully walked to the bear rug and as gently as possible slipped his hands under Goose’s sleeping self, lifting him off the hard floor and into his arms. Gods, he was light - he was too light, he had always been diminutive in stature but Elk’s guesses of him not being able to eat properly must have been right. He felt fragile in Elk’s arms, cold and weak, mumbling something in protest but not opening his eyes. It was like returning a fallen baby bird back into its nest, almost, as Elk placed Goose into their bed, carefully pulled a blanket over his body and himself laid down next to him, taking the man into an embrace as if to warm him up with his own body heat. Held tightly against him Goose felt even bonier, his elbows sticking into Elk’s ribs, his hands cold against his but still Elk felt a feel of relief wash over him - Goose was home, at least, he was home and he was warm and he was fed, and without argument or cold shoulder. All Elk could do now was hold him close for as long as he could, was allowed to.

“Hun”, he heard a quiet mumble.

“Shh”, said Elk back. “Just rest. Just rest, beloved.” Goose didn’t struggle in his hold but turned his head ever so slightly, eye open just enough for Elk to see a dim glint of gold. “Where’s the-” Goose began.

“On the table. Nevermind it. Rest.”

And he did. Not leaning into Elk’s embrace but accepting it, falling back into a restless sleep.

And as the morning rose, so did Elk, alone. The fire was fed, half a loaf of bread was missing, and the table empty. Whenever Goose had left, he had done so without a word, with his personal devil firmly by his side and no doubt guiding him to a purpose Elk couldn’t allow.

list

yeetos

A quiet night. The gentle wind swayed the courtyard's bamboo stalks, their swishing blending into the quiet trickle of the garden stream somewhere below. A cricket sang its droning tune - Silva timed his lockpick to each chirp.

He could suggest to Konoe that the guest quarters needed better locks, but this was more fun; the prince didn't need to know all of the estate's vulnerabilities. Besides, he wanted to avoid having to divulge the details of why he was breaking into the guest quarters in the first place. It wasn't exactly a sanctioned investigation, he wasn't being sent there by the prince's orders. More by his own guts, and the instinct of an ally. Click, went the pin in the lock. This guest suite, placed slightly apart from the main body of the estate and connected via a covered walkway, was currently occupied by a well-off merchant lord - he had traveled from quite a ways away, invited by Konoe to review his finances. Completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary on that front. But that wasn't the issue. Another cricket chirp, another click. See, his finances were also the interest of Konoe's treasury master, or mistress, that's what she preferred. Silva smiled to himself while continuing to work on the lock, another pin clicking out of the way. He admired lady Kyoko, admired her greatly - she had laid out her suspicions of the merchant lord to Silva, going through her evidence with such intricate detail he couldn't help but pledge his allegiance. If she had been mistaken, nothing would happen; Silva would look into his things, declare everything was okay, and Konoe would never know. But if she was right... The lock popped open and Silva exhaled. He had already put a few drops of oil into the hinges, just in case, and the door opened without a whisper. If she was right, they were dealing with a potential budding conspiracy to seize power in the North, funded by money funneled directly from the empire's treasury. And that was something Kyoko could not allow.

Silva crept silently into the room. Time to get to work.

He glanced up at Makoto who glanced back, them both then turning their attention back to the bottle that Silva now held, made of dark glass, ornately shaped, ancient-looking. The cork was open, its sealing wax broken. Silva turned the bottle upside down and a few strands of something fell out. Makoto took the bottle as Silva picked up the strands, which turned out to be a lock of hair, and they both took a sniff - Makoto crunched his nose and scoffed, Silva's eyes widened. "Rot", said Makoto. "Kyoko", said Silva. They stared at each other. A bottled yokai. A target given. An alibi for the merchant lord taking place in the festivities right now. Makoto tossed the bottle back into the trunk, spun around and flung the door open as Silva slammed the trunk shut and stumbled on his feet. "Go to her!" Makoto spat, then took off towards the estate proper, no doubt to gather whatever reinforcements he could think of. Silva ran right after him and vaulted the walkway railing, his bat form taking to the night sky.

He flew as fast as his wings could take him, sweeping over rooftops and under archways, taking a risky detour through a couple of open windows, hearing someone gasp of fright at his speedy visit. He was thankful he knew where Kyoko's quarters were, praised her wise decision to hold their clandestine meetings there instead of the treasury office, where who knew who could be listening. He spun a corner, diving for some speed. He saw the window, or at least a window, to her home, or at least he thought he did, based on what he had seen inside. He had no time for recoinnassance. He had to risk it. And it was going to hurt.

With all his speed gathered, he dove towards the delicately painted paper squares between the sturdy wooden frames, and with his apologies already forming in his mind, he pulled his wings in and transformed. The frame bent under his weight, the wood complained before it snapped. Silva hoped the crackling sounds came from the window and not his body. He was silently grateful it at least wasn't glass he was smashing through as he shielded his face as best he could and fell into the room, shreds of paper and pieces of wood clattering inside with him. His landing was rough, he twisted an ankle, rolled on his shoulder in a decidedly graceless way that left it aching for a couple of days. Sharpened by the pain and adrenaline, his senses were clear as ever as he spun back up on his feet, hand searching for the dagger on his waist, eyes scanning for anything untowards in the room. Which room? This wasn't the dining room him and Kyoko had been scheming in. He spotted a dresser. A room divider. A canopy over a luxurious bed the size of half a continent - and in that bed, Kyoko sat up and stared, obviously just stirred from deep sleep to a man-bat crashing through her window and scattering garbage all over her bedroom. Silva opened his mouth to offer an apology, but his eyes moved first. "Move!" he croaked out instead, and Kyoko did, her following his line of sight with her own eyes and then diving out of her side of the bed; just in time to avoid the blackened blade of the shadowy yokai, who dove forth from the shadows to tear through the sheets, the mattress, the knife chipping the bedframe underneath. Not thinking nearly as clearly as he should have, Silva threw his knife towards the yokai. It dodged, yanking its blade out of the bedframe and clambering on the bed to go for Kyoko again, but this time not being able to dodge the entire vampire instead. Silva tackled the thing back off the bed, slamming it onto the floor while scanning the area for his knife. The yokai flailed, its shadowy form making it difficult to hold on to, and it turned the tables on Silva, kicking him away from itself and twisted itself upright. The vampire stumbled on his feet, giving up the search for his knife. The two creatures of the night stood firm, focus on one another, both waiting for the other one to move. Silva didn't have the energy for strategy or tricks. The yokai was fast, and he was starved, slower and weaker than he had likely ever been since his transformation. But at the moment, he was the only one standing between it and Kyoko. He didn't know where Makoto was. He didn't know how to even try to kill a yokai like that. But he wouldn't, he could not let it harm her. No matter what. "Leave it to me, my lady", he said, trying a tone he hoped would sound confident. "Silva-" said Kyoko, his name in her voice making his heart skip a beat, but at the sound of her voice the yokai perked up, its purpose relighting in its primitive mind. "Go!" Silva's voice cracked as he shouted but he didn't have time for a retake.

Vasili woke up to gentle light and quiet birdsong. Despite the sheer curtains scattering the sunshine as it seeped into the room it still hurt his eyes - he squinted, trying to regain his bearings, glancing about the room he was in.

Laid prone, resting on a soft bed and tucked into clean linens, but not his own. This was a different room in the castle. Everything felt quiet and subdued, his blurry vision catching some glimpses of modestly dressed shapes quietly shuffling behind, past and in front of him, and to and fro through doors somewhere beyond his field of vision.

He tried to turn his head, but failed. His head felt like it weighed a ton. His limbs felt heavy, too - his entire body, in fact, as if made from cast iron, fingertips tingling as he willed them to move, a dull ache on the side of his head.

What happened?

As he became more aware of who and where he was, he wondered when he was. The sun was low in the sky, but he couldn't tell if it was morning or evening. The last he remembered it was late night, and he was out, keeping the peace, lending a hand to his men to take a look at a rambunctious youth...

He stopped thinking as the ache on the left side of his head seemed to grow stronger, focused on the front where a layer of gauze covered half of his face. The pain underneath pulsed. He blinked. Raising a finger, much less an arm, felt like moving a mountain, but he had to get rid of the linen around his face, yet when he could barely make an attempt, someone grabbed a hold of his arm.

"---eful, my lord", someone said through the haze. Another voice from somewhere else, calling out toward another, a shuffle of feet and the sound of a door opening.

Vasili allowed his hand to be gently placed back down. The nurse circled around his bed to take a better look, her voice muffled and echoy in his head, him barely following along as she raised a finger and had him follow it with the seeing eye. He opened his mouth to ask what happened when a louder, more forceful, and much more familiar voice caught his attention.

"Someone knows!", Konoe said as he threw the half-open door wide open and sailed into the room, followed closely by not only the nurse who had informed him of Vasili's awakening, but also his bodyguard - the tall, slender, young warrior who now seemed quite a bit smaller and younger when following his charge.

"I don't care how many people you need to ask or bribe or torture or whatever or how many men you throw in to investigate", Konoe continued, his robes a black and red whirl as he spun to face Makoto. "Do I make myself clear?"

It was almost funny. Vasili didn't know of a life without Konoe, and had learned nigh every quirk and mood of the prince. He had seen him annoyed, frustrated, even angry before.

But he had never seen him absolutely furious.

The bodyguard nodded quietly. Vasili didn't care for him much - he was young and untrained, with a reputation of being unruly and difficult to work with - but now even he felt slightly bad for the warrior who stood there in front of the prince, ears pinned back and hands nervously clutching the handle of his blade as if to bring him some safety against Konoe's fury.

Makoto, shrinking away from the situation, glanced over the prince's shoulder and made brief eye contact with Vasili, then bowing quickly and leaving the room as it was Konoe's turn to focus on the man on the bed.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he sighed, the fury melting away from the way of what seemed like grief, and the bedside nurse hurried out of the way just in time to avoid being elbowed by the prince.

He reached out to place his hands on Vasili's cheeks, then hesitated, opting instead to clutch one of his hands with both of his own, pressing a kiss on his knuckles and pulling the hand to his chest, holding on for dear life. Mouth opened, but words escaped him, so Vasili took the opportunity.

"What happened?" he mumbled.

"I don't-- I don't know", said Konoe, nervously inspecting Vasili's face. "They found you at-- are you in pain? I can ask..."

"It's fine", Vasili lied quietly. "Sun's a bit bright."

With fervor that made it seem Konoe was going to turn off the Sun himself, he ordered curtains to be lowered. It helped a little bit - it felt easier to open one's eyes more.

Vasili glanced about the room.

"How did I end up here?" he asked.

"You don't remember? What do you remember, my love?" said Konoe, reaching a hand to gently pet the uninjured side of Vasili's face. The touch felt welcoming, compared to the ever-present aching of the bandaged side.

"It was night, I think", Vasili muttered. "I was downtown. I got into a fight?"

"Last night, yes."

So it hadn't been too long. "I don't--", the knight mumbled, interrupted by a flash of pain through his head when he shook it slightly and he winced aloud. Konoe perked up and ordered pain relief, a nurse hurrying off.

Vasili sighed and blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling, regaining his composure. Then he turned his attention back to Konoe who wasn't returning the eye contact, instead focused on the gauze-covered side of Vasili's face, where the pain still hadn't subsided.

"How... how bad is it?" Vasili asked quietly.

The normally so quick-witted, calm, wily man beside him couldn't answer. But just from the look on his face, and the tears glinting in the corners of his eyes, Vasili could tell it was nothing good.

"You'll be fine", Konoe's voice was choked. "I just need to know who did this to you."

Vasili said nothing. The reality was setting in. He was able to blink underneath the gauze, and there was no way the gauze was thick enough to block out sunlight. Yet the left side of his field of vision was nothing but darkness.

He remembered the fight. And he knew who to blame.

Nights were easier to handle. The sun wasn't burning your eyes or picking at your eartips, and it wasn't so bloody open and populated everywhere. Silva hated traveling in groups that demanded that they move during daytime, and even more he hated when he had to move in a group that didn't even try to hide their wariness around a vampire. Sure, they were right about his particular needs. No, it didn't make it any more fun to sit around people who could afford you only quick sideways glances when talking about what to cook on the campfire that night. He was sitting away from it, he didn't care for the bright light and the warmth didn't do much for him. He much rather sat aside and stared into the forest, trying to listen in on the various critters and creatures shuffling about. He had little luck. He was hungry - desperately so, he hadn't had a meal of true man blood in ages, and the starvation dulled his senses down. The replacements he had been given for the journey did a piss-poor job of trying to sate the thirst. But, he had little options. Rather starve outside during nighttime with some possibility of feeding, than locked in a cage underground where he might get a rat once a week if he was lucky. Silva still hadn't come to terms about being a spymaster for the prince. He didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him, but he could admit that he had the vampire in a vice grip, and that the only choice with any kind of future was to bend the knee. For how long, who knows - the prince didn't seem like he would be sad about killing Silva, if it came to that. He wondered what this would mean for the future of the guild. They surely weren't happy.

Someone cursed by the fireplace, someone else hurried to look. A slip of a knife when cutting a package open, not a deep wound at all, but the smell of blood in the wind struck Silva almost immediately. He briskly got on his feet and hurried to leave. He had a separate tent, nobody would be forced to bunk with a vampire. And he preferred that. He enjoyed his solitude and was a restless sleeper, especially when his own instincts pulled him to action in the deepest hours of the night instead of bringing any kind of rest or rejuvenation. Throwing the flap of his tent aside he flew in, tore his pack open, feverishly digging in it for a second before he found what he was looking for - a vial of thick, dark, brownish-red liquid. He sneered. But he couldn't afford to be picky. This stuff had been made specifically for him. His teeth made short work of the cork and he spat it aside, taking a deep breath and pinching his nose with his free hand before knocking the vial back - the taste he could stomach, but the concoction went down like sour milk, clumpy and sticky, forcing him to wait for all of it to come out before he was rid of it. He groaned and stuffed the emptied vial back to his pack. Vile. Blood substitute - that's what the alchemists called it, but Silva didn't truly know if it had any blood in it to begin with - could take the edge off and dull the worst of the hunger, but it wasn't made for sustaining. Frustration building, the vampire tightened his cloak around him and grabbed his bedroll to pull out a pair of sheathed daggers. The sword could stay, it was useless on a hunt. He threw it down on the bedroll and hung the daggers on his belt, turning to grab a garrotte from his pack when the tent flap moved. He froze.

The emperor's dog stepped in - his bodyguard, the tall, slender wolfman from the South, clad in black with his hair slicked back into a ponytail, his black and amber eyes fixed on Silva as he let the tent flap fall back into place. Silva didn't know why Makoto had been sent with him, away from the prince's side. But there he was. "Where are you going?" Makoto's voice was low, husky. Silva hadn't seen him at the campfire - most likely he had been sitting aside, like the vampire had been. "Hunting", he admitted outright, wrapping the garrotte into a bundle to stuff into a belt pouch. "I'll be back before soon." "Who are you going with?" "I'm going alone." "You can't", the response was curt. Silva looked up at the man. "Orders were given. If you need to hunt you go in pairs", Makoto said, his hands relaxed on the handle of his sheathed travel sword, but stance firm. "I'm not hunting for you people. I need to be alone. I'll be back before you know it", Silva said. "Orders were given", repeated the bodyguard.

The wolf annoyed Silva, and he knew the feeling was mutual. The prince's shadow, the sword master, the captain, nothing but a self-righteous orphan puppy from the South with no house of his own. They had tussled before - the castle's men had meddled in Silva's thievery far too many times. He didn't enjoy being ordered around by the likes of him. If facts didn't work, perhaps feelings, then. As much as it irked him to try and beg, especially from the likes of this one. "I'm hungry, Makoto", Silva tried. Makoto cocked his head half an inch, but his expression didn't change. Silva was unsure if the reaction was for him using his name, or the sudden vulnerability. "This swill doesn't sustain. I need just one decent meal - a badger, a fox. If I get a deer I'll be out of your hair for the rest of the week." Truthfully, even a fully-grown deer didn't do too much for a starved vampire's appetite. Animal blood was a poor substitute for the likes of man's. It'd keep him going for a day or two, maybe, before he'd have to turn to the sad bottles of shit tucked away in his pack. Makoto didn't have to know that, though. Makoto shifted his weight on his feet. He always was quiet, and hard to parse, but he didn't seem unreasonable to Silva. He tried pushing a bit. "You understand, right? Thanks. I won't be an hour", he said and took a step towards the tent door. Makoto's reaction was immediate; the relaxed hold of his sword tightened and he took a wider stance, stopping Silva on his tracks. "Take mine", he said. Silva stared. "Pardon?" "We need you sharp, and I was told to offer any assistance I could. If the situation is that dire, it's acceptable", Makoto elaborated, letting go of his sword and grabbing onto the lacing of his right bracer instead. Silva just looked as he swiftly undid the cords, then removing the cuff and pulling his sleeve up - offering a bare, clean wrist to the vampire. "I will stay at the camp tomorrow. I have ample time to recover", he said. "If it helps." He extended his arm towards Silva, who tried to act nonchalant. But his eyes were fixated on the dim blue veins in the swordsman's arm, enticing, visible even in the dim light of the tent. Silva looked up at Makoto who stared down, unflinching, selfless. His eyes spelled a tinge of fear behind the resolute calm. It disgusted Silva, honestly. Self-sacrifice out of pity. He opened his mouth to reject the offer, to call him out, but a drip of saliva came out instead and he shut up again, wiping his mouth and swallowing. Makoto didn't move. "It's gonna hurt", said Silva. "I can take it", the swordsman muttered. Silva took firm hold of his hand and arm and bit down on the wrist.

Makoto groaned under his breath, but Silva didn't hear it - the flood of red in his mouth immediately numbed his senses and he squeezed Makoto's arm harder, tasting the adrenaline as the swordsman fought the instinct to pull his arm back. Silva did his best to hold himself back, but he was starved, he was pulled in by the southern blood, biting with force that was sure to leave bruises. Makoto stood firm, his muscles and tendons tensing as he first clenched his hand into a fist, his grip then loosening as the blood drained. Silva didn't know how much he had taken. He tried to remain aware of the transactional nature, to remind himself to hold back, but trying to stop was like trying to pry a dying man from a desert oasis. Makoto's heart was racing, Silva felt it against his lips, his tongue, down his throat as he fed, the taste of shock of pain and fear reminding him of the hunt and invigorating him to dig deeper, until he felt a fist grab onto his hair and forcibly yank his head back.

He opened his eyes, blinked in the dim light, met Makoto's eyes who stared back with wild fear overwhelming his usual calm demeanor, his breathing heavy. Cold sweat trickled on his forehead, a glint of tear from pain in the corner of his eye. "Enough", he croaked. He let go of Silva's hair who in turn let go of Makoto's arm, looking down at the wound he had made, still trickling blood from the two fang marks surrounded by other teeth indented in Makoto's pale skin. It would definitely leave bruises. He had bit down hard. Slowly, Makoto took a piece of fabric from his belt, shakily wiping off the remaining blood and saliva and trying to wrap it around his wrist one-handed. Silva offered a hand, deftly tying a makeshift bandage around the wound. Wordlessly he pulled the swordsman's sleeve back down, picked up the bracer and relaced it the best he could, Makoto offering no rebuttal. His heart was still beating hard, Silva could hear it through the air, his senses perked up by the meal. "I... thank you", he tried nonchalantly. Makoto exhaled deep and nodded, eyes closed, his head obviously swimming as he took a correcting step to the side, and Silva figured he was trying to will the pain away and not tumble over. "You think you'll survive tomorrow?" he asked, eyes still shut and brow furrowed. "Yes. I'll do fine." Makoto nodded, swallowed, opened his eyes and regained his bearings. "Goodnight", he said half to Silva and half to nobody, gliding out of the tent and towards his own.