#xarakaas

“Back again, love?”  He turned in his chair towards the voice. The barista had tired eyes, yet there was that glimmer, a give away of her good heart. Over the days he’d come to know that she was one of those surviving sparks, one of the ones who held on to who they really are. He asked for a refill, apologizing amid his own tired smile, "Sorry, miss, I know your run a tight ship ‘ere. You ‘eard anythin’ about that?”

The look over either of her shoulders gave him immediate hope. In what he assumed was her way of being subtle, she gestured towards the archway that divided the common area where Dalton sat from the more quiet section towards the back. Leaning back in his chair, the wood groaning precariouly under his weight, he spied it.

Blue skin, bright as a berry, littered with scars. A long braid down the bow of their back, tattered pants, no shoes... certainly fit the description. 

“Much obliged, miss.” A few coins made their way into her pocket. She muttered something about dealing with those, “tiefling devils” as she scooted off back towards the kitchen. Dalton remained leaning back in his chair, chewing on the end of his bent cigarette. The embers having died at the other end a while ago. Was this really the guy? He looked rather mellow compared to the picture Imbala had painted.

Well, there was one sure fire way to confirm his suspicions.... 

Taking a moment to brace himself, the halfbred giant groaned to his feet, ducked under the archway, and made a beeline for the tiefling. Lumbering around him until he could see the whites of his sidelong glare. "You, are you this... blue bitch I’ve been hearing about?"

The long seconds slide over her sweat slick back under the light studded armor. ‘Did they go into shock?’ Not that she could actually tell with the mask, but when their voice does come her brow twitches because unlike her expired companions, this one could actually articulate. A rare luxury in the northern forests. Uncommon enough that her free hand stayed dangling near the dagger tucked out of view inside her boot. At least they aren’t trying to kill each other. “Small victories keep ya breathin’,” as Shivers would say. She nodded back at them.

Her fingers held the pencil firm, but not near enough to cause strain within her muscles. She allowed the strokes to fall where it may, building the beginning of outlines for the anatomy of her subject. 

A bird. Beautiful, blue and white, with black stripes here and there. A jay of some kind. She had left peanuts for the corvid to snack on while she worked, wanting to complete her studies of this particular male before dinnertime.

However, a sudden footfall disturbed the peace. Robin jolted as the bird flew off in a flurry of flapping, her pencil making a very dark, diagonal line as her hand swept off the page. 

A growl of frustration followed. The wolf shut the book and whipped around, curls bouncing, to see who had intruded on the calm, before that frustration left her features completely. 

“Wh --?!” 

The emotion, the fierceness behind Kamos’ words, whipped at her, startling her with their certainty. A cat o' nine tails bladed tips sharpened over years of endured hardship, slashed her into momentary silence. A lump caught in her throat, made it hurt so badly that she thought she might cough. 

She knew, from their travels together, that Kamos was regularly side-eyed by onlookers. Whispered about. Leered at. Anyone who didn’t look quite human got that treatment--that was typical (and horrificially unfair). What Evelyn didn’t know was the history by behind the species, behind Kamos himself. He hinted at it occasionally. Life as a fighter, a slave, locked up in a bejeweled cage. Killing monsters, bandits, and the like. The darker tales, the bits of him held closer to his chest than any other, those he kept under lock and key and she hadn’t had the courage to inquire after those pieces.

‘We understand the price of a life, down to the penny.’

Her hands curled into fists in her lap. Funny, that his words would come to her at a time like this. 

  “It’ll...be fine. Damned thing keeps...fucking itching.” He was half tempted to use his electricity to burn the damn wound closed and fry the nerves, if only to stop the irritating itch that came with trying to let his body heal properly. “Could...drive me fucking mad.”

“I’ll put a salve on it then, so quit picking at it!”