It started out quite well.

After all, what sort of man doesn’t like praise of any kind being spun in his direction? The recognition that he was the very definition of a ‘protector’ that one could parse from stories of daring men like guards to their lessers, never faltering in the face of adversary-- and as a reward for such boldness came the kindness of understanding. Big and strong and safe and smart. But Rois often found that whenever things were said about him that were positive there was always a negative hastily tacked on, if such a statement about not caring about being touched could be seen as a negative, the butchers expression draws itself into a pointedly blunt one as he watches Lucero’s fingers slowly creeping towards him with unknown intent…

“... What.” … Test out what?? “We don’t have time for this.”

Why would he care if other people touched him, people touched each other all the time and it usually brought about sweet emotions within their depths, all desire aligned in one way or another… but he did not feel it as such. Being touched was just another form of communication to often emotionally befuddled he who regarded the scraping of another against his skin as something to-- at best-- be pondered, were they touching him out of want? Out of playfulness? Because he was warm, because he was ‘abnormal’, or because it was their language beyond language…? At the end of it all it did not really matter, like a desensitized cat Rois had become numb to wanting fingers and now resigned himself to simply staring at the contact with unspoken questions before moving on to more important matters--

Thoughts. Thoughts ignored.

Lucero is suddenly snatched up (her unspoken wants are expertly ignored) to toss her up upon the horses back, stealing (snatching) the reins so that the red-head could once again take the lead with a foot to stirrup and an easy leg pull over the beast… though this time, in front. She did seem safer in the back. Though the situation wasn’t entirely safe as a whole because for a few moments the horse sort of skitters and threatens to buck at the roughness of their ascent against its spine, and with round eyes Rois just sort of prays it settles down because he doesn’t have an inkling as to what to do if it does throw them,

“Tssh tshh-- calm down.” Uttered to the animals pinned ears, its sporadic hoof-lifts simmer just a touch, their momentum is forged by the express desire to run, and the knights steed is granted that fervent wish with a solid crack of leather against its broad neck-- and just like that, they are on their way. Quicker now the path is known in the horses eyes, though none the more shadowy than their original flight, Rois calls over the wind--

“I do hope you remember your whole feeling link thing…! If your friends turn on me, Rabbit, know that I’m stealing this horse and riding all the way back!”

… Rois hoped the thinking-about-being-attacked angle would snuff out the previously ignored thoughts but they return all of a sudden, unseen from the front is the narrowing of eyes and the gentle crinkling of a nose…

… The dried out sausage jerky…

……………………… Ever since he had touched it in the camp he’s been critically aware a taste of it lingered on his fingers, fingers that had touched a fair few things since, but if they were leant against his tongue would it still be tasted there as sharp iron… ah, Lucero wouldn’t care, one hand holds the reins and the other quickly darts to his mouth with a hopefully emotionally obscured lick of rough pads. Temptation was a dangerous thing. Soon enough he’d want more than just a taste.
 
Lifted onto the horse once more, Lucero tried her best not to pout at the rejection. Did he somehow know she was going to see if he'd like her pry his mouth open. She wanted to feel every tooth and compare it to her own, the sharp-toothed Croc compared to the flat-toothed healer. The moment Rois is on the horse, Lucero wrapped her arms around his waist, holding herself back from pressing her palms into him, especially with Rakan's horse being unhappy about having to carry Rois on his back again.

"They won't hurt you," She couldn't resist pressing her face into his solid back and nuzzling against it like a cat rubbing their cheek against a corner or like a child sneakily trying to wipe their nose on an adult. Luckily for her and Rois there was no snot to be smeared against his back, only her nose that tickled a little bit.

"I haven't felt scared or anything, just... other things. But that's not what we should be worrying about. Alaera doesn't want you to kill anyone." Solemn words spoken loud enough for Rois to hear despite Lucero's face pressed into his back. She lifted her head up, chin propped against his shoulder, stretching herself up and over him. "I'll make sure you do not need to kill anyone so when you go back home she doesn't worry. You like being honest, after all, so... it's best if you leave that part to me and the others."

She heard the lick, could sniff something thick and oily, pungently savory in a way that reminded her of boiled organs. One arm unwrapped from around Rois, hand going to his inferno belly and poked him right in the belly button. She had to see if Feliene had been right.

"What did you just do? Are you eating?"
 

Other things??

Rois is an intelligent man (who, for all his wisdom, suffers for this intellect in the way of emotional fragility). There is enough connective tissue in his bandage-wrapped noggin’ to put two and two together, the felid nuzzling of his spine; on its own, dismissable as a motion of innocent comfort. But when it’s placed beside the worrying advancement of her hand before saddling up and now the gentle lean of her chin upon the top of a broad shoulder the butcher rationalizes that his twins had pushed her in a certain direction with their little comment about touching. The healer is bolder now. Far braver than the shadow of a woman on the mountain, even more-so than the defiant one in the inn room, now the eagerness to physically engage…

… Seemed a little like flirting.

Her?! Him?! Chattering in soft tones about death while leant in all her upper fullness against his heated back, on the way to the camp it had been frightened clinging and now it was open grabbing, yes, it had been a mistake to let the twins talk to her. And it wasn’t because of any discomfort on his part, he truly did not care where she was poking or prodding or grabbing, but because some small part of the man wondered critically if this could lead into feelings getting hurt… Lucero is a sensitive woman. Rois in turn wanted no part to play when the inevitable rejection of love and its cohort of gentle emotions are batted away in favour for the opposite--

“... I wish I was eating.” The strong smelling scraps of compounded human flesh mingling with fat and oats did indeed reek, but… the smell was remarkably normal. It was just meat after all, regardless of the bones it had been sheared from. And whilst there is no conscious reaction from her large companion he is very aware that beneath the splayed fingers of her other hand at that heated center his stomach growls ominously like a dog aroused by taste, deep, shivering muscle, Rois gives a soft sigh,

“It is alright, though. If one of you lot die I can always eat them.” A toneless musing that gives no indication as to whether the butcher is joking or not-- “Otherwise, I’m going to be on my best behaviour, if only because the faster we’re through with whatever we’re doing the faster I get back.”

A light shrug causes her to bounce just a little,

“... And if anyone on the other side does die, well… I bet even you’re curious as to how people taste when--”

Stop talking about food. It’s going to get worse. A huff, a fidget, Rois sits up straight and attempts to regain composure despite the fact his head was now swimming in poignantly rabid thoughts all revolving around hunger,

“... What I mean to say is, if the enemies attack, I have no reason to attack in turn.”
 
Heat grew around her finger tip, the slow crawl of warmth turned into the sear of hot coal, her finger only protected by his fine woven thick shirt. She wanted more of the heat from earlier, did the bandages keep it at bay? Did he ever take them off, or did the bandages do little about his raised temperature?

"You're not eating one of my friends, Rois." Lucero's voice was firm. "Because they're not dying. I'm not letting that happen." She didn't want to think about a mission gone wrong, Rakan and Nemera embraced but one, or both, dead. She didn't want to think about Silas being stabbed or sliced, the sad news to be brought to Yinka who was slowly changing the man from gruff and glum to a softer version of himself.

No, she didn't want to think about Rois eating her friends, didn't want to see the dregs of the butcher's hunger rise to the surface while she lamented over not being enough to save people she cared about and he could only see flesh. She didn't want to think about his teeth ripping through skin the way it was easy for her to destroy a spider web with her hand, how easy it must be those very same teeth to shred through muscle and sinew like her mother's favorite knife in slicing meat neatly off of bone.

But those same thoughts didn't fill her with disgust when she thought of Rois devouring her. He had said one of them, after all so it had to include her, right? Lucero closed her eyes, quiet. She wasn't curious as to how people tasted, but she was curious about she tasted. The taste of her blood she knew, but would it taste different if she bit her finger compared to the blood that welled from her bottom lip? What about her arm, or her nec, her thigh? One of the largest veins were found in the thighs, and one of the most detrimental veins in the human body was found on the inside of the elbow.

Sharp-toothed even in the back of his mouth, every tooth that curved into a sharp point would tear through muscle fibers, didn't matter where it came from, but what about his front teeth? Lucero remembered his fangs, longer than she had expected, thicker than expected, too. His mouth entirely unlike hers, something that would be terrifying to feel because it would hurt. If Rois decided to make her a meal, how long would she last? When he had bitten her finger, that had been nothing, like a cat playing with it's human.

Could he have bitten it off? Yes, she knew he could have. Would her finger be treated like a small chicken wing, could the back of his mouth crush through bone or did he not need to worry about something that small and swallow it? Lucero wanted to memorize his mouth, to have both her hands explore and remember. She wanted to know each and every crevice of his teeth, see if she could find anything uneven or loose, prick her fingers against every tip and feel him swallow her blood, hear each and every gulp.

She pulled her fingertip away from Rois, going back to having both arms wrapped snug around his thick waist. White cloak whipped violently behind her, the wind still rushing through her ears, flinging her nearly black hair far beyond her.

Thoughts like that should have frightened her, but something had happened in that alley in Cornishcrest, before even they reunited in the inn room. Little thoughts and ideas were harmless, weren't they, even if they were forbidden things, like wanting to know if Rois thought she had tasted good enough to eat.

"Do you want to eat me?" Lucero asked softly, her voice dazed like the moment before waking up, mind still dredged in dreams. "Or would you only ever eat me if I were dead?"
 
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He is completely oblivious to the womans inward thoughts, though he does wonder why for a prolonged moment there she has fallen silent (in the time they have known each other the knight had not proven herself to be the ‘silent pondering’ type); maybe Lucero was wondering about how to hide their bodies should it happen. Steal them away so his teeth could never find their cooling flesh. Rois is not confident in their abilities nor expects to get out of this situation entirely without some kind of wound, alas, they had a healer, but who would be there to protect that healer if fighting occured…? Would it end up being him…?

… It was going to end up being him, wasn’t it.

The red-head allows her the kindness of her thoughts as they travel quietly upon the road already travelled, hoof-prints like moons dragged down from a waxing sky in the dirt, a clear path back, there is no solid handle on time but it had to be within the hour-- the speediness of the notes retrieval had made sure of that. The hard coursing of the sprinting animal made it even more so, the over-worked being begins to puff and snort as every attempt at slowing is met with the commanding (but harmless) cracking of reins against the furls of its mane, faster, keep up the pace, by the time the land becomes very familiar and trunks begin widening up again it is half-trotting, half galloping and all steaming sweat… Lucero’s sudden question snaps Rois in turn out of the concentration the man had been relying on to keep the animal running in a straight line and not veering off wherever it pleased. He does not need any time to think about such a familiar notion. Figures like multi-hued dots appearing on the horizon, even with the sharpest ears in all of Khurun their words would be swallowed up by metal shoes still hard-pressed against the ground-- but the party is none-the-less nearing. Time on their behalf shortens, its dwindling presence puts pressure upon what was to be her answer to his ask,

“That is a question I’ve heard before.”

… Many times. Maybe more than she could ever know. It brings about laughter sincere and true, the sound is just as foreign as it always is, a quiet rush of sadistic glee that causes the woman’s fingers to quiver with the force,

“... I think it is more interesting if you don’t know. Do you want me to eat you alive, Rabbit?” How quickly it is turned back upon the healer, shameless, no shyness about it, “Because you would not be the first.”
 
She wasn't the first? Rois's words brought her a comfort Lucero hadn't realized she needed. She had wanted to know it was okay, that the strange and macabre thoughts she had weren't unusual but instead normal. Did anyone else share her wonder for his teeth, did someone else like to think about him biting the inside of their thigh, right at the roundest part where there was probably more fat than meat? If others thought like her, was it because of how he smelled, or something else? His teeth? It had to be his teeth.

"I know it's wrong to think of it like this, it's wrong to even think of it at all. But the way I see it... if I died, I'd end up being useless. I am already a burden enough as it is, so to be useful, even in death... I wouldn't mind it, I think? I don't want to necessarily die yet, unless it's for a good cause. But about the eating part... if you were to taste me, like all the way... then... maybe I might... b-beg for... you to keep, um, you know...." Flushed and blushing, Lucero no longer rested her chin on Rois's shoulder, instead shoving her face into his back. Gods, she wanted to touch him beneath his shirt, to feel his bare stomach again. He hadn't let her explore him how she had wanted to, how she wanted to explore him now.

Both hands gripped tightly onto his shirt, small fists clenching at the fabric as if she were trying to strangle it. Damnit, she should have asked Feliene and Alaera if Rois was hot or not! His voice surely was, and he was large and tall, enough so that Lucero could be the small, dainty maiden the twins had thought her to be. That wasn't enough to label him as handsome. Would Nemera give her an honest answer?

"Lucy!" Lucero opened her eyes and peeked out from behind Rois's broad back, seeing Rakan and Nemera waiting for her. Walking out from the words she could see Silas who was doing something to his armor like strapping it all back into place. Did he go take a whizz? Lucero glanced towards Rois. There was no time to fumble further over her words.

"Yes, I do." Lucero said as steady and firm as the earth beneath them. His question only needed one word, yes or no, and the first time she had twisted every thought into an unfinished answer, trying her best to make sense of her confusing feelings. But what did she want? Thinking of Rois, wanting to touch him while feeling his teeth on her, wishing to experience the pain he could bring her, like back on that mountain....

When the noble steed is pulled to a stop, Nemera moved faster than Rakan and Silas to pull Lucero off from behind Rois. Moved from the warmth of Rois to Nemera's fierce bear hug despite being shorter than Lucero, the healer smiles, undoing their bond. As Nemera crushed Lucero's ribs, Silas and Rakan made their way towards Rois.

"Oh, Black Thunder, look at you," Rakan laments, not bothering to look at the butcher and instead patting his horse's neck. "You've earned yourself a treat."

"You got that letter?" Silas barked at Rois, eyes narrowed at him before noticing the parcel that the man had brought with him. "Nice purse. You keep your bleed cloths in there, too?"

"HEY!" Nemera shouted. "WHAT'S SO WRONG ABOUT HAVING A MONTHLY, HUH?!" Rakan gave Silas a look of disdain, always in agreement with his lover. If she were offended then so was Rakan, if she were happy, so was he. Silas already felt outnumbered. He raised his hands up in defeat.

"The letter in there or not?" Silas asked instead.
 

“... Oh?”

… Rois sounds surprised. His tone before had been that of false sexual tension just to toy with her emotions (as always) but cutting through it is this little, quiet admission stoked by the healers ramblings about eating. Strange, how people so different from each other can somehow come to the same damned conclusion at the end of it all, the span of someones life was only worth anything when they were actually alive; in death… nothingness. The notion that the flesh of predators did good for the forest was misguided, it was the beasts at night come to steal rotting scraps from bones that death actually aided, trees and flowers would wither under the stress of fly-laden festering meat, acid come to chew on their thin roots. And people were beasts, too.

Lucero is as much an animal as everyone else, but one that has the bravery to confront the universal truth of nature; to eat was to survive, and living things possessing mouths must eat. But something else, too. To be alive was to feel certain draws towards specific pleasures. The sins were not worldly concepts stemming from a single theorist’s ideas spread like sickness to every corner of the globe, they were indulgences found in the hearts of every man and woman, and it would be so till the end of time… and the erotism of cannibalism is understandable. A taboo. A desecration of another. To him it was a necessity, the need to eat, but Rois has mulled over the concept for many years: because for many of those years people emerged from all over, admitting to being openly and vigorously attracted to the idea of having someone to drag skin and sinew and tendon and fat from their writing bodies in consumption. The moment those souls found out what he was they gained the courage, as she had, to say what others would not dare…

“... Actually, we think the same way…” There is no time to elaborate on the philosophies of the mortal flesh, not now, the butcher drops his voice low for her and her alone… now understanding the way her eagerness her hands came against his skin, fringed with want, he understands, “... I wouldn’t sound so nervous. Your interests are somehow more normal than mine.”

A broad and teasing grin, head turns to spare the top of her head gleaming eyes, heated cheek brushes against her own, words fall upon her ears like a murmured prayer,

“But I really do urge you to consider the pain.”

And suddenly they are being addressed.

Rois twists himself away and instantly casts an entirely neutral gaze down upon the party rounding them with a short tug of the leather to drag the stallion to an uneasy stop. No part of him really cares if they heard the end of that sentence. Without context it doesn’t really mean anything, besides, they are thankfully far too fixated upon the contents of the paper he’d squirreled away in his pocket before their return journey. Without Lucero clinging haplessly to his back (a touch of sadness, the pressure had felt… relaxing? Was that the word for it?) the red-head dismounts effortlessly with a short huff. It takes a lot to swallow down the words rising up, Black Thunder is a stupid name, such jeers weren’t suitable for what would hopefully be a friendly entity during the unknown mission ahead. Thankfully Silas offers himself up to be mocked,

“This ‘purse’ costs more than your entire worth as a dying, old man.” A nonchalant response is smoothly given, floating haughtily above the talk of blood-rags, the folded paper is produced just as fluidly between black-tipped fingers-- and instead of being handed to the older, abrasive knight come to berate him it is instead held out to Nemera-- Lucero trusts her more than anything. That meant, to some extent, she could be trusted in turn by the large stranger who had come to occupy their space, a level gaze,

“Please remember what I said about needing it back afterwards.”
 
Her interests were normal? More normal than his? If there was more time, Lucero would have explained that she meant the biting in a more thrilling way, a more carnal desire rather than... than... oh, gods, how had he took it? His parting words gave her no clue, too vague and let able to fit instead every assumption that Lucero came up with. She was no stranger to pain, and in the back of her head she couldn't help but to think that whatever didn't kill her made her stronger.

"I was so worried for you, Lucy." Nemera released the younger knight from her vise like grip, almost pushing Lucero off of her, always forgetting about her own strength. "You went through the whirlwind of emotions. Emotions I don't understand." Lucero felt her face get red, seeing curiosity and suspicion go at war within Nemera, both wanting the same answers.

"What emotions? About Rois? They're not what you think. Just hypotheticals about... imaginary make-believe stuff." Lucero tried to seem unbothered, but for once, it was her heart laid bare for someone else to see and try to make sense of it. Luckily, Nemera had caught on to Silas' comment towards Rois and his purse.

Silas rolled his eyes before he tried to snatch the letter from Rois but he wasn't quick enough, muttering something about a purse still being a purse. Lucero looked towards Rois, the faint smile she wore ever present even if she gave him a look of concern. Nemera took the letter, being careful in how she touched it. When the older female knight opened up the letter she held it towards Lucero.

"You think you can handle this, too, Lucy? You've been weaving all day."

"I'm fine!" Lucero's voice was a pitch too high, unnaturally excited and overjoyed. When Lucero took the letter from Nemera she couldn't see the look of concern on her face, only the dull neurotic red purple. Lucero gave everyone one of her best biggest, brightest smiles, all teeth, cheeks stretched tight. "This isn't as hard for me as it was before. I've improved some, you know." Lucero added, before looking towards Rois once again, only a half second pause before looking away. Her faded eyes turned to the letter in her hand, Nemera reading it over her shoulder.

The red runes forever tattooed on the pads of her fingers and thumbs glowed faintly, so translucent that if it had been day instead of night it would have gone unnoticed. Nemera shook her head, having finished reading the letter, glancing towards Rois once then twice. She stepped away from Lucero, letting her work in peace.

Lucidity came slowly, vision blurring, refocusing and recentering, crystal clear then pushing through the jumbled and snapped threads. The change in her face was disgusting, the stories of weaving being beautiful and romantic made it all more horrific. Irises were no longer like polished moonstone, the shimmering of stars turned into dull, unpolished silver. A red glaze began to fill the corners of her eyes, a frosted sanguine spill that crawled slowly towards the growing black of Lucero's pupils. There was no perfect roundness to them, looking more like an uneven mouth to a long forgotten cave, more jagged than smooth.

Brown skin waned to pale and gray, veins blue and green and purple, twisting up from her neck, paper-thin skin pulled taut around her forehead. The mapping of her veins became evident, as if Lucero's skin would diminish completely. To her, it felt like the back of her skull was opening up, skin unfurling to let the gap of her consciousness eke out from the confines of her body.

It hurt, doing this always would hurt, the acute awareness of blood in her veins, the beating of her heart trying to tether her to reality. The letter was days olds, traces of the writer already ebbing away like rain water pushing loose dirt off from shingles. The taste of blood filled her mouth, warm and coppery, lingering on the tip of her tongue. Lucero took a step forward, finding that the direction felt wrong. She tried a different thread, it called to her like the wind called to clouds before a storm, she turned, took a step.

A slow, long and hard swallow. Eyes blinked rapidly as she sunk deeper into the shroud, pushing through a veil of ice, a veil of fire, sensations clinging to her like stubborn ghosts. The edges of her vision grew dark, ink staining and smearing little thread until only one remained, a single white thread as sheer as gauze. With one finger, Lucero pricked it and everything went black.

Nemera was quick to steady Lucero as she began to fall, she was also quick to snatch the letter from Lucero's trembling hand as well. Silas and Rakan had come towards them, their impassive faces softening as the color of life slowly returned to back to Lucero. Nemera only needed one arm to keep Lucero up right and she turned to Rois to hand him back the letter.

When Lucero opened her eyes, more pupil than iris, she grinned before wiping at the blood dripping from her nose. It mixed into her two front teeth.

"You got it." Silas said but his shoulders remained tight, never slackening with Rois around.

"Yeah," Lucero said, "We were wrong. They don't bring the girls to Telephassa to do the rituals, they do the ritual elsewhere."

"Can we give the letter back or do you still need it?" Silas clearly looked like he hoped it was the former. So did Nemera and Rakan. When Nemera looked at Rois once more, then the letter and then at Lucero, she sighed.

"I... I still need it. I don't think I can hold onto this thread all the way to their hideout. Some parts of it are invisible. We really don't have much time until it's gone altogether." Lucero admitted, sheepish. It was half of the truth, and she wondered if it showed on her face that her reliance on the physical item meant that her weaving had grown weak. Useless.

Silas pinched the bridge of his nose, looked towards Rakan.

"He's not riding with me," Rakan said before Silas had the chance to ask. "Look at what he did to my horse."

"Well he's gonna have to ride with one of us." Silas muttered disgruntled. "We only have the three horses."

"Yeah and your horse is bigger." Rakan jerked his head towards the brown draft horse that Silas rode for missions when he wore full armor.

"He's not riding with me!" Silas snapped then sighed. He rubbed at his face with a gloved hand before looking at Nemera. Rakan immediately bristled, his pointed ears standing at attention. "It's you or Nemera. Lucero's gonna be with me on Nemera's horse regardless what you two decide on."

Nemera cleared her throat.

"He can ride with me." Rakan's ears laid flat against his head at hearing her offer. "Rois, was it? We have some ground rules. Are you ready to hear them?"
 

Rois stands idle, content to let them talk amongst themselves in regards to the note; it was better to pretend to be phased out rather than confront whatever Lucero was initially talking about, emotions and him, hypotheticals, if the butcher wished to make the situation awkward it would be easy as confronting the pair the moment his name was mentioned. Nope. Didn’t hear. Neither does he meet the healers eyes, instead finding minor amusement in the way Silas was seething with a hand lazily slipping beneath the purses flap to retrieve the blackish disk of human blood and meat, taking a nonchalant, circular bite as if it were but a little pancake clutched within his claws and not an accumulation of nightmarish gore shredded pressed flat… so, so tasty.

He’s still chewing on the disc when Lucero begins the strange and unknown (to him) ritual of touch, thinking firstly a single, prominent thought; magicks made her ugly. Stole away the youthfulness of unwrinkled skin and instead created a visage almost cult-ish in nature, a corpse forced back into animation, a sudden sickness spread as easy as lightning cleaves the sky, venom through the hectic map of visible veins like a madman’s scrawl upon paper. Rois knew very little of magick. Sure, he could set his fingertips on fire, quite literally the only shroud-weaving he knew, but it hadn’t been a natural occurance… it was something that was only capable after merging with the fiend, and even he himself did not know exactly how it worked-- only how to make it happen. No greater toll came to grasp at his body, not like this.

Was this the power of a healer… or something else?

Did the others possess qualities similar to this fetid, ghastly display of raw power, a show stealing away Lucero’s strength as it progressed and only twisting her familiar form further, or were they simply people? A note tacked against his brain; discover more. The butcher has to stop himself from pulling a face at his companion’s withering form and briefly looks away with a crease to his nose partially smoothed (he… didn’t like it. It wasn’t natural, he did not want to show concern), only allowing them to return when there is a smear of movement in the peripheral of his vision, Lucero falling, a quick step forward with arms twitching to grab but Nemera beats him to the punch,

“Khurun be damned… what is going on?” The sparcest, most minor touch of worry springs free from its cage in his throat, eyes narrowed, what had all of that accomplished exactly? Nothing had changed. Something about a thread, something about now somehow known directions, claws do not raise to grasp the letter the moment Lucero confirms that she needs it… and so fate was set. If Rois did not follow them they’d have to come to him to give the note back, another nope, in the midst of his confusion the only clear-cut notion that ambles through the fog is that whatever they are doing he too must go, for records sake if not for an innate urge to know and pry and snoop. Interesting things always caught him fish to hook. The butcher lends his tongue to his fingers in the now-absence of a munched upon sausage-slice (blatantly not lending Luce any attention yet) and lets these idiots bicker amongst themselves about where the Hell he was going to sit-- what did that beast-man mean, look what he did to my horse--

A tentative gaze at Black Thunder, who had caught his breath but was still glimmering with sweat beneath the moonlight at his hard-run. Oh.

“I’m not riding with him,” Rois chides, turning ruby-eyes onto the oldest male in their midst, he who seemed to be eternally captured by stress. A crass statement comes without humor, “He’ll probably pop a boner midway through.”

Silas screamed hate-fuck, just in general. And the red-head is about to follow on with the ghost of a sharp smile coming to his lips, a suggestion, he should ride with poor Lucero again! Poor little rabbit and her little streaks of red caught against the returning peach of flesh, she needed a strong man to tell her it was alright! Needed a thumb to nose to crack the crust of blood, soft words, playful words-- no no, lets not tease Luce-- but it was easy and fun-- but she was injured-- part of him wanted to lick the cooling liquid from her face--

“That’s me.”

Nemera it was to be. Another target. How would this woman, to whom he knew very little about bar her motherly facade, fair with the heat and the tightness and its interesting too, all compelling, the welling of emotion does not show on Rois’s face as he lends a hand to hip and turns fleeting attention to the beautiful lady before him.

“Go on, then. I am sure they are fair and reasonable.”

He only sort of tries to keep the sarcasm from twisting monotoned words.
 
The worry that Rois briefly felt went completely unnoticed, none of the Knights picked up on it, especially not Lucero who had turned to face Silas when he had approached. Her chest heaved relentlessly, feeling as if she couldn't get enough air. Her shoulders rose and fell with each pull of breath that was equally too short and not enough to ease the emptiness within her lungs. Taking back the letter, Lucero's head lolled towards Rois, fingers quivering but still careful to not crumple or crease the parchment. Nemera tightened her hold on the Lucer before Silas took over the role. She leaned against him, watching Nemera turn towards Rois and step towards him, keeping her arms at her sides.

"They are," Nemera said, she didn't need to smile as she spoke. Every blink or twitch of the brow was honest. "First, you kept true to your promise, you didn't hurt her, and I noticed something else, too. Lucero doesn't like sitting in front and you came back with her behind you. I could be giving you more credit than you deserve," she added as if she could hear Silas rolling his eyes behind her. "But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Second, we never came here for you or your crew. At this time, we have no interest in your business, only in this singular dealing for one woman in particular. We get her, we never see each other again unless fate desires it be so.

"But make no mistake that we find what you do to be abhorrent. It's in your best interest not to speak of it. As for what you are, we won't care if it doesn't affect our mission. That out of the way, since you are helping us we will protect you within reason against the enemy if it comes down to it. You are not to tell anyone or say anything about the Knights of Anathaeum, and if you break the local laws, you're on your own, we won't save you."

Silas opened his mouth as if he might add to it before Lucero tried standing up on her own. Her ears were working better than her eyes and keeping them closed helped ease the dizziness she felt. When everything was black, vertigo was all the more sickening. Her stomach threatened to upheave anything inside but there was nothing but stomach acid, the taste of ceiba roots could be felt in the back of her throat. Silas put an arm under her, began to move her towards Nemera's horse. Lucero still turned her head to look back at them, brows furrowed worriedly, still ever so careful with the letter.

"C'mon," he urged, but Lucero had started to act like a stubborn mule that would only move begrudgingly if she were pushed and pulled enough. Nemera only looked straight at Rois, Rakan's eyes was on the man, too.

"I can tell you like being in charge, but you won't be, not with us. We're in control and if you listen to us there won't be any issues. You want to shoot the shit with Silas, go ahead, but if you threaten us or move to hurt us, we will act." There was no anger, no steely look in Nemera's eyes. Smooth, crystal clear, even voice. Steady, unblinking dark gaze.

"We won't ask you to do anything dangerous or to fight on our behalf. We do ask that you do not harm any innocents or destroy their livelihood, and," there was a sharp inhale of breath, "whatever it was you threatened us with, you can't use it under any circumstances. We're not trying to eradicate the cult, only get information and help get out any victims, that's it. We will only share necessary information to you if we deem it to be detrimental to the mission. If you run, we won't chase after you if you did nothing wrong, you're free to go at any time. So, if there's no questions...."

Nemera jerked her chin to the chestnut draft horse, making her way over to it. Despite being well below the average height for women, she had no issues using the saddle and stirrups to aid in her climb upon the horse. She took the reins easily in her hands, sitting within the leather saddle like a well seasoned pro. The knight held her hand out to Rois to take like he needed help getting on the horse, if he agreed to all the conditions she had laid out before him, the spoken word their contract more than the clasping of hands.

"This big guy's name is Horse, Silas is quite original when it comes to names," Nemera smiled, Silas muttered something under his breath as he lifted Lucero up. Rakan was already on his glistening horse. All the Knights were ready to go, they only waited for Rois to make his decision. "You're in back, big guy, I saw how you handled Black Thunder, I'll teach you how to ride for free."

"It's a good deal," Rakan chimed in with a playful smile of his own. "No one rides better than her."

"Stop with the innuendos, already." Silas grunted, lips pulled down into a frown, already preparing to jab his heel into the horse.

"You'll still come with us, won't you, Rois?" Lucero's voice was tiny, her eyes boring into him as she slumped into Silas's back, cheek squished, letter neatly folded within her gloved hands. She'd protect him, not because he listened like how Nemera said, but because she had promised it before. Even now she'd do her best to keep the wayward promise. It would help if he did listen to the Knight's requests nonetheless.
 

He doesn’t care how strong she thinks they are.

As Nemera bravely faces him down, all Rois can think about is the fact that they could all be disappeared in a matter of seconds.

… But the threat never comes. No abrasive language, which had a permanent home in his mouth, comes to shake their faith even if the inwards emotion at every stupid rule urges him to bark out in control; abhorrent. Maybe on the same level as that unknown woman who had haughtily tried to lure him into her bedroom, these naive, pretentious idiots bowing down to those whose strength only came with positions of power and nothing else, they did not know what they were dealing with. Real power. True power. Not parchment and lineage and politics, the overwhelming kind that came forth like wild-fire caught in a gale, all consuming, dangerous power-- Nemera really believed they stood a chance--

“I’ll abide… but I want to make it clear the only reason I’m here is because I owe Lucero a debt. That is all.”

Benefit of the doubt, laughable, someone giving another the 'benefit of the doubt' would not stand them off with clauses designed to overtly control him; stupid mission, stupid Lucero and her kindness which spurred him onwards to act for her sake and nothing else, Rois looks off into the forest in a decisively blank manner and decides that when dealing with these pricks it would be best to simply remain standoffish and cold, lips tight, no engagement. Perhaps Nemera thought she was sending an olive branch with statements about how’d they’d protect him, little smiles, double edged sword, the red-head would not forget how in the same breath they threatened to fight back-- they expected him to do something-- it takes all the power in the world to not roll his eyes.

Overworked Lucero stumbling like a fawn learning to walk… the man spares her a fleeting glance with a subtle frown that barely caught the corners of his lips, uncaring if whether they saw it or not, their opinions didn’t matter, were they really planning to press onwards tonight if the poor woman could barely stand unaided? Was that a cruelty, or was it the usual…?

It was better not to dwell on it, lest he get angrier.

Blatantly ignoring Nemera’s hand as well as her little attempts to engage in a friendlier manner (and Rakan’s, too) Rois mounts the horse in absolute silence from behind, lending the strong woman a single arm against her manner, making sure to carefully lean away so that her back would not be subjected to the numbing warmth in the way Lucero was. He isn’t… uncomfortable. Entirely neutral, fingers never spread, no contact that isn’t necessary is granted, and only Luce is answered by way of slightly raised voice (the notion she could hear better than others is lost upon him),

“Of course. I owe you a cigarette, don’t I?” A hidden, coy smile.

Naughty, naughty.
 
All eyes fell on Lucero, at the shock on her face. Silas was the first to get moving, a slow start that gave Rakan and Nemera enough time to join him. What debt could Rois possibly be talking about? What surprised Lucero was Rois's claim to honor, that he would go through this hassle for a debt she wasn't aware of. It was odd, as she considered Rois to be a man of his word in a way that was admirable-- but that wasn't a fair thought towards Rois, hadn't he proved to be exactly that? The sentiment was packed away as neatly as she had folded the letter, readied to be revisited another time as she perked up to Rois's question.

"Yeah," Lucero said with her hair whipping around her face uncontrollably. Most of it danced behind her head, only a few strands reached across her face. Her eyes stayed open, only blinking if a wayward hair got stuck between her lashes She could see Rois in spite of her hair, saw the worry radiating from Nemera. "You do owe me one." The worry grew dark before it spread further. She saw it mirrored within Rakan's form.

A seed of guilt was planted within her from being glad that he had remembered. Silas rode and took the lead and barked at her to pay attention, to focus, to start following the trail. Lucero turned her head from what she saw behind her, leaning into Silas's back once again. The letter was held in the hand belonging to the arm wrapped around Silas's waist, the other hand seemed to pluck at an invisible string, fingers poised to let it slide through.

"Don't give her a cigarette," Nemera said, "it's hard enough getting her to eat." Silas held out a lantern of shroudlight, illuminating the road just enough that he was able to lead everyone without risking injury to the horses. The path that Lucero had found wasn't straight nor even, erratic curves to the right, turning left to be back where they started, all of it without much rhyme or reason.
Lucero had once trying to explain how the shroud fluctuated, it was felt more than she saw it, a sixth sense that told her the trail could be lost unless she moved around whatever was blocking her connection to the destination. The Knights didn't complain, despite not understanding it the way she did, they believed her.

Nemera would try to make conversation with Rois here and there but would find out that it was a lost cause. She didn't mind the silence, neither did anyone else, Rois's presence like a thick cotton gag to the mouth, imposing silence on everyone. The Knights didn't want to share anything with him, and Lucero concentrated on leading them.

When dawn peaked out over the hills and swathed the countryside with it's soft yellow rays the town of Steepden finally appeared. All the knights put their hoods up, horses steadied to a slow clop, making their way through the down while families sat around eating breakfast. Lucero whispered something to Silas who nodded his head. He looked back at Nemera, made a small innocuous gesture with his hand made of more wrist than point.

They made their way to an inn, heading first to the stables to give the horses a long rest and were told they could pay for the room and feed inside. The inn had a large wooden sign in the shape of an open-beaked rooster, painted with bright green and shiny golden brown feathers that framed a gaudy orange beak. Silas and Lucero went in together with Rakan and Nemera walking behind Rois.

Inside, Silas whirled around with a ceaseless frown. He let Lucero go to the counter where the innkeeper sat, the only morning person within his family. Lucero pulled her hood off her head and leaned over, forearms politely on the wooden edge, before she began making the necessary accommodations. A day and a night, two rooms --

"There's five of you so I recommend three rooms." The man with a few streaks of gray in his mustache said. Silas whirled around with a ceaseless frown, glaring at Rois for making his group an odd number.

"He's not with us." The knight growled.

"Three rooms, three horses -- " Silas's face turned red as the innkeep continued on, more worried about the numbers than what was said.
 

Silence suited him justttt fine. There was nothing to talk to them about, Rois did not give a damn about the mission and two fold gave less than a single fuck about anything personal regarding any of them, as the long ride chasing the death of the night rolled over into a sky turned cotton-candy pink kissed by sunshine yellow all the butcher could really think about… was bed. Felt the fingers of sleep coming to push heavy eyelids shut, let the strength of an aching arm fail a little against Nemera’s thick waist, a few times he had lent the darkness to bleary eyes and had awoken to find the landscape shifted, trees turned, an encroaching blue brighter and brighter…

… A zombie-like follow possesses him.

Just a living thing mindlessly wandering about the company as they flitted from stable to inn in (reasonably) bright spirits, by the time Rois has saddled himself beside the building he is critically aware of the stamina of knights, their training has gifted them the luxury of being able to stay awake for long periods of time… not he. As they begin to bargain within he stays outside to retrieve a cigarette from the purse’s interior side pouch, smoking it in a rush-- he’d give Lucero whatever he wanted when he wanted-- to let the nicotine absolutely flood his rattled brain in an overwhelming rush of alertness, better. It takes under a minute to turn the stick into ash, and with smoke rolling about his lips he lumbers inside and addresses the inn-keeper with a stoic,

“One for me.”

Silas is ignored (a repeated instance), a barge forward, slammed down money in the way of a couple of coins, the inn-keeper chides ‘upstairs, last room on the right’, and that is that! Sorted! Rois ponders those stairs for a moment and considers simply scrambling up them to seek the softness of (what he hoped) was down-stuffed mattress and the familiar darkness of seclusion… but. A more pressing matter. Aging wooden beams and white plaster, low light cleaved by the morning sunlight through dirty windows, the crackling of a hearth dying-- starved, like how he was starved-- Rois attends the bar with pretend nosiness. Though he’s looking at the drinks it is all a distraction, the waiting lady stares awkwardly and fishes for an answer, but when it comes…

“... Just water, please.”

They don’t keep water in a damned bottle at a bar. She cracks a simple smile and excuses herself through a door behind her, presumably a kitchen resides behind it with well-water enough to cleanse the flames of drunkards so sloshed they needed the life-liquid to come to any kind of sense… and in that very moment, Rois wanders idly behind the scratched-up counter, steals what he knows would be waiting there, dumps the contents of a deep wooden bowl entirely into his waiting jaws and eats with the speed of a mad-man. Scraps of crispy dried bread, hard-tack biscuit clumps and nuts, ye olde trail mix doled out to staff to keep them bright eyed and bushy tailed, the entire bowl is barely chewed and swallowed semi-painfully down with enough time for him to not only put the bowl back but to rid crookedly smiling lips of crumbs; to have the gall to begin once again monching on another sausage disc after!

The cannibal gives a barely sweet ‘thank you’ when the pint glass returns with luke-warmish water awaiting him within and retires himself to the furthest corner of the room, where the shadows are thick and a haggard beam partially obscures his figure from the knights view all the way afar… peace. Quiet. Now to leave it thirty minutes, slowly gulp down water to make the dry, tacky mixture in his guts stodgy and thick to slow down their acidic burning, and that would be enough to quell the hunger… another cigarette? Then bed.

Sounded like a grand old plan.
 
Silas always had Lucero get them a deal, it helped to keep expenses low and arguing with him over it always left Lucero feeling like she were some disobedient child. Silas liked to explain that they weren't taking advantage of a business if they made the town safe again, and really, any inn owner was never truly struggling, it was a front they put it up for tax collectors. With a financial deal secured, keys given to them for two rooms specifically in the left hall, Lucero was pulled from the counter to briefly discuss the next steps.

Short phrases, half-spoken words, everything said with the intention to keep quiet, but Lucero couldn't help but wonder if they were doing it because of her. She saw their souls, their emotions, and realized it wasn't only unease but distrust as well. Towards Rois or herself? Any question she asked was hardly answered.

"Where did he go off to?" Silas grumbled as Rakan left to go explore around the town. Lucero had given a brief description of a hill and valley to look for, with red flowers to help guide the way.

"Rois?" Lucero perked up? Nemera's feelings darkened further. "He's around there." She couldn't see the glance shared between the knights.

"Go keep him busy," Silas said as he turned his back on her.

"But not for too long, you need to sleep." Nemera added gently. It was a good performance, if Lucero could only hear then she would have thought Nemera was fine. When she heard two pairs of feet heading up the stairs, the blind knight turned, seeing Rois's hulking shape slightly compressed on itself. She had missed his petty theft of bar snacks.

The wind had tangled her hair into a frizzy, dry knot. It would have been the perfect kindling for a fire. Her bangs were a mess, uneven and sticking up awkwardly. Nemera had mentioned that maybe she should bathe and eat something before getting some rest, they likely had hours and the shroud-fatigue was obvious. Her bloodshot eyes were dull, but under a certain slant of light a silver sparkle could still be spied.

It was pure luck that Lucero chose a path that guided her along the room without stumbling into table or stool, or maybe it was the faint lingering after affects of her sight used to track making her sensitive to the environment around her.

"There you are," Lucero smiled at him, voice rough and dry, not realizing she was standing in front of the beam. Whoever had placed a table back here had never considered how it the tight and crowded space could affect the impaired. She took a step forward, smacking her face right into the hardwood. Lucero grunted, cursing softly in her mother tongue as she took a step back, wincing and hissing as she rubbed at her face. It had been well sanded and though the inn was hardly the newest or the fanciest, it had remained cleaned and intact enough that she didn't need to worry about splinters getting caught in her skin.

With hands held out in front of her feeling the beam, knowing now how to step around it. One hand held onto it, her other reached out for Rois but found the tabletop instead. Slowly but surely, Lucero came ever close to him, hip first bumping into the seat that she would take. The center of her face was still red but she turned it towards him with a smile that would burn bright even against the biggest winter storm.

"Do you need a drink for your nerves, too? I can never sleep when I'm like this." Her hands couldn't stop their shaking, one eye twitched every now and then discordantly. She tried hiding it by unclasping her white cloak draped around her shoulders. Lucero cleared her throat. "Rakan went out, Nemera and Silas are going over the details. They said I should sleep. Do I look that awful?"
 
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What a damned pitiful sight.

When it had been revealed he was a ‘faller’ during his second bout of homelessness, Rois remembers being unceremoniously pushed to the outer rim of camp with the rest of the sick to languish in the mud of second-hand tents riddled with holes and biting lice; instead of embracing the blind, the community had shunned them as heartily as they had the contagious and the dying. Left them to teeter about a labyrinth of strewn-about debris with the pitying occasionally out-stretching their own scabby hands, but those pitying folk were of the same sick ilk, differently abled folk striving to make the horror of their situation a little less dank, a little less tiring, and the blind--

“You need a cane.”

The voice tempers itself from being too audible in the corners relative gloom, a warm hand reaches to touch claw-tips against the swath of her shirt in a gentle curl to guide Luce’s descent into the chair; somehow she can still smile throughout it all. The butcher does not share her simple joy at their little reunion, lips twisted into a firm frown showing the beginnings of teeth, the heat of that palm lingers for a few moments before being dragged away… he keeps his voice low. As if it is a secret they are sharing, as if it is something that could bring shame, the red-head does not believe it so but maybe she does,

“They make them light and flexible… you shouldn’t be stumbling around like that, so yes, you do look awful.” A dance of vision up and down the sitting lady, “You should definitely attempt to sleep.”

So comes the humourless grunt with eyes downturned upon her hurricane-caught form; open worry was the least Rois could spare her, the shaking of thin hands like the quivering of an animal swallowing down pain made an uncomfortable coldness settle like winters first snow within the furnace caged behind his thick ribs, quickly did it melt for the feeling to come again and again with every subsequent spying, its… it conjures up images he’d never personally know. Scenes that would always be played out in the fog of confusion, lost to the cruel master of time to never again be dragged to the forefront of his busy mind, is that what he looked like when…? The butcher turns his head sharply to stare at the far wall with the dull blues of concern flourishing against its brighter cousin, sadness, paint-spots,

“And no… I don’t drink.” A single nail softly clinks against the glass’s edge with a clear chime to emphasize its meager existence, “It is just water.”

… Come against the shadows is a peculiar colour, one barely ever used by him, lying-- and Rois isn’t good at it. It had been proven true in the past and proves itself more-so now as he takes a short break from speaking entirely to try and think of something witty to cover the tracks of embarrassment, a big man like him who didn’t drink alcohol, a petty notion that often caused people to hack out laughs in disbelief. But he had a reason. A little awkward seeming and stiffening a touch in his chair, Luce’s ears are met with a deep grumble that sounds a tad unsure,

“I… the last time I drank, I ended up… buying a lot of expensive stuff that I didn’t… need.” … He had a reason it just wasn’t good or applicable to every situation, nothing tells the healer that this was true, an exhaled, dry laugh follows the stupidity of that statement, “So… to make sure I don’t go broke, I don’t touch alcohol any more.”

Bravo. With upturned brows of concern that existed simply because Lucero couldn’t see them, Rois keeps himself staring at that wall and takes a small sip with a rushed throat clear,

“It’s for the best.”
 
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