lex talionis

   The Fine Arts division decided that, for whatever reason, they had to encourage the various artists (or otherwise, in the case of Chrom) of the Academy to sketch wyverns out of human models. And for a reason unbeknownst to even him, Chrom thought it best to partake in this. Presently, Chrom believes that this would hone his experience as a leader, or perhaps even allow him more comfort within the skies if he were to for (once again) whatever reason decide to take to a wyvern or even a pegasus. Maybe his brief pegasi-sitting stint had more of a palpable impact on him. 

   Chrom’s eyes narrow, focused on his subject; one who, to his own credit, was an impressive model by all means. Chrom’s figure wasn’t something to sneeze at, and the green-haired model before him was also a fair bit shorter than Chrom had been, but his musculature was impressive. Frankly, Chrom believed that he was wasting his time acting as a wyvern model. 

   But such thoughts need not be shared aloud; for now, Chrom needed to focus on sketching his subject as best as he could… because his own skill was already a far cry from others amongst the Fine Arts division. “Okay friend- and I apologize if this sounds awful to do, but could you crouch and spread your arms like they’re wings? I think this would be a really menacing pose.” And this man had quite the menacing demeanor about him as is; it’s rather impressive that Chrom had even gotten this far in this little art project to begin with. 

   Hopefully that wasn’t him jinxing himself. 

The familiarity pulls a draconically toothy grin across his face, and without even trying. Griss has always smiled like that, showing off how half his teeth are sharper than most people's and unsettling just about anyone meeting him for the first time, but that's what makes him perfect for this assignment. Chrom's a lucky one, and that's why Griss doesn't put up a fuss at first when he's asked to be more wyvern-like. Obediently, but in a way that looks like this is his normal way of being, he bends at the waist and spreads out his arms, his unblinking, rust-red eyes trained on this wannabe artist the whole time.

Lines like bloodstains snake up both arms between the white lines of old scars, stretch from wrist to shoulder, and then streak down his shoulder blades to hug around his ribs. The full breadth of his tattoos is a rare sight, but there lies the problem. And the problem with this entire exercise, in fact. In this sterile, feature-less room, five models stand in a circle at the center with their backs facing one another, wearing nothing but smallclothes as a handful of artists stare at them from behind their easels. A man undressed, being nothing but soft skin and, at best, mild self-consciousness, is about the farthest thing from the hard, reptilian scales of a dragon of any species. While by no means one of modest dress, even Griss understood that the mantle he often wore across his shoulders could do a better job of impressing the shape of wings than his wiry, though well-defined arms stretched out in a line.

"Wait, I got somethin' better," he says, and doesn't wait for Chrom's approval. A crate sits between him and the young woman on his left painting a different model, and so Griss goes over to hook his foot around it and kick it toward the center of the room. Spare brushes and some other supplies that had been sitting on it scatter across the floor, and the young woman yelps in protest, but it's all too loud in this otherwise silent drawing studio, so she ducks down to hide her red face and gather up her runaway tools.

"Ahem. Please refrain from disrupting the other artists," the instructor calls from the other end of the room. He'd had his nose buried in a book until now, and searches blindly over the heads of those gathered because the crash had only alerted him of something happening, and not who had done it.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Griss says, grinning, and then drags the crate the rest of the way to his place in the middle. Here, he kicks out his leg and steps halfway up onto the crate and puffs out his chest, doing his best impression of a mighty lizard lifting its head from a rock.

It'd been days since Gregory had last seen one. Everything out this way was either dead, dying, or Corrupted, but to be honest, he hadn't been looking too hard. No time for that when finding a safe place to hide was higher on his list of priorities. Unfortunately, in this decaying stretch of open plains, any kind of cover was just about all dead and rotten, or if it wasn't, then it was already occupied by things he didn't want to come near if he could help it.

At least the vultures were gone by now. This man lying flat on his back out in the open probably wouldn't have still been breathing by the time Gregory had half-stumbled over him had that not been the case.

Kneeling, he leans forward to get a better look until his knees are tight against his bare chest. It's really hard not to want to poke the guy in the cheek, maybe wiggle his head around until he wakes up, but he restrains himself, because the last thing he wants is for him get up ready to attack. He's taking enough of a chance as it is; just because this one hasn't gotten that ashy pallor of a Corrupted yet doesn't mean he's not a bad guy. Or a violent one.

So Gregory just sits and waits and tries to talk as loudly as he can, all the while casting nervous glances left to right in case doing so brings the monsters out from behind the rocks. But he's pretty sure they're okay out here. For now.

Suddenly, the man stirs, and maybe Gregory has his hands around his chin. Because he'd been shaking him. Just a little (the angry red sun was going down and he needed to move). He recoils onto his backside with a gasp and throws his hands up innocently.

"So you are alive! ... Right? Open your eyes if you are."

Killing crest beasts and other oversized monsters around Garreg Mach was just a run-of-the-mill job by now. There was never any shortage of them, and Griss liked to pick them up just for the bloodshed, and the thrill of narrowly escaping massive claws and fangs with his life intact, even if his body wasn't always. How in the world Fódlan managed to keep birthing these things wasn't a question Griss cared to ask, not as long as he could keep killing them.

His partner this time - it wasn't unusual for him to have one, but he (and his partner) usually preferred him to finish his jobs alone - was a healer. Or something. Maybe the church had finally gotten sick of him tracking so much blood in through the gates that they sent this chick along just to make sure most of his blood stayed in him this time. At least clean him up before he reached the monastery again. As if the head he'd be dragging behind him wouldn't be even more of a mess.

She did have those weird animal ears on her head though - some kind of accessory? He throws a glance over his shoulder at her and sees them swivel to the sounds of the forest almost like they're real.

"You're gonna distract this thing, got it?" he whispers, or tries. They'd gone over this plan when they'd set off: Ananke would draw the beast's attention and Griss would take it out from behind, quick and easy. "You gotta know a spell that can do the trick. Something bright."

The forest is dusky in the early winter twilight. A flash would blind it, he hopes, and not scare into fleeing. But by now the beast's antlers have stopped moving, and he wonders if it's already gotten wise to their position, but he can't see the direction of its head through the trees. Can't even really tell that it is a crest beast, except for the fact that the many, sprawling prongs of its antlers reach up nearly to the lowest limbs of the canopy overhead. Well, it was now or never.

He nods to Ananke. That means go left. He makes his way right, half-crouched but still swift through the underbrush in a semi-circle around to the beast's side.

in the spell's flickering light, griss's features appear more human. he is human, after all, and always has been, but watching him, it occurs to dorothea that there is more to the one she's written off as a frenzied man with bloodlust. she thinks to question where he's learned, and why he's learned, considering the sort of things he seemed to gravitate toward, though it's better saved for a time when the hourglass' sand isn't steadily pouring before their eyes.

"you're our best bet out of here," she tells griss. there's no trace of flattery in what she says; merely the truth. even from where dorothea stands, she swears the youngster's dark circles look a little lighter, and the abating cough gives her hope that the child's feeling stronger than before. "guess we really will have to swim. do you have enough energy to cast on the others?"

no sooner has she said this than a sharp jolt sends the platform teetering, wobbling unsteadily like an unmoored ship before it begins to vibrate. "--!!?"

A UNANIMOUS DECISION HAS BEEN REACHED, the disembodied voice bellows. whether it sounds pleased or disappointed, dorothea can't tell. but whatever it belongs to, it's clearly kept its word, for she watches on as an arched door materializes in the far left corner of the room, illuminated with enough light to make out strange carvings on its wooden paneling as well as a large brass knocker. WILL YOU LIVE TO REGRET YOUR JUDGEMENT?

The remaining two are weak, and one falls to his knees out of his chair in some desperate attempt not to be left behind. Tears beginning to spill over the corners of his eyes, he crawls over to the edge of the platform and looks as if he might tumble right in head-first when Griss snatches him back by the collar. The boy falls backwards and begins to cry.

"You better be thanking me," Griss snaps. The kid doesn't hear, and truthfully Griss isn't sure he's anyone's savior here. He'd cast that healing spell on the girl because he wanted answers, not because he intended to break the rules of this torture chamber and make her healthy, but now they were paying for it. Dory's certain they can make it out with all the kids. Griss looks back at the one girl that'd been left behind, still sitting in her chair with her head lolling back and forth, and seriously doubts they'll get out of this in one piece.

"Hold still." Standing around won't get him any closer to the door though, so he grabs the boy on the ground by the arm and jerks him up into one of the chairs that hadn't been overturned yet. He needs to think, and doing something is better than doing nothing, so he starts pulling magic into his fingertips again anyway even though he'd been serious from the beginning about killing these kids. The boy squirms in his grip, but Griss grabs him around the back of the neck like a cat to keep him from wiggling too much as the magic seeps in through his back. His attention is elsewhere though.

The gate. If Dory managed to get all four kids to it, what about him? Maybe he'd be stuck in this room as a sacrifice, and he had no intention of being left behind. His eyes flick toward the girl in the other chair. She hardly seems to be aware of what's going on around her. If he tipped her chair over, maybe she'd just drown and then they wouldn't have to worry about her anymore. But then there was this boy he was working on, who was still hiccuping and sniffling, his face bright pink with fever and emotion. Pinch his nose shut and cup a hand over his mouth and maybe--

Another pipe opens and pours more water into the room. It's risen so high now that the platform has started to float and wobble beneath them. What's more, the gate that had opened has now started to close again. Slowly, but nonetheless still pressure to get moving. Griss snarls so ferociously in the fading light of his spell that the boy cowers under him and starts crying again.

"Quit your blubbering, you snotnosed brat," Griss snaps again, which does the opposite of shutting the kid up. Griss doesn't care though. He rises to his feet and glances around the bobbing platform, then to the gate. It's about an eighth of the way down and Dory hasn't even reached it.

"Wh-what's-- wh-what's gonna h-h-happen to us?" the boy whimpers through his tears, but Griss shoves him back down into the chair when he tries to stand up.

He does not respond to the elder beyond an obedient nod, unaware of the cord now in his palm in exchange for Griss's freedom. He does not dare to speak until it's the elder's retreating figure he now gazes upon and the curious bystanders have ceased their buzzing.

Griss speaks and its as if the cotton has lifted from Tsubaki's ears. His senses spring forth again with new life—-

And, unfortunately, Griss is still just as aggravatingly perverse as before.

"Of course, my good friend~!" Tsubaki chirps with an emphasis on friend— just to make it clear that someone as impeccably perfect as him could never, ever, ever let vexation foolishly consume him! Yet, even though he clears up the air by associating Griss as a fond companion— Why are people raising their eyebrows and giggling childishly at the term!?

"Now, where were we~?" The knight hums in theatrics. He retires the chord; there's no point in reasoning with a madman. Swallowing his frustrations, Tsubaki beams bright: "Oh— Right! We were at the part where you said you were giving it to me— And by it, you meant your complete devotion to the art of mochitsuki! And my cord."

Tsubaki waves down a student carrying a seiro with fresh, steaming mochigome; they promptly put it into the usu between the two knights. Tsubaki's fingers tighten around the kine again.

"That is the mochigome," he says once the mound of rice is placed in the basin, "You wet your hands with the bowl of water to the right, then knead it." A pause.

"And don't be weird about it," Tsubaki frowns, "I will play the role of tsuki-te, the one who pounds the rice with the kine. You are the kaeshi-te, the one who turns the mochigome between each pounding with your hand. I will shout as a signal for when I pound, okay~? That's when you move your hand away quickly or else you will get hurt and ruin our mochi~ And we don't want our mochi ruined~" As for Griss being hurt however, debatable. Not that Tsubaki is one for violence or a fiend who seeks it! It's just—- Well, sometimes, people deserve what they get.

Whatever.

Griss steps up to the mortar only half-listening to Tsubaki's instructions until a single word piques his attention.

"I'll get hurt, huh?" He doesn't look up, so right now Tsubaki can't see the devilish look that's taken hold of his face. Which is for the best, really. For Griss, that is.

He lets Tsubaki work the rice to get a feel for his rhythm, and before long it’s starting to look a little more like lumpy dough. Now’s his time to shine, so he reaches in with both hands and—

The gathered students gasp out of instinct. Griss laughs out of a similar instinct. The mallet had hit him right across the knuckles.

“Can you be quiet?” He hisses back, mindful that his own voice rattles his skull dangerously. It doesn’t help that the ill-fitted armor digs into his skin in the wrong places. Weighs down his steps such that it takes effort to catch up. “We’re still- this armor doesn’t make us invisible.” 

If anything, it makes them more visible. Weighier steps that leave a trail in their wake and the shift of metal that Seadall has always found to be pleasing when it was attached to the footfalls of others. “The key may not be significant at all.” He muses when they’re a good distance away, circling the property like blind vultures. “The wealthy often don’t part with things of value, you’re right about that.” The key could just as easily be for a broom closet over a treasury. And with the way the day is going? 

There are several locked doors. The key fits in none of them. 

“Hmm. I think-” Seadall doesn’t know what he thinks, has little to offer the situation or the man at his side. So he’s grateful when the deafening creak of some internal mechanism finally gives way in a door crafted from what looks to be solid iron. “Oh.” Oh. He peeks at Griss from the corner of his vision, startled that the door in question doesn’t open to the villa beyond. No. Instead, it digs downward on stairs that look like they’d been forged in a different age entirely before the darkness beyond swallows even that much.

Alarm is a shiver of lightning that creeps up his spine. “These don’t appear to be servant’s stairs. How did the guards plan to fit here either?” The passageway isn’t a normal width at all, where someone with broad shoulders might need to turn sideways to keep their armor on.

Trepidation trembles in Seadall's voice just loud enough for Griss to notice and his foot stops right over the first step. He's like a wolf scenting blood, and turns a sneer on his companion that suggests all manner of mischief. That he might push Seadall in first and lock the door behind him, or that he'll trail just a step or two behind so that it's Seadall who springs whatever traps must be set in this place. Or, if there are no traps, then he'll play the part of a persistent spider tickling the back of his collar, disappearing into thin air whenever Seadall slaps his hand over his neck just to come back again when the coast is clear.

But a flame appears over the palm of his hand and the look changes suddenly, like it might have just been a trick of the light.

"Yeah? What-- you scared of the dark or something?" Rolling his eyes, Griss lets his foot drop down to the first warped step, then the next, and down he descends into the claustrophobic darkness that awaits them. Even for Griss, who isn't very big, his shoulders with their ill-fitting pauldrons graze the stone walls on either side of the narrow corridor, and he finds himself stooping a little beneath the low, earthy ceiling.

"My guess is that this leads to the wine cellars. Or the sewers." His voice bounces off the walls and comes back to his ears sounding strange - too close and too alone over the sound of their shuffling armor. There are no sconces mounted on the walls though, no candles along the floor, and no other sign of life even as they reach the bottom of the stairs and peer into a straight line of darkness. The cold winter sun from the open door at their backs has already been swallowed up by most of it, so it's only by the light of Griss' fire that they can see even two feet ahead of them.

They make steady progress until the corridor finally opens up to a larger, square room filled with barrels of a uniform size. Griss scoffs and parts from Seadall to make his way over to a stack of them.

"See? What'd I tell you." He goes from one to the next, rapping his knuckles on their faces to try to tell how much each one contains.

In the silence, neither of them move. Yunaka looks from him back to the dog. She doesn't regret killing that thing. It was better off dead instead of what it was now. But does she regret doing it before it finished chewing Griss's face off?

It's easier not to think about that, and he makes it easier not to think about it when he breaks the silence with complaints instead of thanks. Not that she wanted them anyway. Yunaka rolls her eyes and sighs, walking over to the corpse to yank the knife back out of it's back. An attempt is made at wiping off what she can of the blood on the dog's side, but ultimately it's still stained when she slides it back into its holster.

"You can go try to find one of the other ones if you're not satisfied." It's bait. She knows it's bait, and so she might twitch a little at the mention of a lucky strike - as if her master hadn't made sure to force the idea of leaving things to luck out of her - she doesn't look back at him, instead turning her attention to dog kennel.

She rests a hand on the door frame and leans inside. It's dark, but it doesn't stink nearly as bad as the dog does. For horrible monstrosities, the wacko running this place seems to at least keep their kennel clean. Which means somebody has to be coming in here to take care of things.

She steps back from the doors and moves over to the side of the kennel. More of the hedge fence…wait. There's a bit of the wall near the kennel that looks different from the rest…rather than one continuous thing like they've seen so far, it looks like there's a transition there from one bush to another.

So while Yunaka is checking out the kennel now that they don't have a giant, disfigured dog to deal with, Griss is ripping strips of cloth from his robes, which, frankly, already look to have been used like this a few times. A sizable part of the grey layer peels away to the plain black cloth underneath, and he works with a loose, unexpected proficiency to stop the blood from continuing to spill from the mangy mutt's parting gift. Especially considering how he has to do it one-handed. With his focus mostly on keeping the rest of his blood in him, he doesn't notice that Yunaka has already turned her attention away from the kennel until she calls for him. By now, he's got a cloth tourniquet tied around his upper arm and most of the blood mopped up, and he ambles over to Yunaka to see what she's found so leisurely and nonchalant that one almost wouldn't notice the fact that his arm still hangs at a strange angle by his side.

"You hit your head or something on the way off that barn?" Griss quips. "The walls grow back! Remember?"

But that's when he notices what she had, and maybe he can blame the blood loss for missing it at first.

Suddenly, Griss grins and his eyes narrow with pleasure. He cups his good hand around his ear and leans down toward her.

"... Heh, I think you're missin' something."

Even someone like you cannot escape my effects; I am an ineffaceable evil with which you have foolishly enacted a bond. Behold that natural result.

What should it matter, who it was? To court closeness with brambles was to be pricked, to subject oneself to an indiscriminate force without recognition for friend or foe. No amount of hope would temper Rafal's edges, do away with the clods of his vicious nature - a nature that had trampled the very world beneath his heel. There was no exemption to his destruction, not even for Griss. If there were anyone to blame, in fact, it would be him. Griss who chose this lord; Griss who stamped the seal on his own suffering, by his own hand, and by his ready choice. By their fateful first meeting.

"And what need have I for anyone else much less a monkey?" Rafal sneered, beautiful as all children of the Fell Dragon were beautiful, wan and striking and unnatural, white upon white. Harlequin only by dint of two searing, mocking blazes of scarlet. "I spoke of you as convenient. You were. Upon stepping foot into this land, I hardly needed to search for a knight to fall into my lap."

He squared his shoulders, pressed himself into the cast of a figure unstoppable and untouchable, a curling shadow against the garden walls. Within their isolated corner of the yard, Griss alone would know it had shook at the behest of a laugh. The movement shifted his shoe; a flower, crushed beneath it in the same breath.

"—Imagine my surprise when the analogue of Gregory brought himself before me! When he offered to serve? How sickeningly convenient, I thought. How utterly amusing. In arriving here, I thought there would be punishment to meet my sins." Beautiful as all children of the Fell Dragon were beautiful; terrible and ugly as the lot of them, too. Uglier. Those same contemptuous eyes regarded Griss, the whole of him, the scars of him, the places where Rafal had touched.

Those places, especially.

All of a sudden, he snapped to the side and wandered a step or two from the table, forcing those contemptuous eyes to meet the careless shrug of his shoulders.

"Oh yeah? Fódlan's paradise for all the sinners tossed outta their own worlds, if you haven't noticed." You're not special, said the tone of his voice, but now he wouldn't even honor the fell dragon with with his attention. The mantle across his back with its symbols of his devotion to a long-dead god lifted slightly as he set his hands on his hips and gazed out at the dining hall towering over the courtyard's edges as if admiring the architecture.

With an irreverent toss of his chin, the barest glance back over his shoulder was all he the effort he made to entertain Lord Rafal's presence. He'd hurt him in all the ways he knew how; if not with tooth and nail, then with the same embittering neglect.

"We both got convenient placeholders. A disciple without a god, and a god without a disciple? Heh. Couldn't've dreamed up a better match. But the problem with you is that you think hurting people's something you gotta atone for, and that's not the kinda fell dragon I cut myself all up for."

For once he was matter-of-fact. Provocative, but levelheaded, maybe even resigned. An artificial smile made each word sound as though he formed it with lips he'd pulled back with his fingers as far as they would go.

"The snow's slowing the fire down, so don't get your scales all ruffled." And Lady Nel had taken out one of the bears, too. Griss eyes the heap of bloody fur lying in the snow nearby. A second too late and that might have been him, actually - a thought that twists his mouth into a morbid smile. Then he blinks, shakes his head a little, and frowns up at Lady Nel. She's already turned her attention back to the fire. Before long, the smoke from the trees would be carried on the wind toward the village nestled in the hills, and they'd probably start evacuating on their own. Griss doesn't understand what's made her so huffy about it all, but he shrugs and follows her with a slight limp. That goose had got him good, and the way he'd fallen would make him sore for days, but he wasn't about to let savoring it now go to waste.

"Now what d'you think they're gonna say when a dragon shows up on their doorstep? The fire won't even matter anymore!" He glances over his shoulder at the bear again. Its friend has already disappeared through the trees, likely to escape the smoldering forest, and the injured turkeese is still flapping its broken wings like it can take off again. Griss flicks his wrist and sends it flying into a rock face with a sharp crack. It stumbles around for a second or two longer, then slumps into the bushes. Probably dead now.

"And all this meat's gonna go to waste, too. If you wanna know what I think: forget the village! We gotta gather what we came out here for, and if the fire really bothers ya, then you 'n me can probably send it in the other direction with some strong wind."

"Come. We gather the birds, and I can surveil the village from above. There is no need to startle the little ones on foot." Well. On claw. "Should you make any further irresponsible decisions, you may very well find yourself returning to the Monastery on foot. Understood?"

(Much, much later, once Nel is expected to explain the absolute mess they'd made of things... she never once mentions Griss's name, instead citing the cause as a split-second decision to preserve their safety. The defense comes out before she can stop it, the wrong face flashing in her mind-- but perhaps next time, she'll know better than to shoulder the burdens of a man who doesn't care in the slightest. Of a man who's done nothing but cause her problems... and a man who still manages to catch her attention despite it all.) -- End!

…why's she thinking about him going back like it's a given?

She rolls back onto her knees, leaning carefully over the side to check on the situation. Should she have expected that idiot to end upon his back with the dog snapping at him? Probably. She still sighs with disappointment anyway as she reaches for her knives.

Midway through the gesture though, she pauses. It's not a question of if Griss can keep that dog from his throat, but just for how long. If she left things alone, the dog would probably kill him. It wouldn't be her fault if he just so happened to die and even then, would anyone really blame her for that? She could just let it happen.

The dog's bark echoes off their surroundings. Yunaka grabs her knife. Rather than risk her throw not being hard enough, she aims before jumping off the roof and onto the dog and Griss both. Her knife sinks into the back of the dog's skull, right where she can see the bones of its spine threatening to break through the skin. More than anything, it's a mercy blow for whoever this person used to be.

She braces herself, but the dog doesn't suddenly spin or lash out. It just stays as dead weight under her weight on top of Griss. Yunaka huffs softly and tightens her grip on the handle before yanking her knife back out. "Not very durable, if these things are meant to be weapons…"

"Any day now-- ngh!" The entirety of the dog's weight comes bearing down on his chest, forcing the rest of the air in his lungs right out of him. Something cracks. He's lost track of where his arm is under this thing, but that's really the last of his worries now. He can't draw a breath, can't move, can't even twist his head away from the rancid, slobbering muzzle pinning down his shoulder right beside his face. Then he sees Yunaka again, and the weight lifts just slightly. He realizes then that the dog has stopped moving entirely. Its massive paws sprawl lifelessly out on either side of him.

Groaning, Griss manages to turn a little toward his other side and use the motion to roll the corpse off of him enough to free his arms. Another few seconds and he's dragged himself laboriously back to his feet, streaked in blood, thin dark hair, dirt, and who-knows-what else. The arm he'd been using to defend himself is the worst off - hanging limp, still bleeding from the gashes making two jagged lines from elbow to wrist. Dressed in ragged robes to begin with, this really doesn't look anything out of the ordinary for him, and anyone who knew the Hound even as an adversary could probably guess that he'd break his own arm for fun if he got bored enough.

The exertion from the struggle is clear under his eyes though, and for a moment he doesn't say anything. Just looks at the place where the knife sticks out of its back. One single stab was all it took. He supposes Yunaka had picked up a few useful things as a thief, efficiency being one.

One could almost anticipate a somber thank-you on its way to end this silence that's lasted a beat too long, but all that comes is an exaggerated tch.

yelping for the second time in just as many seconds, he hurriedly backpedals, eyes wide as his life flashes before his eyes, ending, what it'd seem like, at the business end of a huge chicken's beak that was as big as his forearm. it snaps inches from his chest several times as the bird postures and threatens, serrated edges catching fabric ; he loses his balance, landing on his butt and still trying to scurry back like a crab, one arm extended to try and calm the animal down. "h-hey there, easy! easy——"

and if that wasn't enough, a different screech rends the sky, pulling his eyes up. a big shadow, pink and pastel-colored. carmilla?? ' when did she break free? ' coincides almost the same instant with ' did i even tie her up? ' he has no idea how she'd thought to come here, but can't help but be grateful for it.

but if he thought carmilla's much bigger shape would drive off the chicken-lizard as she comes to a dust-kicking landing, it turns out he's got a lot of rethinking to do. instead, she shrieks again in what sounds like a challenge, nearly ripping out his eardrums so close, and rosado has to curl himself in as small as possible and roll as the two mounts get into a snapping match right on top of him, which wouldn't be that bad except that they're both way bigger than he is and several thousand pounds each⠀(⠀carmilla anyway ; he thinks he remembers that birds are lighter, but who knows about this one⠀),⠀and a single misstep would crush him without even noticing like twigs underfoot.

heart hammering fast, hardly able to believe he's not hurt, rosado scrambles to his feet and hurries to put as much distance as he can——before remembering that carmilla's his wyvern and she could get hurt and half-starting to lunge forward to try grab her reins instead without getting caught in the crossfire. "carmilla! stop!"

and what about the bride-to-be? it's impossible to see anyone on the other side through the two huge shapes and the cloud of shedding feathers, but she's got to be trying to do the same thing, right?

"get 'em, lyra!!"

Wyvern and chicken-lizard scramble over one another in a flurry of feathers and wings, Lyra screeching and snapping at Carmilla's leg to free her tail from beneath her claws, and Elsa shrieking nearly as loudly for Lyra to "rip that ugly lizard to pieces!" And Rosado's stuck in the middle of it like a kid his size had the strength to pull apart two fighting monsters, let alone a pair of dogs at each other's throats. Frankly, it doesn't look like Griss' problem anymore, but unfortunately he'd like to get paid for this whole mess. What a headache.

The whole stand of trees is going to be flattened by the time this fight is through, and Griss has to climb over fallen logs and splintered branches just to get closer to Elsa. She's got one of her high heels in hand and waves it like a pennant at a tournament; the fight's suddenly a lot more exciting to her. Forget the game of chase she'd been playing with her husband-to-be.

And forget her husband-to-be, too, apparently. At first, Griss can't find him, and then he sees him only because of the way he falls. He hits the ground some feet behind Elsa like he's lost all consciousness, and his wife doesn't even notice.

"Tear 'em up, Lyra!!" she's shouting, and Lyra swings her neck around to peck at Carmilla's softer underside.

"Just great..." Griss mutters, picking up the pace. The guy must have lost too much blood from that cut when he'd stepped in front of excalibur. He whistles with his fingers. Elsa doesn't hear him, so he does it again, and this time it distracts Lyra enough for Carmilla to knock her over onto her back.

"Yo! Your man's not lookin' so hot," he shouts once he's near enough to Callen's unconscious body to see the blood. There's a lot of it, and his sleeve's nearly soaked through.

“Wake up! Wake up! Emergency!” she shouts in her hurry, ringing a large bell to ensure her efforts will be heard. She makes two laps of the manor and then herds everyone present into the parlor, and only then does she put down the cacophonous bell she’d employed in her efforts.

She allows a tense silence to settle over the people in the parlor, guests and staff alike. One person is missing, but the silence grows before his absence is truly felt.

The head maid is a gaunt woman, bony yet sturdy, with graying brown hair pulled into a tight bun and her thin lips pulled into a tighter line. Even without the knowledge of familiarity, it’s clear that she is a severe, no-nonsense woman.

“Our Viscount Burgundy,” she begins seriously, once she’s determined that the group has basked in the awkward silence for long enough, “has seen his fears come true.”

Some of the staff gasp, others don’t seem to understand the implication. A din of chatter begins brewing, before the head maid’s hand reaches for the bell again, and it silences before she reaches it.

“Dead,” she continues. “And you lot -”

Her eyes, sharp as knives, move from each of those paid as weekend bodyguards to another, harshly judging their perceived incompetence. “Didn’t do your jobs.

“To make things worse, the carriage will be here in four bells, and you’ll all get off scott-free. The Viscount’s niece has already sent word she’ll be arriving before you depart, and she’ll be anxious to get the family affairs sorted. You couldn’t have made a worse mess of it!”

Her hand moves to pinch at the bridge of her nose, but she doesn’t allow the gathering a break from her icy glare. “And don’t expect you’ll be paid for this transgression, any of you!”

She assures the group of those from Garreg Mach that they’ll receive no compensation and some strongly worded letters to whoever they answer to about the situation. Four hours, and the carriage comes to seal their fate thus, with the church making the final decision on how they might be punished for the murder of Viscount Burgundy.

Griss grins through the announcement-turned-lecture like he can't believe his luck, and when they're begrudgingly dismissed to await their ride home, he sidles up to Zephia off to the side of the gathering in the foyer. His smile hasn't changed in the slightest, and there's mischief in his eyes when he addresses her loud enough for everyone else to hear:

"The killer's not even gonna come out 'n claim his work." He shakes his head to convey the disappointment his face won't. "If it'd been us, they'd all know by now. Only shame in this whole mess is that I didn't get to the guy first."

As if they're the only people in the whole room, Griss keeps talking just to Zephia, but his voice projects to the rest of the guests. Maybe he simply doesn't have volume control. Maybe it's a story tailored for their captive audience.

"Besides, we've been together pretty much since we got here, and there's no way I'm gonna let you have all the fun without me. Like last night--"

They'd been rifling through the cabinets in the kitchen an hour after dinner in search of something to drink. Something stronger, that is, than the mild table wine they'd been served every night these past two nights. Griss was certain that rich folks like these had to have some good stuff on hand that they just weren't willing to serve to a bunch of hired bodyguards, and he was determined to find it. They did indeed. Two whole bottles emptied between dinner and midnight, as they went next to the empty dining room to lounge in the plush velvet chairs around the long table the servants had cleared some hours earlier.

The Hound (former?) looks like a disaster. “Hmm…” No, it’s worse. Blood streaked across his face, on his hands - at first glance Seadall can’t tell if all of it is his or someone else’. “Putting on their armor will be pointless if you look like you do.” The embroidered scrap of fabric he tosses in Griss’ direction isn’t meant to soak up blood…but it would do the trick.

He’ll miss it later. For now, he draws a deep breath for balance.

(Asks the Spirits for clarity. The air hums back to him, disinterested.) 

With a huff, Seadall falls to a knee near the other guard, hands searching for buckles and clasps. The guard’s uniforms wouldn’t be the best fit, but armor had the benefit of bulkiness… “Don’t kill them. We can drag them into the guardhouse, and if they wake and raise an alarm we can slip away. Even if we are both capable of killing, we aren’t at war. We’re supposed to be…” Not stripping and hiding bodies as evidence, Seadall’s tone dips lower, “Laying low.” 

That ship had sailed away. Seadall couldn’t even say for sure if it had ever anchored. “We won’t be cooks, that’s certain.” The greaves weren’t as heavy as standard, but still felt wrong layered over his own breezy clothing. Not at all padded enough to save him from metal digging in. “Your keys…maybe they’ll lead us somewhere else that will give us what we need.” He shrugs, the pauldron halving the motion. “With luck, no one will question a pair of guards. We can play from this angle. Help me drag these men into the guard tower.” 

"What's that supposed to mean?" he pretends to be offended, pout and all, but it turns out he knows exactly what Seadall wants him to do. Absentmindedly, he wipes the cloth across his face as he watches his partner-in-crime join him in undressing their unwitting victims. The blood's mostly gone by the time he throws it over his shoulder, but his grin still reeks of danger.

"Those stuffy knights from the monastery wanted us to blend in. Heh, we're just following orders."

Chuckling to himself, he goes to check on the other guard, and within moments both unconscious victims have been stripped down to tunics and trousers and dragged into the guardhouse.

It's a small room. Not much in it but some wooden chairs, a table, an unfinished card game disrupted by Griss and Seadall knocking things around when they'd hauled the two men inside, and some stale bread. A weapons stand holds a few polearms and swords against one wall, but the room is otherwise devoid of anything Griss finds interesting. He swings the key idly around one finger as he admires their handiwork: both guards slumped down in their chairs look like they've fallen asleep in the middle of a card game, except they're both a little bit bloody and bruised.

"Doesn't look like they got any locked boxes in here. This thing's probably for a back entrance somewhere," he muses, and then smirks. "Rich people hate it when the servants use the front door."

But now they have options: pull the lever to open the front gates and stroll right down the middle of town, or spend some extra time hunting down that back entrance that may or may not exist. Griss knows his answer, and without waiting for, or even asking what Seadall thinks, he turns on his heel and heads back outside in his borrowed armor to hunt for whatever this key belongs to.

He is still too far, remaining beyond her reach just as he had back in Gradlon—well within her line of sight, but not close enough to hold. Not close enough to grab and twist and mangle; not close enough to treasure and keep and swallow. Each rattling breath he exhales should push against her heart and remind it to beat. Her teeth should haunt his every pulse. She should devour him and he should love her all the more for it. He should bare his throat to the cage of her hands and she should leave him vibrantly purple and indelibly hers.

So, where is he going? Did she not command him to come to her? Did his years with that Rafal dull his obedience, cracking his fangs and soothing his wounds?

Zephia exhales slowly as she brings a hand to her head, pressing down against it to rein in her thoughts. It doesn't feel like her breath leaves her, even as she sees the rise and fall of her chest, but that is second—third, fourth—to how the words jumble haphazardly in her head, birthed from her yearning and disfigured by the hunger of her instincts. She might have felt like this a long, long time ago, when she was foolish and young and smothered by the fears of her tribe, but—

She doesn't remember. It doesn't matter.

"What," she says, but the word feels thick and ugly in her throat, like she's swallowed honey that has turned into tar the moment it touched her tongue. "...are you talking about?"

She shouldn't be the one approaching Griss. (But that's false; she'd been the one to approach him, all those years ago.) She should gouge his eyes for daring to look away. (And keep them, bury them, cast spell after spell until she finds one to make them last.) She should leave him for such impertinence. (Except she doesn't want to.)

"Griss." So she calls, but his gaze remains elsewhere—at the woods that surround them, at a great nothingness blanketed by the ever-stagnant fog. She doesn't like that. And she—can't tell what he's feeling, either. Is he happy? Angry? What is he looking at? Who? (The Divine Dragon? Rafal?)

The air is still sweet. She feels sick. When Zephia emerges from the springs, she feels the weight of a thousand years pulling her down, dripping to the too-perfect, too-soft soil and gathering at her feet. She reaches for him—hair; neck; heart; hand—and finds his shoulder. It's broad, and warm, and scarred, marked in ways she hadn't allowed.

"What is wrong with you?"

Griss blinks. The space between the trees is empty, except for the thick fog that's rolled when they hadn't been paying attention.

"What is wrong with you?"

Zephia's voice comes to him like recalling a dream. Griss hears the words, but he can't quite make sense of them at first. He stares between the trees for an eternity folded into the span of a second.

... Wrong? ... You?

"There's--" he starts, and tries to finish it with 'someone there,' but it sounds silly when he doesn't see anyone. And Zephia doesn't see anyone either, or else she wouldn't be asking him what's wrong.

"-- something wrong with the air," he slurs instead. Then he shuts his eyes and suddenly slams the knuckles of one hand into the rocks surrounding the pool. Laughter bubbles from his throat as blood trickles from the fresh scrapes across the back of his trembling hand. The pain is real, and he focuses on it to pull his mind back into his body.

"Heh. Seems like someone might be peeking on us." He jumps back up to his feet, although it's not as graceful or fast as it could have been, and he nearly falls back into the water. Yet he doesn't look at Zephia again, believing instead that she doesn't need his attention to shake the spell off.

For a long while, the air remains stagnant and the forest, draped in a sudden, early twilight, watches on silently. Fog thicker and denser than all the rest rolls over the rocks on the other side of the hot spring, almost unnoticeable until-- Splash!

"—Ridiculous," he muttered, stiff as a board. On the cusp of atavistic instinct, a small inch of foot slid him backwards, guided not by the fear of unknown but of being known. And through that singular motion, he considered others.

Old pathways cycled through active mind. Ridiculous, he could say of Griss, so very and irrationally, tie a neat ribbon on their farce with his usual dismissal and derision. He could do here as he always did and exercise finality as his power - press his heels into an escape that would never again see him before the same conversation. Entered and left on his terms; Rafal to speak the last word, Rafal to seize a comfortable out. With the Hound's likeness to Gregory, the Fell Heir could be like, too; treat Griss as he'd ever, and never hesitated, to treat his sniveling mirror. It would be easy. It would be safe.

Except there were no decisions of the sort. Rafal went nowhere, stayed right here, and with a change in temperature, already his voice shifted to reflect what he'd become.

"Ridiculous," repeated, spit, colder, crueler, "do you think yourself so deserving of my utmost attention, Griss? That I want so very desperately to own you as you believe? Heh. . .what misguided heresy."

A mocking, bruising, dissembling laugh sailed through the air. Whether Griss, whether Gregory, history repeated itself on the resurgence of a mask, the icy declarations and believable bravado only one certain kind could produce, neither Nil nor Rafal but someone in-between. That new, old, creature stood above Griss and looked down upon him. 'Guided not by the fear of unknown but of being known', was it?

"You who are both wrong and right, allow me to make clear. It is not only unequivocal ownership I seek. Absolute loyalty. Endless entertainment. Such is the basis of what I desire! The labors of those who toil to amuse me, undivided in body and spirit."

Griss knew, of course, that he was playing with fire. He did it for the thrill of being burned, and when Lord Rafal had leaned back just a step, he'd thought he might be reeling back for a second, harder slap across the face for his impudence. Punish him for these words and the muddled feelings behind them, for dividing his indivisible loyalty between past and present, for the seed of resentment and the fruit of something sweeter. There was no greater love than that.

What hit him instead cut straight through the decades of toughened scars and hemorrhaged in the deep, dark parts kept well out of sight.

"A convenient amusement," Griss echoed absently. Convenience was nothing special. Nothing that mattered. Easy to replace and forget. Was he not the bent and rusty old part filling in Gregory's place until he could resume his knightly duties himself? Good enough for a fix, but only because there was nothing better.

It took only a second before he recovered himself and sneered again, every one of his teeth like the fangs of something more beast than man. "Then what's all this nonsense about loyalty? Sounds to me like any sad sap within arm's reach is good enough for His Majesty Lord Rafal."

After another moment without whip or claws to bow his head, Griss started to stand again.

Or, at least, that seemed to be the case until they lost him once more at the worst tailor’s she had ever seen. She was going to suggest potentially loitering around; not like she wants to spend more time with Griss, but anything that could potentially lead to them being done in this craphole of a community faster would be a blessing.

And then all the blinds close at once in quite possibly the most suspicious act she has seen here yet.

“I do not know how well acquainted you are with tailors, but that is certainly nothow they usually operate.” She shakes her head, before lowering her voice. “As much as I would love to simply eavesdrop, all these prying eyes are a bit much. Let us see if we can approach this from a different area” She says, entering an alley at the side of the tailor’s without waiting for Griss. She’s doing this regardless, if he wants to join, he’s certainly, if reluctantly, welcome to do so.

The back of the tailor’s is walled off with quite a high brick wall. Whatever’s behind there, they probably don’t want the public to know. Thankfully, it also seems to have no prying eyes. Works for Panette, and makes the place even more suspicious. Looking for a good angle to approach the wall, she finds a loose brick that’s perfect to use as a foothold. Turning towards Griss once more, she gives him a smirk.

Griss grins wide and follows Panette down the alleyway. That should have been answer enough, but he gives voice to it anyway:

"What kinda question is that? Beats doing whatever domestic crap we were signed up for in the first place."

The knights who had deployed them would disagree, of course. They'd been sent in here for reconnaissance and to track down the stories of some kind of relic, but with such a highly guarded community, sneaking in was the only way to do it. They didn't have very many chances before the security of the place got wise and realized that the recent slew of hired help wasn't actually doing the jobs they were brought in for. And here Panette and Griss are squandering one of just a handful of chances they had to get inside.

But who's to say this guy in the gold suit isn't a person of interest? Maybe he knows more about the secrets of this place than anyone else.

... which are both questions that Griss is not thinking about in the slightest as he ambles over to the brick wall. Rubbing the back of his head, he scans the top of it, then tries to stand on his toes to see over it into the alleyway, but he's not nearly tall enough.

"Why would a tailor need a wall like this anyway?" he muses. Another stone wall runs along the back of the shop, separating it from the buildings of the next street over. A wooden fence could have done just fine if they were trying to keep people off their property. But brick-- now that was an expensive job, and made sure no one could see through it to the other side.