“I told you simply to make the game more interesting; but it is clear to me now that everyone in this camp-- bar myself-- is teetering upon the brink of being brain-dead.”

Rois gave an overexaggerated sigh, his callous words quite flippant, unknowing of how close he was to a slight truth in Asher’s case alone. Missing the odd licking motion the other spared his now moister wrist, the red-head lamented throwing the waistcoat across the room, for now he had to wander over to retrieve his pipe, all the while rambling aloud,

“I came to this camp and said I was a fighter, yet I do not have a weapon. I’m dressed as a rich man, wandering about in bandit territory with coin on me, yet I have no guards. The mere fact I’m not adorning cheap steel and ragged cloth like you all is suspicious enough alone, and yet, I waltzed right into a stronghold in the middle of a rebellion… honestly, it astounds me.”

He had been a moron once. Bitter memories of taking any job that dared to stray near his hungry claws, courier, farmhand, salesboy, wall scrubber, kitchen cleaner, latrine emptier, water fetcher, the faded mental lashings of a scribe that taught the boy the beginnings of reading so that he could follow road signs and addresses that were gallant enough to have signage. One hundred jobs, one hundred experiences, and even in periods of unemployment even begging had lessons to learn; the floating words of rich men and women appalled by lowly markets, the way their voices sounded like bird-song amidst the grunting of lesser beings. When the world was filled with so much to learn, why did so many go through their lives with the simplicity of farm animals awaiting the prod from lordlings and ladies on high? Were they not hungry for more, to engage themselves in even a smidge of critical thought in their day to day lives…?

The room was beginning to become lightly hazed with the smoke from the now lit pipe, its stagnant odor curling up to the ceiling in endless, pretty spirals as he dragged upon the dredges and prepared to fill it once again. Yes, it had taken him over half of his life to speak like someone, to earn money like someone, to be someone in a world bursting at its seams with humanoid shaped sheep endlessly drifting by, but all that pain and suffering had been worth it. Now upon a podium, it gave Rois the ability to look down upon most others, a position that was very much beloved by the man himself as he looked both metaphorically and physically down upon a now smiling Asher,

“It says, ‘the chimney does not smoke from love alone.’ A truth. Unless you work, you will find yourself down-and-out before long.” … And he did not know why Asher was smiling or why he was being kind to him. For all his smarts, it made no logical sense to turn any kind of positive emotion on to a beast that had openly threatened and taken sharp nails to skin-- this strange boy and his mangled skull had to be a special kind of stupid, the kind shop keepers sometimes kept in pet-like scenarios behind the scenes to do menial work that they could never mess up. Mayhaps that head wound was not just a wound, maybe he was actually missing half his brain and somehow still possessed the spirit to exist.

No matter. Morons could be useful, too.

“... I’ll return the tin after it’s empty; some tradesman could pay a penny for it. In the meantime, it’d probably do you some good to learn what the rest of these statements say.” And because he did not understand Asher’s kindness, Rois’s expression had become ‘bothered’, contemplative, but in a darker sort of way as his gaze veered off to the side.

“Though, if you feel like helping me just as much as the kitchen wench, I suppose I could offer you some silver… if you’d be so kind as to fetch me some meat from said kitchen.”

The red eyes rolled back to stare upon the others crown, the half-fiend himself could not enter the space himself without doing something noticeably criminal (devouring everything and anything in the pantry), but this poor little peasant boy… the beginnings of a smile climbed upon Rois’s face, but unlike Asher’s, it was more of a smirk than anything.

“What I mean to say is, take whatever you can however you can. Raw is fine. And the more you bring, the more I give you in return. To me, that sounds like a smart trade-off, right?”
 
Asher was paying attention to what the other man said. He really was. But there was something about the second pipeful of tobacco that was bothering him. His brow furrowed as he watched the retrieval of the pipe, the pinch of leaf and press of thumb to pack the bowl. And it wasn’t the stink, either, although that was already cloying its way onto every surface in the room, including his spare clothes still scattered across the floor.

“...fetch me some meat from said kitchen.”​

Ah, that’s right. People smoked tobacco when they didn’t want to feel something else. Aches and pains, stress, boredom. Hunger. All of it could be stifled with the buzz of smoke. It was the last piece of a puzzle which slotted into place in Asher’s mind and created the image of a man who was trying very hard not to eat anyone.

“What I mean to say is, take whatever you can however you can. Raw is fine. And the more you bring, the more I give you in return. To me, that sounds like a smart trade-off, right?”​

“There’s a latch,” Asher said in non-response. He gestured somewhat halfheartedly at the window on the far side of the room. “At the bottom. Please open the window when you smoke.”

He turned and began to duck his head under the low-beamed doorway. Caught the top of the doorway with his hand and twisted round to give Rois one last look. Flat white eyes didn’t reveal much one way or the other.

“I’ll be back soon with something to eat,” he said, and then let go of the door frame. Made his exit with unceremonious steps through the dark warehouse.


The kitchen had a wide back door, which Nell had propped open. She was working outside, her sleeves rolled up and cheeks flushed from labor. There was a woodshed and several axes hung up on hooks along the wall, and a lot of freshly chopped logs lying around. One of the hooks was empty and one of the axes was in Nell's hands. She was starting to stack the wood she'd just chopped.

“Miss Nell, if I help you with the firewood, can I take a bit of butter from the larder?”

“Depends. How much are we talking?”

Asher held up a palm and dragged his other finger across the length of it to indicate about that much. Miss Nell ended up agreeing as long as he took his thumb out of the equation, since she didn’t know the next time she’d be able to go to town for more. In no time at all, Asher had stacked thirty-eight pieces of cordwood into the shed in exchange for four finger-widths of butter.

He followed Nell into the kitchen to collect his prize, and saw about what he’d figured he’d see: A whole lot of empty space on the pantry shelves. Outposts kept low stock on purpose to dissuade bandits. The lord’s entourage coming tomorrow would be traveling with their own supplies, and none of the guards posted here were high ranking enough to justify feeding them meat.

Asher thanked Nell, told her which direction he was going (because it was good to tell folk when you were going into the woods), and then snuck out a gap in the rotting palisade wall.

The place he went was a wide bend in the river where the water spread shallow between trees and tufts of reeds. Underneath the muddy surface, there were deep, cool, quiet places where monsters buried themselves and slumbered. On the bank of the river, Asher took his shirt off, and his boots, and the sword strapped to his side. He waded out to a place where the branches swaying overhead blocked the sunlight. Took a gasp of a breath, and slipped beneath the water’s surface.


Asher came back through the front gate. He was dripping wet and hunched over heavy-footed from the glossy dark body tied with rope and slung across his back. A massive fish, as tall as Asher himself, its whiskered mouth gaping half-ajar in demise. Mandy, ever diligent in his singular duty of watching the gate, whistled at the sight of it.

“Shit, that’s a big ‘un,” the guardsman called out. Asher only grunted in response, because the beast was heavy, and he wanted it off his back. Luckily, Mandy got the message and scrambled for a hook and a place to hang the thing up. Together, they hoisted it over a cross beam and secured the big fish. Tied by its tail, it swung in the air like a banner, if banners weighed twenty stone.

The fish wasn’t the only thing Asher had brought. He’d also lifted a wicker basket from one of the junk piles, and inside was a bundle of young lotus shoots, stinging nettle, and one shy of a dozen duck eggs. It was unclear if eggs counted as meat or not, but Asher was sure Nell would take them if they went untouched. He set it all down nearby.

Putting his hands on his hips, Mandy took a step back and admired the big fish. “How’d you even catch it, without a spear?”

Asher held his arm out, and waggled his fingers. “You let it bite,” he said. A ring of raw red lined his bicep, where the catfish had latched on with dull teeth. “And then you grab it by the gills and pull it up.”

“Huh,” Mandy said. He shook his head. “I think you might be crazy. That's a maneater right there, kid. It could have dragged you down.”

Asher hummed in a way that might have been confirmation, and pulled his knife out. It was a good knife, and it remembered where to cut. Just shy of the spine, angled round the curve of wide-swallowing jaw and into ribs, but not too deep – nick the guts and whatever rancid thing the monster had eaten would spill out and spoil the meat.
 

And he obeyed, because he had no reason not to.

Roi’s flicked the latch of the window and let it swing open to deliver a river of rolling smoke out and upwards into the air, watching from the corner of his eyes as Asher disappeared upon his little side quest. He didn’t expect much. Such places-- holds possessed of some noticeable level of despair-- were always beholden to the universal rules of warfare that saw stocks were low, always, when you naturally discounted the truly ‘sentient’ living and breathing things wandering around cluelessly of course… but people were not on the menu, not just yet. Whilst the other worked outside he saw fit to begin ‘work’ inside of the shed, pointless and menial work to all and everyone that lived beyond the threshold of the mans own skull, who could not understand that things needed to be in their place and if they weren’t, well, it was simply a matter of lunacy. After a long moment of candid smoking Rois relieved himself of his shirt lest it get sticky with the threat of oncoming sweat, reluctantly patted out the pipes burning core with a single thumb, stretched large arms high in a cat-like fashion … and got to work.

One of the dingy, depressed sacks from the room beyond was taken and pressed upon tiptoes into cobwebbed corners to steal them away, for heavily did they hang from the old wooden beams. This too was extended to the fluff of the window, where dust had collected against the cracking seams in speckles of black, catching upon the cob-web laden cloth in light, repetitive strokes. When the area looked less abandoned at its walls he turned his attention to the straw matresses and began to methodically poke stray strands back into the loose meshing they peered outwards, calloused hands making sure to also gather those hay pieces who had leapt to their freedom to find reprieve from the masses on the cold stone floor. The floor itself wasn’t terrible, insects oft preferred height, so ‘sweeping’ was just a matter of taking a boot to the soiled rag and running it against the walls edges… good. The room looked decent, there was no fixing the cracks in stone and aged plaster, but it felt less… desperate. Compared to the actual shed, it was a safe-haven, in fact.

The damned mess next door gave Rois a sort of anxiety that only ever came when he was alone. It was unexplained, couldn’t be reasoned with, a pressing urge to do something because things were not right, and it wasn’t a matter of caring what people thought-- it was a matter of effort. But Asher was leaving with what looked like a sort of muted determination (and some sort of small box), and aside from snoozing, what else could be done…? The thought of interacting with those simpletons afar made him visibly cringe with the bridge of his nose wrinkling, no no, it would have to be done, laying there staring at a ceiling with the ambient noise of wind creeping through the sheds numerous holes would be testament to the sin of sloth itself; and so with a groan (at his own mind-numbing impulses) Rois wandered into the darkness of the muddled room with the intent to fully haunt it as nought but a pair of glowing red eyes when not captured by the setting sun’s dying beams.

It wasn’t too bad. Big pieces of wood dragged to meet splinters, metal with metal, four corners, fabrics in another and the last would be for things that did not quite meet the invisible, nonsensical idealisations conjured by the newly formed caretaker. Rois was strong, but it was not his ‘affliction’ that made him so; the man was simply built like a work-horse and moved like one, dragging, pushing and hauling with purpose with a thin film of heated sweat beginning to bead against well-used muscles… and there was a reward for all of this 'organization'. It came in the form of rats fleeing in a daze from the sudden lack of cover, and for each one found, they would meticulously be back-broken, gutted and peeled with naught but claws and teeth. He ate the flesh and bones like snacking upon dried meat, leaving tails, guts and shredded pelts for the ‘bad’ corner.

“I wish you were all… naked, like how the babies are. I really hate your fur, you know.” A wistful sigh floating down to cupped hands. Curled in a pulsing ball with the ferocity of its racing heart and terrified breaths, a field mouse gazed glassily up at its captor with no tangible expression. “‘Gets stuck between my teeth.”

Its head was unceremoniously crushed by thick fangs and dragged unempathetically from its spine in a series of mute clicks, leading to an explosion of richness in his mouth that never really happened with rats. The taste was different, someone as seasoned as him knew that difference well. After letting its tail and tiny amount of guts fall noiselessly to the floor with a slitting of the belly, Rois began to chew on its furred corpse with red eyes turning downwards to what had been a small ball of interwoven weeds and glasses all cemented by pieces of mottled wood chewed down to shavings… seven huddled bodies, small and pink, mindlessly and gently writhing against each other with unseeing eyes bulging with every swipe of a siblings clawless paw. The warmth of his palm claimed four, they curled there neatly in a ball in relative comfort, unaware that the sudden heat was not the soft embrace of their mother.

“... Such is the cruelty of life.”

They were about to be met with a softer landing, an open maw, hot breath and jaws about to claim them as the butcher tipped his head back slightly and prepared for the delight of newborn sweetness… when, voices. The man paused. Put the babies back in the nest, placed its top slanted upon them, and wagged a finger,

“You’re safe… for now.”

Asher was back, and God’s above, that fish, oh how it ripped his attention right away from the killing and consuming of littler lives with a dirtied hands rubbing at his blood flecked mouth and he scuttled over eagerly to the gossiping humans with a newly formed glint in his eye.

“Catfish…!”

And it was hilarious, because when the young hunter had left, Rois had been a snarky and snide and plotting, but now before the grand catch, topless and dust-sweat covered in direct contradiction to how the man had first presented himself, the male seemed gleeful. A totally different person. It was the magic of the ‘release’ of working, the gift of alone time… and a non-empty belly that the business man very much hoped would be even less full within those next thirty minutes. Like a master to a favourited dog Asher’s head was patted despite the fact the lad was actively working,

“Great work.” Purred-- and then suddenly, a tone shift. A dire one. Another turn face, back to the usual moodiness if only for a brief moment, it came about as a sort of hiss as words were spat out at poor Nell and Mandy,

“And you two can go away. This is ours and ours alone, you’re not having any.”
 
His hair was tousled again, and again Asher flinched at the raised hand -- but this time, he had a knife. Half-cut filet hung off the catfish as Asher spun round on Rois, a flash of panic in his eyes. He came to his senses and stopped the blade with plenty of distance still between. But the threat hung there for half a heartbeat, before Asher fully shook it away.

"Sorry," he muttered, lowering the knife and returning to his work. Brows furrowed, wrinkling the scar along his temple even more. For a moment he looked like he might make more of the apology, but he kept quiet and focused on the fish.

There was an ugly, imperfect chunk cut out of the flesh where he'd jumped, but otherwise it came off the bone clean. Both massive fillets of the catfish were laid atop the nearest clean surface, a heavy wooden table set out under a covered porch. Asher went back to the hanging carcass and prodded around its belly, feeling out the shape of the offal within. He cut a precise line and pulled out twin sacs of roe. Inside each would be hundreds of cloudy amber orbs, little gems of life that would never grow to see the river.

He was still holding the roe when Rois turned venomous.

"And you two can go away. This is ours and ours alone, you’re not having any."
​
"There should be enough, I'm not going to have any," Asher said simply. "I don't eat meat."

Mandy was baffled enough by the statement that he forgot to get riled up by Rois' earlier disrespect. "Whatdyamean you don't eat meat?"

"I don't like it." Asher went back to the table and laid the roe out in a shallow wooden bowl.

He would have elaborated, but there were certain things Asher hadn't figured out how to say yet. Like how, sometimes, he could see himself standing in that woodshed while the healer put his head back together. Watching his own body from some unseen vantage point. Butchery in reverse. And how since then, every kind of meat reeked of that memory.
 

A flash of silver--

Rois stepped back, but the reaction was slow, entirely caught off guard by the youths moment of alarm… and if Asher hadn’t stopped himself, it would have drawn blood for definite. Ah.

Ah.

He understood.

It clicked, loudly, poignantly, oh, the others grey grey eyes like a sky clouded over had spared him an emotion driven deep, deep down in the recesses of his heart. And Rois could not know for definite that the mottled skin upon the others head was the reason, but the two of them shared a similar affliction, stood at the branching paths of madness and had taken different turns. The red-head was quite knowing of the insanity that writhed in his skull, and he understood why it existed. Trauma did terrible things to the mind. He never excused himself or apologized for his strangeness like Asher did however, because it wasn’t ever his fault that he did things he shouldn’t upon impulses and urges and everyone else should just adapt or be gone. And so firstly, as flat eyes suddenly devoid of the inkling of light followed the other moving to the table and back, he is pissed off because reflected in the others diligent form came a memory from the past when ‘sorry’ had been the word most often tumbling from his lips.

The memory hurts.​

‘Sorry’, every waking up in the middle of a street, onlookers had flipped him heavily onto his side and avoided the unfocused nature of his eyes, ‘Sorry’, to Ma, when they overlooked the pot and all that was within was boiled lambskin and a couple of meager slices of carrots, ‘Sorry’ when dismissed from the promising start of a new job, dropped the broom, forgot the timing, left something behind, sorry sorry sorry, Rois grinded thick fangs together as a dark shadow overcame his face all of a sudden like the coming of night beneath his bangs, suddenly, somehow, fighting over the fish did not matter. He would simply take it from them-- what were they going to do about it?!-- what mattered more was that small moment where a knife had been raised to him with lightning forking across startled eyes, memories, the butcher doesn’t need to say ‘sorry’ ever again, never again.

And he liked Asher, when he had been obedient.

But that move had not been obedient.

From behind, all of a sudden, the scarred male would be welcomed to a burst of pain as a foot came to harshly kick him against his lower leg in a semi-sweep, semi-punt, the weight of the motion shoved Asher hard enough against the table that it squealed violently aloud, scraping backwards against stone, cutlery clashing against the ground in a melody of screaming steel and creaking wood--

“I told you not to do that!!”

Please do not try to harm me again, by the way. I’ve been very nice to you.​

And it all clicked because the reason that Asher had turned his knife towards him in that critical moment but moments prior… is because that was Asher, and this was Asher, and Rois knew very well what it meant to be you and then to be you. Liar. Deceiver. Con-man. Yes, just like Asher he hid who he really was all the time…!! It was just like that, the others kindness towards him had been so confusing and nonsensical before, but now it allll made sense-- he was part of the ruse!! He was being fooled!! No, no-one was ever kind to him without wanting something-- he WOULDN’T be laughed at, would NOT be the end of a sick joke, those two humans-- Mandy, Nell-- they’d start giggling any minute. Start howling their heads of with foul laughter because it was just so hilarious that he’d actually gone to pet the other out of niceness just to be repaid by a knife and he was so pathetic and stupid and Rois did not like this feeling in his chest, this sinking, aching feeling… shame. Embarrassment. And it would be clear as day that the other was overcome quite suddenly and savagely with some kind of madness. It span like rings in ruby eyes encircling tiny, piercing pupils, shaking fists, thoughts span like an erratic carousel in his head, tongue dancing about the tall mans teeth as if he was ready to bite, and the voice came like thunder snarled from above--

“Who… are you, really??”



Note: Rois has absolutely no clue Asher has lost his memories, he literally thinks the other is just pretending to be nice and affable and then suddenly violent because thats how he himself is! He really is wholeheartedly like 'Asher is secretly an assassin and was being nice to me to take all my things or murder me wow it all makes sense now thats why he keeps suddenly pointing sharp things at me I actually liked him damn I got tricked' LMAO
 
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"Who... are you, really??"​

There was one big lie that Asher had been telling everyone. He'd told it to himself when everything was dark, to keep from unraveling. And again to the villagers in Wend when he'd woken up. They'd cried and cried at his bedside, at first because he was gone, and then because he'd come back. Only he'd come back wrong. That's why he told them what he thought they wanted to hear, because no one ought to cry over something like him. Now... now he was afraid for perhaps the first time because this complete stranger - this bizarre, twisted man - had seen right through the lie.

My name is Asher Vanak-Duth... began the lie. But he couldn't get the words out, this time. No, it wasn't fear. There was a bitterness pooling up in the back of Asher’s throat. If he’d tasted it a few more times in his short memory, he’d have recognized it as anger.

"What does it matter," he rasped through heavy breaths and gritted teeth. The thrust against the table had knocked the wind out of him. “I’m nobody either way.”

"Hey hey, lay off each other! No fighting in my fort!" Mandy decided to make an effort at being a half decent guardsman. He didn't hesitate to enter the scuffle, and would have tried pulling them apart, had Asher not raised his hand and warned him away. A steely glance in the guard's direction got the message across: interfering now would only make things worse.

The weight of Rois bore down on top of him. It took a lot of Asher's strength to keep from keeling over the table, but still he managed to stay upright. Even though it meant pressing more of himself into his aggressor than he would have liked. He didn't seem to be struggling nearly enough, though.

"I heard you, before." There was a subtle shift of his hips, as he put his weight on a different foot. "You talk a lot."

Asher had been tossed around by this man enough times now that he had a really decent idea of where he kept his balance. It was not difficult to wrestle Rois off him and flip their positions against the table. And Asher didn't need to strong-arm it because he had the knife in his hand, so he just hooked that under Rois' chin. Of course he had the knife, he'd been using it a moment earlier and hadn't set it down yet. It was still wet with fish guts.

"'I won't harm you at all,'" Asher intoned. "That's what you said, right?"

For a breath, Asher only looked at Rois. Every spark emanating from the madman's red eyes fell and turned to ash in the cold pale of his own. Then all of a sudden, the tension went out of Asher's body. He stepped back. Held the knife out and let go. The blade clattered against the ground between their feet.

"Look--" Asher pulled his tunic loose and showed the burn on his chest, raised out of him by an unnatural heat. Not even the river had cooled the mark, singed hair and reddened skin beginning to blister white in the shape of a handprint where Rois had touched him. "Tell me which one of us broke the rules."
 

“For a lamb, you are always so eager to slit my throat... !”

One who had come back wrong.

One who had been born wrong.

Two minds so similar yet so different, even as they were tangled against the table they were tall and short, angry and calm, unarmed and equipped, monochromed eyes in the dull shades of ash meeting the vivid-sharpness of wild crimson. When the other flips and their lower-halves become entangled, Rois wants for nothing more than to use his body to push the other till the biting of the tables edge comes to chew at Asher’s spine painfully-- but… he doesn’t. The half-beast foolishly allows Asher to reason in the way of demonstration, those callous eyes flickering down to the knife as it falls and then further still to where heat had come to claim the others chest in shades of blistering yellow against his heart--

Ah.

Low, guttural growling, the bellowing of an animal temporarily halted in its tracks, the upwards quirking of a displeased lips to show fangs. Asher was... right? He’d failed to keep himself under control-- uncommon but absolutely not unheard of, Rois was far less predictable as a man than as a monster-- but, but. The words are countered, clever,

“That isn’t harm.”

Because what was the definition of ‘harm’, anyhow? Did it not mean different things to different people? Why, harm could be as thin as the running of paper against a finger to draw but a single drop of blood but it could also be the detaching of a limb in a mortal wound that caused a torrent of blood to mingle with the mud below. Yes, he would argue semantics, because that was how he worked-- but he’d rather discuss the half-haired man’s words prior to the showing of marks… ‘what does it matter’.

“It matters because I said it matters.” Woe, the self-importance, the entitlement, a delusional statement, “I do not like being tricked, and you have been pretending to be amicable this entire time... I do not know what you want from me, but you won’t get it!!”

I was being nice to you and you were nice to me, I am rarely nice and you have repaid my generous kindness by being dishonest and putting your knife to my throat multiple times.

Immature. Pathetic. So sensitive, for all those cutting words, for the burn, for the scraping of nails and the head patting, Rois had actually been a little dumb-founded he had found a male that he did not immediately butt heads with… because it was so, so rare that men smiled at him. Could they have been… friends? Had the red-head really thought that his behaviour had been ‘acceptable’ enough for that…?! Yes, he had, Gods, why bother ever entertaining the idea that being anything but a monster would ever work out in his favor when it came to the innate horribleness of the male sex…?!

Rois’s expression briefly reflects these thoughts; a vague confusion, a bargaining, a minute flick away signals perhaps the scarcest touch of insecurity. They are all looking at him. He recomposes himself with a rattling breath, uncaring of the way it betrayed his image of absolute anger, and letting the mad glint of his eyes simmer into something softer,

“I just hate liars… and I know who you really are, now.”

Just another wolf wrapped in the thick wooly visage of a sheep. It matters little that the half-beast himself spoke in half-truths half of the time, naturally. Their thighs are untangled from each-others as a large step back is taken, the cleaned length of the giant fish is snatched unceremoniously up by strong arms and he’s walking away with it in a skulk, his, over the short distance to the leaning shed’s side where Rois wished to light his own fire it char it himself and stop any of them from having any. A pissed off but dejected tiger, dragging itself to a corner to wallow in its emotions. The shame that came with getting ‘triggered’, maybe, just maybe, Asher had not been lying… and he’d been wrong. This was just who the other was in all his mysteriousness and stony-faced-ness, there was no greater ruse at play, the memory had simply spurned angry emotions ever onwards and the ideas about obedience had been just a cover to redirect truama-based anger at the past onto another. Asher was not simply pretending to be nice to him to get ‘something’-- why would he serve me? Why would he smile at me?-- and harm was harm, and rules were broken. No, no, no, he couldn’t be wrong, he was always right…!! Complicated, complicated feelings and actions.

If he is a tiger, Asher is the one holding the whip and chair.

They had nothing in common after all.
 
"But, I haven't lied about anything."

Asher's confusion was met by empty air as the other man skulked off. He stood, once again, alone in the aftermath of a very confusing confrontation. Why had he dropped the knife? Now it was dirty. Asher knelt down and picked the tool back up. He'd have to rinse it off next to the well before chopping his vegetables with it. As soon as he moved to do so, it caused the others to snap out of that spell of shock they'd be under. A regular bustle returned to the little fort.

"Is everything alright, over here?" Nell had been blissfully immersed in tidying up the kitchen. She'd only seen the last little bit of it, coming out with a towel and a pot to scrub. "I heard a scuffle."

Mandy rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and patted down his pockets with another. Pulled out a roll of tobacco and held it between his teeth.

"Everything's fine, Nell," he mumbled out past the paper roll. Mandy was a good guard - he knew when to cover up the evidence. "We've all just gone a little too long without eating, I think."

But when Nell left to busy herself with something else, Mandy went up to him and leaned in to whisper. "Is it fine?" he asked.

Asher stopped chopping up the lotus to think about it. There was definitely a lot about the situation which was not alright. For starters, he'd rather not see himself or anyone else get eaten. And he didn't like how Rois spoke to him as a junior, even though he was fairly certain they were about the same age. And of course he had plenty of bruises forming and stinging skin which felt a lot like harm to him. And beneath all those tangible thoughts there was the intangible, still tangled up: a cold, soggy feeling which dripped down from the base of his skull and made everything else around it dull.

"Guess I'll have to go find out," Asher responded at a regular volume. Mandy flinched at his utter lack of secrecy.


Lotus was normally sliced into medallions to show off the pretty lattice flower inside the stems, but Asher had chopped the shoots into a fine julienne. Humbly, he asked Nell for the use of her kitchen, which she was resistant to give because she'd just put everything away after making her's and Mandy's dinner (sorghum porridge) and it would mean cleaning up again. However, there were still hot coals in the stove which ought not go to waste, so she couldn't really protest that loudly.

The nettle was blanched to get the sting out of the leaves. Nell was very worried about eating them, until Asher stuck one of the wilted leaves on his tongue to prove that the hairs were harmless now. Then he put a pan on the stove and some of the butter into the pan, and spices from his own pack to make the oil fragrant. Tossing the greens in would have them turn out too soft, so instead he took the butter sauce off the heat and poured it on top. The catfish roe, he pulled from its sac and rinsed until each one gleamed glassy and orange. All the while, a pot boiled on the back of the stove. Asher kept putting things into the pot which could make a broth, though Nell was confused about the lack of bones or meat scraps.

"It's going to be thin," she warned.

"I'm not making a stew," Asher said.

What he was making was steamed duck eggs*, garnished with summer greens and catfish roe. Well, only one of the two bowls he made up had the roe on it. Asher didn't like the fishy smell. He gave the leftovers to Nell to stock away, and left the kitchen feeling much calmer than when he'd entered.

He found Rois hunched over a cookfire. With very little ceremony, Asher set the bowl of food down next to the moody redhead. Striding to the opposite side of the fire, he dragged an upturned bucket over and used it as a seat. The fire was nice and warm, from this distance.

"Can you eat eggs?" he asked, voice touched only by a mild fretting. "I wasn't sure if they counted."

*It was a very Silmoraelian dish, which Asher didn't know, because he wasn't clear on the difference between humans and elves.
 
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What in the world was he going to do with this fish.

Seizing the item in such a hurried manner had been a stupid move, because how on earth was the man to build a fire when his arms were occupied by the length of the cleaned fillets… ? Clown. Fool. The sound of whatever those simpletons were doing in the backdrop were blotted out by Rois’s own annoyed huffing-- it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter-- as he steals himself away into the now organized shed to first address the metals of the room. There had to be something there that could be a makeshift spit rod, the best substitute to be found amongst the dirtied pile was the crinkled, partially rusted curve of garden wire; it was but a few cms thick (the gnarled metal the kind that kept rodents teeth at bay) and easily bent, but when awkwardly doubled over by wet, fishy fingers it was sort of a rod that could hold the weight. Good enough. It was ran through the lengths of both portions up than down and relieved his bare arms of the cool moistness of flesh and could now be held like a caveman would hold a club… an apt metaphor, for whilst the others were relishing in the modernness of a kitchen with tools he was going pre-medieval.

It was gross the way the grey-yellow of old straw stuck to his fingers as the man snatched it up, trying not to externally pull a face about it. Thankfully the crumbling walls of the keeps unkept outer layer had rocks sitting within, one by two by one, those little ancient pieces of ruin were plucked up and circled about the straw to hold down its edges lest burning pieces flew carelessly into the wind-- not that he should care if the entire place burned down or not. Those incessant intrusive thoughts became stronger the moment a single touch caused the moulded roughage to smoulder. The age of the bedding kept it from burning quickly, its mass coiling slowly into black, sure enough it would burn but not as long and as steadily as coal… flames licked the held out fillets with spitting tongues that saw pink-grey turn slowly and surely simmer into shades of brown, flip, brown, flip.

Rois wondered why he was even bothering to cook it when such a thing was just as enjoyable raw. Not only that, but there was a missed chance to gross everyone out by chomping down on frigid, slick flesh without any warning, that should have been the play, that would have made everyone uncomfortable. He liked weirding people out. It was always entertaining to watch their face twist with wretched emotion and the atmosphere did feel like it needed a touch of ‘fun’, but alas, the half-beast had been too busy getting pissed off at Asher and himself and imagined slights, damn it all, nothing was working--

The butcher’s freehand begins suddenly and rapidly rubbing at his temple, no, not now. Stress. It wouldn’t do good for it to happen now when so far away from actual help, these buffoons would probably laugh at his torment before gleefully skipping off with his things before there would be any time for recovery. There needed to be calm. A slow draw in of breath and a deeper exhale, the panging of a headache beginning was a sensation that could be (somewhat) smothered out by the testing of teeth upon the now charred edge of fish. A tempered outside with a blackening crust, a flushed white center near-raw, where the heat could not reach... near as perfect as one could get. Eager to not fret over his unsteady wellbeing he takes to the meat in a shark-like and hurried manner with one fillet already gone by the time Asher decides to approach with that ever stoney temperament of his, suddenly, in a hiss,

“--Why are you here?”

… The bowl is completely ignored. Physically, that is. Mentally Rois had long since caught the scent of the kitchen and curiously would love to snuffle about it in interest, but externally there were walls that needed to be held up. An image to maintain, boasts dignified he, sitting upon the ground like a barbarian with his fish wire.

“If you want to try and slit my throat again, wait until I am done eating, and then we can decide it like men.” The ever-so-slightest squinting of one eye, stress, he didn’t want to do that, he really did not want to do that-- “You can fool me once, but I learn from my mistakes; you cannot trick me again, lamb.”
 
Pouting, acting hurt. Playing with his food, maybe, but the distress looked too genuine across the man's face for that. Have you forgotten that you're trying to eat me, Rois--? Luckily, Asher managed to keep the thought on the inside. He leaned back on his bucket and looked up at the sky. It wasn't dark enough yet to see the stars, there were just the rings, glowing with elements. He tried to sort out all the things that had been said, and fell a bit short. What did deciding it like men mean, anyway? No weapons, maybe. Asher wasn't fireproof, so that didn't seem fair.

A sigh, and a scraping through the dirt as he pulled one of his feet in closer to himself. Asher brought his eyes back down to the earth. "No, there's a better way to settle the score,"

He'd just sat down, but already he got up again. Set the bowl to plunk against the upturned bucket, and walked around the edge of the fire. Raised a hand and patted it down gently atop the tiger's head. Asher was careful not to disturb the bandages, gut feeling told him they were purposefully placed. But he still got a good rustle in.

"There. Now we're even."
 

Rois bristles, the moment the other mentions a ‘better way’ alarm bells go off in his head-- he watches Asher move with all the danger of a feline ready to bite any hands that would dare to come down to strike him. It is not a fist the younger is making, however. Fingers stretched there is the glimpsing of a more humorous thought, perhaps Lamb was seeking to tug against the red-ringed bandages fastened against bronze skin, no, surely the other was not that stupid. None would wear something so strange for the ‘fun’ of it all, let alone something that was blood-stained in an age where witches were a very real thing… so the smaller lads movements are entirely unknown until the motion is actually completed. It takes a moment. The first time red curls against Ashers skin that hand would miss because Rois has flinched heavily and shrank on the spot quite like a house cat would the loving pets of its owner-- oh. It was just a petting. A heated skull barely rises to meet the others palm, a touch embarrassed.

… Why?

“... You confuse me.”

Says the confusing one, barely repressing a snort. This scary beast, this huge butcher who dealt in flesh and bone, being petted… by a near-stranger. Somehow it felt a little... scary. A tense moment is taken to nibble upon the fish as if the motion would take away the foolishness of it all… it didn’t really help. No ‘sorries’. Instead, the truth is mumbled out in a tense manner,

“... You act all pleasant, but when you went to cut my throat I thought that had all been a mask you were wearing… like deep down you were someone else, someone who would really try to kill me-- not that I care if you try to kill me or not, if we are in any sort of power struggle I will win.”

Added in a hurried and toothy manner, half snarled with red eyes glinting, there was a reputation he had to uphold after all! More words come a little more akin to the previous sentences however, regaining a subtle measure of shame,

“... So I figured you were lying, you were just being decent to me because you wanted something. Money, sex, power, whatever. I got all angry because I hate being used.”

This horrible statement was not said with any significant emotion, it was simply a fact. When one looked as he did and had what he had there were always vipers awaiting the strike, coiling close to feed off of the warmth of the butchers being before attempting the grab. Genuine people were hard to find. The multitude of experiences in the past had spurned he himself to be genuine in return so that none felt the sweet-sharpness that came with betrayal… there had been no need to ever be anything but honest with Asher at all. That truthfulness still rang true. The idea of facing the curved fangs of a snake after all of the effort taken to stay truthful… Rois looked a little dejected in the moment, eyes swept towards the length of steaming fish that still remained upon the makeshift skewer. They were so close in age, he always spoke to the huntsman as if he was so much younger, but in all actuality their positions were well and truly swapped; the bigger seemed so, so much littler, now.

“... Whatever, it doesn’t matter at all. I got all worked up and acted stupid, it’s something I tend to do. We’re not even, though.”

Stupid emotions. Even stupider, the ability to get so highly strung over a mistake. After all… it was normal that a person spooked would attempt to harm an aggressor, right? Asher hadn’t known it was him-- he didn’t have eyes on the back of his head-- it was all an accident? Not a personal attack? Why did that defective brain nestled within his skull always do this, always jump to the exact same conclusions, and why had he been so… fierce? Was it because for once, for once, someone was being kind, even after being threatened they were still kind and came to pat his head like he was something more than a bloodied monster that haunted the night in search of blood and bone?? How did people react to kindness, was it something they learned, the butcher didn’t know, did not know how to react or reason with it all--

In frustration the last part of the fillet is chomped upon and gulped down, Rois briefly considers the bowl the other had brought with plans to attack it just as gracefully once his plan had been enacted… and the shirtless fool lays down. Puts both hands behind the back of his skull, elbows raised, and says with absolute seriousness,

“Come on then, Lamb, get your revenge for the marks. I won’t move or fight back.”

An eye for an eye. That intense stare is settled upon the other like a gundog to fowl.

“Then we’ll be even… just watch my head. I need my pretty face intact.”

… This was how kindness was repaid, right? With opportunity? An unkind person would just ignore Asher’s marks, but a nice person would give them the chance to equalize themselves. They could both be marked. Apologies could be carved from the body, if it could not be spoken aloud…
 
Losing a limb was more along the lines of what Asher had expected in response to his brash move. The torrent of words that poured out instead was almost welcome by comparison. The admittance, the concession, it was all close enough to an apology that Asher did not notice the difference.

“Come on then, Lamb, get your revenge for the marks. I won’t move or fight back. Just watch my head, I need my pretty face intact.”​

"Yes, face scars do make things more difficult," Asher said rather dryly.

He looked down at that bare form on the ground, thought about what would actually need to happen to fulfill Rois' request. He could heat the knife up in the fire or use it cold. Maybe he would straddle him with leg against leg again, to stifle any struggle when the danger settled in. Then to choose a spot, hand running over the options, a piece of perfect skin to claim as his own, to tell everyone who came after: I, hunter, was here, and left my mark upon the beast.

A sharp inhale ran through Asher's nose. He glanced away.

"That's too much," he muttered, fingers rubbing the base of his neck where scars tapered out. He knew it was a cruel thought, so he shrugged it away. "I'd get embarrassed..."

Asher dropped his shoulders. He turned on his heels and sat down flat on his rear next to Rois. Made sure they were side-by-side so that he could face the fire and not have to look at red eyes. Still very close, one knee brushing lightly against bare side. Whatever animation had colored his face before faded again, back to his usual impassiveness.

There was something still bothering him. It was the threat of the knife that hung in the air, the one that he had introduced. The sentiment didn't have much to do with Rois, he was beginning to understand that. When all was accounted for, drawing the knife on the man earlier had been a perfectly reasonable reaction. The problem was that Asher hadn't been reasoning. There could have been anyone on the other side of the blade and he would still have drawn it. He would always draw it, and it would always be easy.

"It's not a mask," he said. Asher looked into the fire. It was either that or up at the sky, he couldn't manage eye contact in that moment. Especially if the eyes were glowing in the dark, unmissable. "It's all I've got. You've been honest with me, so I'll tell you the truth: Asher Vanak-Duth died and was reanimated on twenty-two of Hochtar. This is his body. I'm not sure who I am."

Someone else, or just the same person scraped down to a blank, it didn't matter either way. How could he explain it? Like a bell without its clapper, still the right shape, but no resonance anymore. Or fog on a window, residue that would burn off with the sun. If there were memories still rattling around in this head, they no longer felt like his.

"This body still feels things, like pain and fear, but I don't know how to sort it out anymore. All I know is that I don't want to get stuck like this, hurting and taking in turns until there's nothing left."
 

What an odd reaction to an odd request.

‘I’d get embarrassed’, states he who has not a lick of said emotion upon his face, let alone stirring the bleak emotion of rainy-day eyes. Rois does not bother to get up. Stays belly-up like a good boy, the other is close and they would collide if any attempt to sit up was made… the rise and fall of strong ribs brush delicately against the wayward knee with every breath. It is with great effort that the butcher manages to stay silent as the other ruefully talks to the dancing flames waltzing the stone circle, interjections kept leaping to his throat-- oh, you have brain damage! Isn’t that funny, I might have a kind of brain damage, too!-- it would have been… so easy to confide. It would have felt so freeing to confide in someone of his own will instead of others learning about the dim circumstances of his skull by accident, a body splayed against a path, cries of pain in the night, panic and grabbing hands and idiocy. But to admit a problem out loud gave it power.

Asher was strong enough for that. He was not.

Maybe the hunter expected pity, a soothing tone, a pat upon the back, there there, it will get better; none comes. In fact the red-head sounds thoughtful as he watches the brightening stars blaze in their multitudes to life in places far above,

“... So…” … Don’t say it. Do not say it. Do not-- “... You have… brain damage?”

That was not the right term for amnesia, he is suddenly staring at the others head quite rudely, directly at the scar that ensnared half of Asher’s skull with the sort of gawking that one could feel without directly looking. It made sense. There could be an argument about how yes, in fact, it was a mask Lamb was wearing, it was just simply one he had not asked for nor wanted, but the pursuit of such a topic would serve little to no purpose in the end; it would not simply vanish if noticed. There is a sort of half-chuckle-snort, the butcher slings an arm about his shoulder and begins to speak ever so casually,

“So you are someone who would have tried to kill me-- or were. How funny, we shared a path in life… yet chose two different outcomes.”

There was no attempt to match the subdued utterings of the other beside him. The heated glance is lifted away, Rois splays fingers bearing entirely black nails against the air and spares them a look birthed in stoicism, but the move is merely a distraction. A fidget. Worn skin, ever-pointed fingers, the smallest smearing of blood… thoughts come, dance and go, their product is silence that is tense with the threat that something would be said. The man is wrestling with himself internally, mind and heart like bears locked in combat amongst the cooling waters of relief, maybe, someone would finally understand-- but it would mean a loss of power. An admittance that someone who prided themselves on being so outwardly strong had more flaws than those that graced the surface of his very existence, exploitation, the word produced a shudder that had to be suppressed. Somehow, after it all, he is still so frightened that Asher would twist that delicate knowledge into a dagger and become his true self, a lamb adorned in the bleeding pelt of a mangled, teeth-baring wolf--

“I... sort of died too. The difference is, I…” Careful, that deep voice almost betrayed a tremble, “... Chose a new name. I guess I still have to deal with the past too-- one I sadly still remember-- but I am someone different now. I do not look at it as ‘him and me’. I am just me, hes a part of me still but not me-- it is too difficult to describe, how come women make this nonsense seem so simple?”

Incredible, he does not know how to console, or help, or express emotions in a coherent way, the intent was ‘I can be useful!’ but it has long since crashed into the rocks of a lightless sea. A short grimace,

“What I am trying to say is you sound like you care too much about the fact you were someone else. Does it matter if this is someone elses body… is it not yours now? If it is to be fear and pain, let it be as such. Learn what triggers it and then embrace it as part of yourself. Decide who you want to be now and control it instead of thinking about how some dead man is influencing you to act, if he is gone then he is gone, you are now you and you get the luxury of choosing who you want to be without being shaped entirely by memory… and I know that sounds like a shitty thing to say, but so often are we shaped by the trauma of the past. You are being swayed by the barest hints of a life gone. You will have to get stronger, or you will end up considering the noose before long.”

... An unknown emotion is at play. It drives Rois to sound passionate.

“It is always better to be honest than to pretend, even if people get hurt in the process.”
 
What Asher had been expecting was claws in his back, so when Rois only asked him if he had brain damage, he felt better.

"Yes," he said in the same matter-of-fact way he said everything. "There's quite a bit missing."

It took a long time for Rois to get to his point, but Asher was not in a hurry. Settling in for the long haul, Asher pulled his knees up against his chest and wrapped his arms around himself. It could have been a juvenile kind of self-soothing, or a subconscious attempt at protecting his vitals after baring a weakness. Someone so intently staring at the back of Asher's head may have noticed, however, that he was not tense. His muscles were starting to slacken, his eyes were half-lidded and his head leaned angled against a shoulder.

The warmth of the fire and a deep voice rumbling out dodgy advice was lulling Asher right to sleep.

Part of him still listened, but it was in the way that one listened to a conversation in another room. A lot of the words came through, but there were gaps in the sequence, filled by other sounds in the night air that Asher's wandering mind deemed just as important. An owl hooting. you care too much. The lap of water from the river bank below them. decide. Something rusty creaking on its hinges. the barest hints of a life. Warbling murmur of other voices as the fort's two denizens shared candlelight indoors somewhere.
​
"...get hurt in the process."​

Asher startled awake with a small noise in the back of his throat. The cadence had changed. For a moment it sounded like someone else was speaking. He looked, but the scene was just as he'd left it: same fire dying down to a low crackle, same Rois lying next to him, and nobody else.

"Who was that?"

It was not the right thing to ask. Asher unfurled, sat up straighter. Pressed the heel of his hand against one eye and rubbed the sleep out of it. There would be some delay before things submerged resurfaced to his waking mind.

"Sorry, I think I dozed off..."
 

Oh, thank the Celestials above.

Of course he’d feel indignant, it was rude when someone was attempting to help you by way of words to simply sleep instead as if all that effort was for naught-- but Rois was relieved, also. A minor car crash of words and ideals and feelings, bah, if there was a camera observing the scene he’d break the fourth wall to gaze into it with blankness settling upon his stern features; it was never worth it. To relate, to soothe, to be real and not the visage one was well known for, it always went wrong somehow, an invisible curse that smothered the gift of the gab before it could spring into something productive. Though, for all that negativity that suddenly swarmed to flit about his brain like insects, there was the smallest, quietest glimmering of pride… Rois had been brave enough to try. It was not strong enough to shove the bitterness and annoyance aside, but it was still there. And maybe that was a step forward in ‘a’ direction, away from the years past that were marked by so much needless outburst and violence.

“... It’s just me.” The butcher is a touch confused, if only because the idiot was unaware of how the low registers of that baritone voice sometimes came to the ear like the growling of a wild animal. “Go to bed, then. I think I am going to lay on the floor for a while.”

Best to pretend the prior emotional attempt had never happened and to focus on the present instead. There were too many gifts in the dark, rats mistook the shadows for safety, windows could be peered into, doors gently, gently opened so that their hinges did not disturb the silence with their whining… all whilst people dreamt the grace of the moonlight away. There was a stretching against the hard earth, large arms shoved above his head as Rois quivered lightly like a horse’s hide did when gently touched,

“... And I haven’t forgotten about your payment for the fish, do not worry.”

Or the bowl of carefully prepared roe, or the bony remains hanging against the pillar, there was great pleasure that spawned from the cracking of fine-bone under teeth and the bursting of eyes to gush bitter liquid against a heated tongue, tail, fins and all were going to be as readily devoured as the skittering creatures of the barn were. Waste nothing, eat everything.

And then, maybe tomorrow if some accident were to befall poor Asher… he, too, could join the list of things that were destined to be swallowed down.
 
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